Chapter Text
He arrived silently, emerging from the shadows with silent footsteps and nary a whisper in the wind. The alleyway he arrived in was dank and desolate, void of people. There was a crackling of old foil under his feet that had him looking down before his brilliant green eyes rose once more, taking in the loud, bustling street just outside the alley.
People were hurrying past, shoving and walking into one another without really acknowledging the world around them. No-one even so much as spared a glance in his direction; all were lost in their own world, not caring about anything else.
Here, no-one knew him. Here, no-one cared about him. Here, no-one expected anything from him.
Harry smiled.
The man appeared out of nowhere. He was standing tall and regal, green and black battle robes covering his body and adorned with artfully crafted golden embellishments. His pitch black hair was loose, strands of it falling on his forehead, its tips brushing a metal muzzle covering the lower half of his face. More chains were binding his hands and feet, while bloodied wounds were covering whatever skin was visible.
Harry cocked his head to the side as his eyes roamed the man in curiosity. Without the wounds or chains, the man reminded him of Purebloods of old, before the Merging, long before the Merging.
Carefully, Harry let his magic brush over the man, uncaring about the reactions of the other man. Or rather, the man’s magic rising up and swirling around him; his shackles.
The man had magic. Wild, and chaotic, and beautiful, and magnificent magic; magic, that let the heavy shackles fall — magic, that circumvented the muzzle’s magic and disintegrated it without holding back — magic, that oozed the cold feeling of hate and betrayal.
Harry’s eyes snapped up, away from the captivating glow of the man’s green green magic and right into his green green eyes. Eyes so green and glowing with a power that had Harry wanting to walk closer. Had him wanting to take a step and feel. But he held back. Was held back, by the hate and fury and betrayal and pain he could see there.
This man, whoever he was, was broken.
Broken, like his shackles, crumbled to the ground. Like his skin, dripping red. Like his clothes, dirty and blood splattered.
Harry watched him for a second longer, then he shrugged, a smile growing on his face. Without hesitation, he walked towards the man, his own magic reaching out to greet and sooth, and offered him his chocolate, because—
“The treacle tart is mine, but you can have the chocolate,” he said. “It’s good for the soul, or so they say. And it drives away the chill of Dementors.”
The man narrowed his eyes; he looked at the chocolate uncomprehendingly and slightly suspicious. His green eyes jumped to Harry’s face and back down again, and his eyebrows rose. Harry just smiled.
Another second passed before the man slowly reached out and plucked the chocolate out of his hand. He continued to look at it held between his fingers, like it was a foreign object and not simply candy.
Harry took a big bite out of his treacle ambrosia, savouring the flavour which exploded in his mouth, his fingers sticky from the tart. Even here, London was still the best place to get them.
“You know,” Harry said after finally having swallowed, “you can eat that.”
The man observed Harry keenly. His sharp eyes traveled over his form and took in seemingly everything. Then, they returned to the chocolate melting in his hand. Tentatively, he brought it up to his nose and sniffed it. Once, twice — he took a bite.
Immediately, the man’s eyes grew wide and, this time with no hesitation, another bite was taken.
“This is good.”
Harry hummed in agreement.
“My best mate gave me chocolate on our first meeting, as did my moon-uncle.” He smiled. “I always make sure to have some on me. Just in case, you know?”
No, the man did not know, but maybe he could understand Harry. Chocolate was delicious.
The silence returned, neither felt the need to fill it. Though, it was weird. Never before had the man — Loki — simply stood with someone, eaten chocolate, and not felt the need to talk, to justify himself, to prove his worth. What a foreign concept. But it didn’t feel bad, or make him uncomfortable, or made him want to vanish, as he should probably do. There was just something, something here that told him he didn’t need to run. Or hide. Or vanish. Or pretend.
It wasn’t the mortal’s magic. And if that hadn’t been a shock itself, a mortal with magic. On Midgard. Midgard. Unbelievable.
Loki let his eyes once more wander over the boy. He took in his short, black hair defining gravity on top of his head, his casual, if unusual, clothes, his relaxed features and brilliant viridian eyes. Eyes which had held no recognition when he’d looked at him. No disdain or fear, only slight curiosity and something else. Something Loki would have said was kindness, but it couldn’t have been. Not when Harry had been looking at him.
He shook his head and tightened his magic, kept it close and controlled, opposite of the boy’s, which swirled around freely. It touched his magic and body, lapped over the grass under their feet and probed the intriguing flowers with curiosity. It swayed in the wind and reached for the sky and sank deep into the earth, and yet, it stayed close to the boy, cherished him and kept him warm and secure.
Loki had never felt such magic before. So unrestricted and wild, yet tame and controlled.
Harry finished his treacle tart.
Loki finished his chocolate.
Unlike Harry, however, Loki did not lick his sticky hand clean. He might have fallen, both literally and from grace, but he had not sunken that deep.
A lick of his magic and his hands were clean.
Another lick of unfamiliar but loved magic, and Harry’s hands were clean as well.
He smiled, bright and lovely, dimples appearing on his cheeks, and held out a hand, “I’m Harry. Just Harry.”
