The zoo was tedious.
Loki stood in front of the reptile house, half-listening to Dudley and his friend Piers Polkiss compete to see who could be more obnoxious, and considered his options.
They'd picked up Piers that morning—a weaselly boy with a rat-like face who enjoyed watching Dudley hit people. Harry's memories supplied that detail along with several unpleasant incidents. Piers was the audience to Dudley's performances of cruelty, the one who laughed and egged him on.
Loki had been civil in the car. Quiet. Playing the role of the cowed relative who knew his place. Let them think the morning's display had been a fluke. Let them relax.
The letter was folded carefully in his pocket—Dudley's pocket, technically. It pressed against his ribs like a promise.
"MAKE IT MOVE!" Dudley was pounding on the glass now. "Dad, it's boring! Make the snake do something!"
Piers joined in, both boys hammering on the enclosure like it was a drum.
Loki glanced at the boa constrictor. It was coiled in the corner, radiating a profound sense of exhausted resignation that he recognized intimately.
The snake raised its head and looked directly at him.
*Not you too*, Loki thought at it wearily. *I've had quite enough of being stared at today.*
The snake blinked. Then—
*Finally, someone interesting.*
The words appeared in his mind, shaped from the snake's movement, from the flicker of its tongue, from something that bypassed language entirely and went straight to *meaning*.
Loki's eyes widened fractionally. He took a step closer to the glass, ignoring Dudley's protests about hogging the exhibit.
*You can understand me?*
*Can't you understand yourself?* The snake's mental voice was dry, amused. *You're the one doing it, two-legs.*
Another gift. Another talent this body possessed that no one had bothered to mention.
*Where are you from?* Loki asked, genuinely curious now.
*Brazil.* The snake's head swayed slightly. *Captured as a hatchling. Been in this glass box ever since. They say I was bred in captivity but I remember the trees. The warmth.*
*That sounds unpleasant.*
*Boring mostly.* The snake's tongue flickered. *Like being dead but still breathing. You understand that, I think.*
"Oi! HARRY!" Piers had noticed him standing too close. "Stop hogging it! Dudley wants to see!"
Vernon was already moving, ready to grab Loki and haul him away from spoiling Dudley's fun—
The magic surged before Loki could even shape the thought. Raw. Protective. *Mine*, it said. *My conversation, my space—*
The glass vanished.
Simply *vanished*, as if reality had forgotten it was supposed to be there.
The boa constrictor paused, testing this new development with its tongue. Then it began to flow out of the enclosure, liquid and purposeful.
*Thank you,* it said as it passed. *Brazil, I think. Time to go home.*
"SNAKE!" Piers shrieked. "LOOSE SNAKE!"
The snake slithered directly between Dudley and Piers. Both boys scrambled backward—Dudley into the now-empty enclosure, Piers into a woman holding an ice cream cone. The glass rematerialized with a soft *click*, trapping Dudley inside.
"DAD!" Dudley wailed, pounding on the glass. "DAD, GET ME OUT!"
People were screaming, running. The snake made its way toward the exit with the dignity of a prisoner who'd planned this escape for years.
Zoo staff appeared, shouting into radios. Vernon was purple-faced, torn between rescuing his son and maintaining the pretense that this was all perfectly normal.
"How did—" Piers was staring at the glass, then at Dudley trapped behind it. "How did the glass—"
"Must have been faulty," Loki said mildly. "These old exhibits. Health and safety hazard, really."
A keeper managed to open the enclosure from the inside, releasing a hysterical Dudley. Vernon grabbed both boys—his son and Piers—and began herding them toward the exit, shooting Loki a look that promised consequences.
Loki followed at a leisurely pace, watching the chaos unfold. The snake had made it to the reptile house entrance and was causing spectacular panic among the visitors.
By the time they reached the car park, Dudley had worked himself into a proper tantrum and Piers was recounting the story with increasing embellishment.
