Chapter Text
How would Loki define his relationship with his father?
It was something thinner than blood but thicker than water; something lighter than love but heavier than hate. It was a grey, twisted ball of yarn that tied them so tightly together that Loki was choking. But when he lifted up his scissors to escape, he didn’t know which area to cut through first.
So when he let go of the Bifrost, he severed every strand at once. All the grey and black fragments scattered about. Now they were two strangers in a muddy, broken pool of string. And without the yarn tying him down, he was drifting away along with all the broken pieces.
Was he free? Maybe.
Then why did it still feel like he was choking?
Three years later. Midgard.
The tea in front of him had long since gone cold. Outside the window, people hurried past in blurs of motion, none of them familiar. Loki kept his gaze fixed on them because the moment he looked away, an eyepatch appeared at the edge of his vision. Every flash of blond hair became Thor’s face before he could stop it. Loki was free to do whatever he wished, but the weeds Asgard planted into him seemed to grow out of every nook and cranny, tethering him to the past.
A steaming cup of tea was set down beside his own. Loki did not look up.
“Your tea is cold.”
“And yours is hot.”
The man sat and drank in silence. In Loki’s peripheral vision, Thor’s face flickered again.
“How’s London treating you, Loki?”
Loki lifted his cup, warmed the tea with a flick of magic, and took a sip.
“What did you think of my offer? We are still in need of a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”
The old man’s half-moon spectacles caught the dim afternoon light. This time, when Loki looked past him to the street, it was Odin’s face staring back.
After the fall from the Bifrost into the void, Loki had somehow landed in Midgard, in a place called Europe. His magic had been all but drained from him, and hallucinations stalked him at every turn. It was Dumbledore who helped him recover, and gave him a place in London’s magical world.
Loki owned this old man.
“Why not?” said Loki.
Dumbledore smiled, “The school year starts in a month. I shall see you a week before.”
Loki turned back to the window.
Two weeks later. Hogsmead.
Magic was not something Loki knew could be so blatantly displayed. It was etched into the very workings of this world, and no one batted an eye. He tried not to think of Asgard, but then he saw a nine-year-old with a wand in hand, and his thoughts slipped anyway uncontrollably.
In another realm, in another life, that child would have been holding a sword, laughing at a boy who used his magic instead.
Because magic was for the weak. He should have held a sword, like Thor.
I could have done it, Father. I could have done it! For you. For all of us.
He had wanted to help Asgard. He had wanted to prove himself to his father. He had wanted to ruin Thor’s coronation.
He had. He really had.
He learned to use his daggers more than his seiðr, learned to tell lies instead of what he was actually feeling, learned to prioritize Asgard over all else. Yet at the sight of that child’s wand, he was nine again—curled against his mother, reading from her book of magic, proud and happy in a way he no longer knew how to be.
If you were to crack open Loki’s cold and jaded heart, pry away all the tangled lies he wrapped so desperately around the truth, you would find that all he ever dreamed of was a world where he could be embraced for this magic. A world in which it did not make him lesser. A world in which it did not make him unworthy.
He never once found that world in the home he grew up in, or in the family that raised him. Instead, he found it here, in this backwater realm that no Asgardian in their right mind would take seriously.
Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
Hogwarts rose in the distance, and Loki made his way toward it. As he drew closer, the towers and spiraling stonework came into focus. It was impressive, but nothing compared to the grandeur of the Golden realm.
Dumbledore stood waiting for him on the front steps. He guided Loki through the winding staircases of the castle. Staircases that could move, to Loki’s great delight. At last, they reached the Headmaster’s office, and Dumbledore gestured for him to sit.
“I have no doubt you are more than capable of teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor Loki,” he began. “However, may I suggest that you acquire a wand for your lessons?”
Loki scoffed. Wands were beneath him. If he wished, he could probably cast ten spells at once with the snap of his fingers. Dumbledore, unfortunately, seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.
“I know you are exceptionally powerful,” he said, “but a wand will be useful for demonstration. The students must learn wand movements. Not everyone is quite as gifted as you, Professor.”
Loki pretended internally; he had never been praised so openly for his magic before.
“Only for the students,” he acquiesced grudgingly.
“Only for the students,” Dumbledore agreed. From beneath the desk, he produced a wand and handed it over. “It is only a carved stick, but do try to look as though you are using it, yes?”
He winked at Loki. “Wandless magic might draw unwanted attention.”
Loki took the fake wand and slid it into his robes.
The staircases were delightful. Loki could control their movements with his seiðr. It was quite amazing how everything in the castle was magic. Even the portraits. He waved back at an old lady with her poodle in one such painting on his way to his chambers.
