May 31, 2010 – Hayes Residence, New York
"Daddy, keep reading!" Elena tugged at Arthur's sleeve. "Uncle Harry's about to face the dragon!"
"The dragon's going to lose," Tristan said with absolute certainty. "Uncle Harry always wins."
Arthur smiled and found his place on the page. The children were curled up on either side of him, Elena on his right and Tristan on his left, utterly captivated by their current favorite bedtime story—Harry Potter and the Dragon of Doom, volume seven of the infamous "Adventures of the Boy Who Lived" series.
Arthur found the whole collection hilarious. These were the books that had made Harry famous before he'd ever set foot in Hogwarts—fantastical tales of little Harry defeating dark creatures, rescuing princesses, and soaring on dragonback to battle evil wizards. Pure fiction, every word of it, written by people who'd never met the boy.
Arthur had stumbled upon them only recently while hunting for bedtime stories. When he'd shown Harry the covers, his friend's expression had been priceless. Harry knew about the books, of course. Everyone in the wizarding world did. But he'd never actually read them. Too embarrassing. Too infuriating.
While he'd been scrubbing floors at the Dursleys', half the magical world had assumed he was off living some fictional knight's life.
There was nothing to be done about it, either. The books had been published years ago, and wizarding law offered no recourse. Harry had managed to halt any new volumes, but the existing seven remained firmly on shelves—and wildly popular with children everywhere.
Arthur had to admit, whoever had written them possessed genuine talent. The stories were engaging and the adventures exciting. He and Sirius had actually floated the idea of releasing them in the Muggle world. But Harry had caught wind of the scheme during the planning stages. Sirius, predictably, had let it slip, and the whole venture died a quick death.
The books still haunted Harry, though. Every child in their extended circle adored them and peppered him with questions constantly. Harry could never quite explain to wide-eyed five-year-olds that none of it was real—that while fictional-Harry had been befriending magical creatures, real-Harry had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs.
Arthur cleared his throat and found his place. "Young Harry raised his wand, emerald eyes blazing with determination. The dragon reared back, flames gathering in its throat, but Harry did not flee. He had made a promise to the village, and Harry Potter always kept his promises—"
The sensation hit him like a thunderclap to the soul.
Something falling. Something powerful. Something of immense magical weight punching through Earth's atmosphere.
Arthur's senses weren't usually capable of detecting things at such distances. But this was different. This was a bonfire erupting in a pitch-black room. Impossible to miss.
His voice died mid-sentence.
"Daddy?" Tristan peered up at him. "You made a funny face."
"Did I?" Arthur recovered quickly, smoothing his expression.
Elena narrowed her eyes. "You did. Is something wrong? Is Uncle Tony in trouble again?"
Arthur chuckled. His children had accumulated quite the collection of uncles over the years—a legendary wizard and a billionaire superhero among them. Their birthday parties were never dull.
"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart. Just remembered something I need to check on later." He lifted the book. "Now—shall we find out if Harry defeats the dragon?"
"He's going to talk to it," Elena declared. "Like in book four. Harry always tries talking first."
"Uncle Harry said real dragons are too grumpy to talk to," Tristan countered. "He said they just want to bite you."
Arthur bit back a laugh. Harry had indeed shared some colorful stories about his experiences with dragons during the Triwizard Tournament.
"Well, let's see if the storybook Harry had better luck than the real one."
He continued reading, his voice steady and warm, but his mind was elsewhere now.
He knew exactly what he'd sensed. He'd been waiting for it.
Mjolnir had arrived.
—
Months had passed since the chaos of Lake Como.
After Tony and Pepper's wedding, and the rather dramatic Vanko incident that had interrupted it, life had settled into normalcy.
Hammer Industries had collapsed within weeks of the attack. Justin Hammer himself hadn't technically orchestrated anything illegal. He'd simply hired Ivan Vanko as a consultant, not knowing the man planned to use his resources for a terrorist attack in the Italian Alps.
But public perception was brutal, and Tony Stark's lawyers were even more so. Between the lawsuits, the investigations, and the public relations nightmare of having your company's technology used to destroy a chunk of a European mountain range, Hammer Industries was finished. The Phoenix Group shorting the stock only hastened the inevitable.
In the end, it was tax evasion that put Justin Hammer behind bars. A sad end for a man who'd tried so hard to be Tony Stark.
Since then, life had been quiet.
Tony was busy being a superhero and a husband.
Arthur, anticipating the storm that was coming, had dedicated himself to being a father. He knew that once the Asgardians arrived, his quiet life would get complicated. Once he gained access to Asgardian magic, assuming his plan worked, he'd be consumed by study and experimentation for months, maybe years.
He wanted to bank as many bedtime stories as he could before that happened.
Tonight, the waiting had ended.
Arthur finished the chapter, closed the book, and kissed both children on their foreheads. He extinguished the lamp with a thought and stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind him.
There was no need to rush. The main event, the blonde thunder god himself, hadn't arrived yet. Mjolnir was just the opening act.
He walked to his study, poured himself a glass of water, and waited until the house fell truly silent.
Then, with a soft pop, he was gone.
—
New Mexico Desert – Late Night
The desert night was cold and vast. The sky stretched overhead like a canvas of stars, unpolluted by city lights.
Arthur appeared on a ridge overlooking a crater.
There were no S.H.I.E.L.D. tents yet. No perimeter fences. No curious locals stumbling upon the site after a night at the bar.
Just the empty desert, the smell of ozone, and a single object resting in the center of the impact zone.
Mjolnir sat in a shallow crater, half-embedded in scorched earth. Even from twenty feet away, Arthur could feel its power - a constant hum of contained lightning and raw magic.
He approached slowly, studying the artifact with every sense he possessed.
The movies hadn't done it justice. On screen, Mjolnir looked like an ordinary hammer with some fancy inscriptions. In person, it was clearly something else entirely. The Uru metal seemed to drink in starlight. The runes along its head pulsed with barely visible energy. And the magic woven into its structure...
Arthur let out a low whistle.
Layers upon layers of enchantment, more complex than anything he'd encountered on Earth. Storm magic. Dimensional anchors. And that was just the part he understood. There was far more that made no sense to him - and this was a man who had devoured most of the magical texts on this planet.
"Mjolnir," Arthur whispered, stopping a few feet away. "If you're here, the prodigal son can't be far behind."