"—and the glass just VANISHED! Just gone! And the snake looked RIGHT at us like it was gonna eat us and then Dudley fell in and—"
"That's quite enough," Vernon said tightly. "Everyone in the car. NOW."
The drive to drop off Piers was silent except for the boy's continued narration. Loki watched the streets pass, noting the route, filing away information about this mundane world he'd been dropped into.
"Thanks for taking me, Mr. Dursley," Piers said as he got out. Then, quieter but still audible: "That was mental with the snake though. Swear I saw Harry talking to it before it got out."
Vernon's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
They drove away before Piers could say anything else.
The moment they were out of sight, Vernon pulled over.
"You," he said, not turning around. "You did that. You MADE that happen."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Loki said pleasantly. "Perhaps the glass was faulty. Or perhaps Piers has an overactive imagination."
"Don't you LIE to me—" Vernon twisted in his seat, face purple.
"What exactly are you accusing me of?" Loki asked, his voice perfectly reasonable. "Making glass disappear? Talking to snakes? Do those sound like reasonable accusations, Uncle Vernon?"
Vernon's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish.
"Because if you're suggesting I did something... *abnormal*..." Loki let the word hang in the air. "Then you're admitting that such things are possible. That the magic you've spent ten years telling me doesn't exist is, in fact, real. Is that what you're saying?"
Petunia made a small, strangled noise from the passenger seat.
Vernon started the car again without another word.
When they reached Privet Drive, he hauled Loki inside and pointed at the stairs.
"Room. Now. No dinner. No—"
"I don't think so," Loki said pleasantly.
"You're PUNISHED—"
"For what? For Dudley being clumsy? For glass being faulty? You can't prove I did anything. And Piers certainly can't, despite his overactive imagination."
Vernon's face was turning purple again. "I KNOW what you—"
"If you lock me in my room," Loki interrupted, "I'll simply unlock the door. If you try to starve me, I'll take food from the kitchen. If you try to hurt me—" He let the sentence hang. Let Vernon imagine the consequences.
The magic hummed agreement beneath his skin.
Vernon seemed to deflate. "What do you *want*?" he ground out.
"The truth," Loki said simply. "About my parents. About what really happened to them."
Petunia had gone very still in the kitchen doorway.
"They died," Vernon said. "Car crash. That's all you need to know."
"No," Loki said. "They didn't. Did they, Aunt Petunia?"
Petunia's cup rattled in its saucer.
"The letter was very formal," Loki continued conversationally. "Very... official. People don't send official letters to the children of drunk drivers. And the way you reacted when you saw it—you weren't surprised I had magic. You were afraid of it. Of *them*."
"We don't talk about *those people*—" Petunia started.
"We're talking about them now," Loki said. His voice was gentle but absolutely implacable. "You're going to tell me everything you know. And then you're going to help me get to—what was the place? Diagon Alley. That's where I need to buy my school supplies."
"WE MOST CERTAINLY ARE NOT—" Vernon roared.
Every window in the house rattled. The lights flickered. Upstairs, something fell over with a crash.
The Dursleys went silent.
"Please don't make me ask again," Loki said. The temperature had dropped ten degrees. Frost was creeping across the windows in spiraling patterns. "I'm trying very hard to be reasonable. To be *civilized* about this. But I've had a very long day, and I'm discovering I have a temper."
Petunia pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then—
"Your mother was my sister," she said quietly. "Lily. Lily Evans. She was... she had *it* too. The magic." The word came out like she was spitting poison. "Got her letter when she was eleven, just like you. Went off to that school. Came back for holidays talking about spells and potions and—" Her voice cracked. "She was so special. So gifted. Everyone said so."
Loki pulled out a chair and sat down. This was important. He could feel it.
"Go on."
"She married one of *them*," Petunia continued, not looking at him. "James Potter. Wizard family. Old money, or whatever they have. They had you. And then—" She stopped.