His chambers were in the teachers’ living quarters, right across from another chamber labelled ‘Potions Master’. He paused there for a moment, curious, but decided that the mystery could wait. Inside his own chambers, he found the textbooks Dumbledore had left for him and began to leaf through them.
The real problem with spells was that, of course, Loki could perform most of what the books described a hundred times more powerfully without lifting a finger. The problem was that he did not know the wand movements, which meant he could not properly teach any of it.
He groaned in frustration and turned another page. At least the diagrams were thorough; with enough time, he could learn the gestures before term began. Or at least pretend to know so that his students wouldn’t suspect anything. He was an expert at pretending.
The previous Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had left almost nothing of use behind. Loki gathered only that there had been Dark Magic, an evil wizard called Voldemort, and very few lesson plans. He still cursed Professor Quirrell, though, now he needed to plan lessons himself. Who knew teaching was so complicated.
By the time term began, he had assembled something resembling a plan and in the blink of an eye, the students were at Hogwarts, and the hallways were filled with their ceaseless chatter. Loki sat at the High Table beside his neighbour, Professor Snape, the Potions Master, and watched the first-years file in to be sorted.
It was quite glorious. Everything was magic around this school, even the way that food was served included magic. Loki thought he was in paradise.
As Loki surveyed the students, he zeroed in on a certain Gryffindor—Harry Potter. Dumbledore mentioned him to Loki a few times and told him to keep an eye out for him and his trio of friends, but there was a touch of destiny to him that Loki didn’t really want to meddle with.
The following Monday was Loki’s first Defence Against the Dark Arts class with the second-years. He heard the cluster of noise from carrying up the staircases long before he actually saw them. Loki smiled to himself. He would hardly be Loki if he let his first class begin without a little mischief.
With a nudge of seiðr, he sent the staircase to swing up one floor past his classroom on the third. A chorus of groans followed. The second-years on that staircase cursed—their DADA class starts in less than five minutes.Thankfully, another staircase swung down within reach. The students scrambled aboard at once, only for it to carry them all the way to the first floor instead.
“We’re going to be late,” Hermione said, horrified. “I’ve never been late to class before. The staircases are not cooperating.”
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” Ron retorted.
“The staircases never cooperate,” Harry said. “I think we’re just especially unlucky today.”
“I told you guys we should’ve left earlier.”
“Well, you weren’t exactly rushing either.”
“I wonder how the new DADA teacher will react.”
The trio was among the unfortunate second-years caught up in Loki’s staircase mischief. After another five minutes of toying with them on the staircases, Loki finally let them onto the third floor.
By the time they reached the classroom, they found their professor leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded. He wore plain black robes, relieved only by a dark green scarf draped loosely at his throat. There was a half-smirking expression on his face that emphasized how young and charming he looked, but once he straightened, no one dared make any sound. There was this precise, graceful way in which he moved that dared no one to defy him.
“I am surprised the entire class is late,” he said. “I had expected better of Hogwarts students.”
Hermione flushed at once, going scarlet. “We didn’t mean to, Professor. We were stuck on the moving staircases for fifteen minutes.”
Loki was smirking internally, but on the outside, he schooled his expression into a frown, “Excuses, excuses. On the first day of class, too.”
The students shifted uneasily. After a beat, Loki stepped aside and gestured for them to enter.
“Nevertheless, let us begin,” He paced between the rows as they sat down. “I am Loki, and I will be your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor this year.”
He turned at the front of the room.
“The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible. Your defences must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo.”
Then he pivoted sharply toward Harry.
“Name the creature that can turn into your greatest fear.”
Harry jerked in surprise and stuttered. “Erm… I-I don’t know, Professor Loki.”
Loki tsked in disappointment.
“You?” He pointed at Draco.
“A Grindylow, professor?”
“Wrong answer,” Loki shook his head in mock anguish, “Anyone?”
“It’s a boggart, professor!” said Hermione.
“Great job, Miss Granger! Ten points to Griffindor,” Loki grinned. Teaching is fun. “At least we know someone read the textbook.”
Hermione preened under the praise.
The rest of the class passed in the same fashion, with Loki asking the students random questions to gauge their progress through the textbook. Hermione had, unsurprisingly, done the most preparation, but the others managed well enough.
At the end of class, he assigned a piece of theoretical homework, dismissed them, and prepared himself for the arrival of the fifth-years, whom he fully intended to torment as well.
By evening, rumors were already spreading that the staircase near the third-floor Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom had been jinxed to make students late on purpose.
~~
Loki liked teaching. He especially liked teaching at Hogwarts. He thought the students liked him a fair amount, maybe a little less if they found out that he was the one toying with them using the moving staircases before his class, but nonetheless, they liked him.