The man hesitated another second, his eyes scanning his face and outstretched hand before once more giving in. A hand, stronger than expected, clasped Harry’s. “Well met, just Harry.” Sounded his smooth, baritone voice. Harry’s smile widened. “I am Loki…” He was not of Asgard, Odin made that more than clear, and he wasn’t of Jötunheim, he was just— “just Loki.”
Harry’s smile widened. “Nice to meet you, just Loki.”
His green eyes — greener even than Loki’s, than his magic — shone as bright as his smile. Loki titled his head.
“You know not who I am.” (What I have done.)
“You know not who I am, either.” (Nor what I have done.) “Is that a problem?”
Without conscious thought, Loki shook his head. “No,” he said, “I do not think so. It is… refreshing.”
“It certainly is.”
The silence returned once more. Comfortable. Peaceful…
The wind waltzed through the leaves and the grass, had soft waves wandering across the lake and caressed the men within its reach.
The sun, already on its descent, shone still bright and unbothered, not concerned with the terrors this world had seen these last few days. The water reflected its rays, glittering and shining in thousand different colours.
The scene — the atmosphere — was simply… it was magical.
“What is this place?” Loki asked quietly, his eyes still wandering about, over the meadow, the forest, the lake. There was no other soul in sight, no sign of civilisation, nothing. Loki could not comprehend how such a place could exist in the same realm as New York or New Mexico. Where were they?
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Here, it is not much. Just a land untouched by humans and claimed by nature. But where I’m from, where I was born and raised and lived and died, this is where Hogwarts resided, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Harry’s finger pointed at an empty patch in the middle of the meadow. “The lake, the Black Lake, was the home to Grindylows, and Merpeople, and the Giant Squid.” His finger wandered over to the lake, and then the forest.
“The Forbidden Forest,” his lips quirked at that. Loki did not know why. “Inhabited by Centaurs and Acromantulas, Unicorns and Thestrals, Mooncalves and the odd Werewolf. A flying Ford Anglia.”
This time his smile — wide and bright — was full of pain and longing, nostalgia and love, excitement and thrill, curiosity and life.
Harry was alive.
Loki lifted an impressed eyebrow. “Seiðr — magic — on Midgard. Woven my mortals.”
Harry grinned right back, “And a legendary god on Earth. Crazy, huh?”
“Did you not say that you had no knowledge of me?”
“Oh, I know of you, Loki, trickster god in North Mythology. Neither good nor evil, as your only aim is to create chaos. You love to prank your enemies and allies alike, use your cunning to either get out of trouble or get others into it. You’re a lie-smith, a silver-tongue, and a Skywalker, able to cross the realms undetected and without help.
“I do not know you, just Loki, only some legends and stories from my world, which have been around for millennia, passed on from mouth to mouth, always changing, exaggerated and altered to fit the moment. I know your name, Loki, not your being, not your story.”
Loki averted his eyes, contemplating the words spoken to him. The person Harry had described — norse god Loki, trickster, funny, cunning, clever, talented, knowledgable… It wasn’t him as much as it was him.
The Loki described was no monster, he was no disappointment and mistake. He was not so weak as to fall under another’s control.
Why was it that in, what, another universe? he was as he always wished to be. And it must be another universe, as there was no Seiðr on this Midgard — none that Loki had found or felt. There simply was none.
And the place Harry had described, the beings and Seiðr, practiced by all, openly, not frowned upon… such a place was not for this world. Not meant for him to reach.
This being — for all that he couldn’t be a mortal, a Midgardian, even though he had said he had grown up in a realm such as this — was much greater than Loki could have expected.
Chocolate.
My best mate.
My moon-uncle.
First meeting.
“He sounds great,” Loki eventually said. Harry shrugged.
“I wouldn’t know, I never met him.” Something in Harry’s voice was off, but he sounded sincere, honest. “Like I said, I only know some tales. My friends were great worshipers of Loki, you know. They thrived to be like him, pranksters; on and off the battlefield, fun for friends, deadly for foes. He was their patron god, their idol. Their hero.”
Loki sneered, hiding that what he could feel inside. “What fools.” He knew to hide his emotions, to mask and fake. It was as easy as breathing. As natural as magic. (Who he was without it all, he did not know; had long forgotten.)
“Oh, they were brilliant — so bright and never crossing the line between fun and bullying. I like to imagine that Loki would have liked them. That you would have liked them.”
Loki sneered once more, but it held no heat, no. But he certainly did not want to get into this feeling spreading in his stomach, his chest.
Harry just smiled again, all bright and dimpled. He looked around.
“There’s no magic here.” Harry made the same observations as Loki earlier. “It’s a whole new world. New worlds.” He shot Loki a look. “Wanna explore a bit?”
An incredulous eyebrow rose. “You’re asking me, a god, if I want to explore this… realm?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose…” Loki eventually said, remembering his father’s Odin’s cold look, his brother’s Thor’s disgusted, disappointed eyes. He could already imagine his mother’s sad face and the hate every Madgardian must fell for him. It was probably a bad idea to stay, to not hide, but… there was something about Harry — this being, so young yet so old — that made him reluctant to leave, that made him want to stay. “I suppose I would not be averse to that.”
He was rewarded with a brilliant smile. And, almost unnoticed — and certainly against his will — Loki could feel a smile, a true smile, tugging at his lips.
(He hadn't smiled in so long.)