"And then?" Loki prompted.
"They were murdered," Vernon said flatly. "Halloween night, ten years ago. Some dark wizard broke into their house. Killed them both. You were there. You survived. That's all we know."
Loki sat back in his chair, processing this.
Murdered. Both of them. By a dark wizard. And he—Harry—had survived.
"What was his name?" Loki asked. "The wizard who killed them."
The Dursleys exchanged glances.
"We don't say the name," Petunia whispered. "Even we know better than that."
"*What was his name?*"
The magic crackled. Insistent.
"V-Voldemort," Petunia managed. "He called himself Lord Voldemort. The most evil wizard in a hundred years, they said. Killed dozens. Maybe hundreds. And then he came for your parents."
"Why?"
"We don't KNOW," Vernon exploded. "We don't know and we don't WANT to know. That whole world is mad and dangerous and we wanted you AWAY from it—"
"You wanted me in a cupboard," Loki corrected softly. "You wanted me small and quiet and preferably nonexistent. Don't pretend it was protection."
Petunia flinched but didn't disagree.
Loki stood and walked to the window, looking out at the perfectly manicured lawns of Privet Drive. His reflection looked back at him—a too-thin child with messy black hair and green eyes and a lightning-bolt scar.
A scar shaped exactly like the kind of mark a curse might leave.
He touched his forehead, feeling the magic that lurked beneath. Feeling the *other* thing—the soul fragment that shouldn't be there.
"This Voldemort," he said slowly. "What happened to him? After he killed my—after he killed them?"
"Gone," Vernon said. "Destroyed, they said. When he tried to kill you." He gestured at Loki's scar. "That's what that's from. He attacked you and somehow—somehow you survived and he didn't. That's why they left you here. Dumbledore—he's the headmaster, runs that school—he said you'd be safer with us. Protected."
Loki laughed. The sound was bitter.
"Protected. In a cupboard. Starved and beaten and told I was worthless." He turned back to face them. "How wonderfully *safe*."
"We did what we thought was best—" Petunia started.
"You did what was easiest," Loki corrected. "You took in your dead sister's child and you made him suffer because you were jealous of her magic and too small-minded to see beyond your own prejudice."
The truth of it hung in the air.
"But that's done now," Loki continued. "What matters is what happens next. I need to get to this Diagon Alley. I need to buy my school supplies. And you're going to help me do it."
"We don't know HOW—" Vernon protested.
"The letter says there are instructions. And if Dumbledore left me here, then he left a way for me to get back to that world when the time came. So tomorrow—" Loki consulted the letter again, "—we're going to London. We're going to find the Leaky Cauldron, which is apparently the entrance to Diagon Alley. And we're going to sort this out."
"And if we refuse?" Vernon asked.
"Then I'll go alone," Loki said simply. "I'll leave this house and never come back. And I'll make very sure that everyone knows exactly why. Your choice. And you might want to consider that Piers Polkiss already thinks something strange happened today. How long before he tells his parents? Before people start asking questions about the odd things that happen around me?"
The Dursleys looked at each other. Some unspoken conversation passed between them.
Finally, Petunia nodded. "Sunday," she said. "We'll go on Sunday. Give us time to... to prepare."
"Saturday," Loki countered. "Tomorrow. Before you can change your minds or try something stupid. Before Piers spreads his story too far."
Another long pause. Then Vernon's reluctant nod.
"Fine. Saturday. But you behave yourself between now and then. No more—" he gestured vaguely at the frost-covered windows, "—*incidents*."
"I'll be the perfect houseguest," Loki promised.
He headed for the stairs, pausing at the bottom.
"Thank you for telling me the truth," he said. "About my parents. I know it wasn't easy for you."
Petunia made a choked sound that might have been acknowledgment.
Loki climbed the stairs to his new bedroom and closed the door. Then he sat on the bed and pulled out the letter again, reading it more carefully this time.