They admired his magic, they praised it. It was such a gratifying feeling. The stubborn grey yarn fragments that tied him to Odin seemed to blow away more and more each passing day. Loki rarely felt that choking feeling anymore. And when he thought of that nine-year-old boy again, he saw only his younger self laughing as he made golden butterflies dance across his palms.
Not Thor.
In fact, he had not thought about Thor in—what was it? Four days now?
Which, of course, meant that the moment he noticed it, Thor came to mind at once. That blundering oaf.
Days continued to pass, and the steady rhythm of days seemed to get boring; Loki ached to do some mischief. Not even toying with staircases could quench his thirst for chaos anymore. He longed for something exciting to happen.
To be clear, Loki did not want anything to go wrong. He had merely, rather foolishly, invited disaster by naming the possibility aloud.
A few days later, the castle gave a strangled groan of agony, and there was a faint quivering to every staircase. If Loki concentrated really hard, he could hear a voice whispering in the corridors.
Eat. Hungry. Kill.
It was quite frightening, really.
He brought his findings to Dumbledore, who frowned darkly.
“Something’s happening,” said the old headmaster.
“Clearly,” Loki snapped, irritated. “What I would like to know is what we intend to do about it.”
Dumbledore smiled at him, which only made Loki narrow his eyes. “Getting attached to the school, are we?”
Loki glared at him, and Dumbledore raised his hands in a placating manner.
“I shall tell the other professors to establish patrols and tighten curfew control.”
Loki didn’t know what to make of his neighbour, Professor Snape. He dressed to attend a funeral every day and seemed to possess a sense of malice towards everyone, but especially towards Harry Potter. Currently, Loki was in cat form, prowling the halls of the dungeons, when, speaking of the devil, Snape crossed his path.
The Potions Master looked down at him with a frown. “Another student’s pet wandering loose. Perhaps I should confiscate you and teach your owner a lesson.”
Loki stared up at him.
He would not dare. Would he?
Loki gave a thin, pitiful meow.
Snape’s frown deepened, but one hand shifted at his side, twitching as though it had ideas of its own. Loki noticed at once. Interesting.
He padded forward and flopped onto the stones at Snape’s feet, exposing his stomach.
No one had to know about this. Absolutely no one.
Snape’s fingers twitched again.
Loki let out another soft meow and gave a small, encouraging twist. That was the final straw. Snape bent down at last and ran a hand over his stomach, and to Loki’s horror, a contented purr sprang from his own throat.
Loki went rigid.
This was intolerable. This was not him. Clearly, this was the cat’s doing. Yes. The instincts belonged to the cat, not to him, and he was spending far too much time in this form.
He pulled himself together, sprang lightly to his feet, and stalked off with as much dignity as a small black cat could manage. Still, he had learned something useful: Severus Snape, scourge of children, had a weakness for black cats.
Loki continued his patrol of the corridors. As he rounded another corner, he came face-to-face with a second cat. She had dusty fur and eyes the color of lamplight. She purred at him and sniffed him with frank curiosity. Loki regarded her in return.
“Mrs. Norris! Who do we have here?” came an old voice. It was Filch, the old Hogwarts caretaker, “What a beauty.”
He crouched to scratch behind Loki’s ears; Loki purred, then stopped himself at once. Twice in one night. This was becoming a problem. He shook his fur and prowled away. He never interacted with Filch before today; he thought Filch was a bitter, vindictive old man. Which was probably still true. But any man who loved his cat that much could not be entirely rotten. Surely.
Loki continued with his rounds. Around yet another hallway, he saw his third encounter of the night—a grey and black striped tabby cat. He sniffed at the cat curiously and sneezed.
Magic.
He backed away from the cat and shifted back into his human form. The cat meowed at him and did the same.
A moment later, he found himself face-to-face with Professor McGonagall.
They stared at each other awkwardly.
“I didn’t know you were an animagus,” said Professor McGonagall.
“What is that?” asked Loki.
She frowned slightly. “A witch or wizard who can transform at will into one specific animal.”
Loki considered this.
“But I can turn into several,” he said. Then, because the opportunity was there and he was Loki, he transformed into the very same tabby cat she was a moment before.
McGonagall stared.
“You’re a Metamorphagus," she said, but then corrected herself. “An unregistered metamorphagus.”
Loki tilted his head at her, still in cat form.
“Where exactly did Albus find you?”
Loki morphed back, “Somewhere.”
He smiled mischievously at her.
Her mouth tightened
“I’ll have to tell Albus to register you tomorrow. It’ll be such a headache.”
Loki frowned. So ordinary wizards could not, in fact, change shape at will. Perhaps revealing himself to McGonagall had been a mistake.