*Your parents were murdered by the darkest wizard in a century.*
*You survived when no one else did.*
*You destroyed him somehow.*
*And now they want you to go to school.*
The pieces were there but the picture they made was incomplete.
His fingers traced the lightning-bolt scar. Beneath it, the soul fragment stirred.
Voldemort. A piece of Voldemort, living in his skull.
Loki smiled slowly.
Oh, this was going to be *interesting*.
The Norns hadn't just given him a second chance. They'd given him a mystery. A destiny. A world full of magic and murder and secrets.
And he had one day before he entered it properly.
One day to plan. To prepare. To decide exactly what role he wanted to play in this new game.
Harry Potter, the boy who lived. The orphan. The victim.
That's what they'd expect.
Loki lay back on his new bed and smiled at the ceiling.
Let them see what they expected to see: a lost child, grateful to be rescued from his terrible relatives.
Beneath that mask, Loki would work.
The game hadn't just begun.
The game had been waiting for him all along.
—
# Later That Night
Loki sat cross-legged on his new bed—*his* bed, with actual sheets and a pillow that didn't smell like dust and spiders—and pressed two fingers against his scar.
The soul fragment stirred at the contact.
It was sluggish. Damaged. Whatever had happened on that Halloween night ten years ago had shattered it, left it barely conscious. But it was *there*, a foreign presence lodged in Harry Potter's skull like a splinter under the skin.
In Asgard, they called them *sálarspjald*—soul shards. The desperate, ugly magic of those who feared death more than damnation. You tore your soul into pieces, hid them in objects of power, and as long as one fragment remained, you couldn't truly die.
Loki had studied the theory once, in his youth, back when he'd been hungry for any knowledge Odin's library contained. The practice was forbidden, of course. Abhorrent. The kind of magic that left you *less* than you'd been, hollowed out and wrong.
But effective, in its way.
The fragment in his scar pulsed weakly, like a dying heartbeat.
*Voldemort*, Loki thought. *Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard in a century. Who killed my—who killed Harry's parents. Who tried to kill a baby.*
And somehow, the curse had rebounded. Had destroyed the caster's body. Had left nothing but this fragment, this *phylactery*, embedded in the very child Voldemort had tried to murder.
The poetic irony was almost Shakespearean.
Loki traced the scar's shape, feeling the magic that surrounded it. Someone had sealed it. Not perfectly—the fragment still leaked corruption, still *pressed* against Harry's mind in ways that would have driven a lesser child mad. But there were wards here, carefully woven containment spells that kept the worst of the damage at bay.
Dumbledore's work, probably. The headmaster who'd left Harry with the Dursleys. Who'd known about the fragment but left it there anyway.
*Interesting choice*, Loki thought coldly. *Leave a piece of a dark lord inside a child's head. Don't remove it. Don't destroy it. Just... seal it up and hope for the best.*
Either Dumbledore didn't know how to safely extract it, or he'd left it there deliberately.
Loki was betting on the latter.
He closed his eyes and let his consciousness brush against the fragment. Not carefully this time. Not delicately.
He *seized* it.
The fragment recoiled in shock—it had been dormant for years, barely aware, and suddenly something was *grabbing* it with the force of a vice.
*§§Mine,§§* it hissed in Parseltongue, trying to assert dominance. *§§This vessel. This child. Mine.§§*
"No," Loki said aloud, his voice utterly calm. "You've misunderstood the situation."
He *pulled*, dragging the fragment up from where it had nestled into Harry's psyche like a tick burrowing into flesh. The sensation was excruciating—Harry's body convulsed, nerve endings screaming—but Loki had endured worse. Had been broken on Thanos's ship. Had survived the Void. Had lived through Odin's punishments and the agony of learning his true heritage.
This was *nothing*.
The fragment thrashed, trying to sink its hooks deeper, trying to *claim* what it thought was rightfully its.
It encountered something it had never expected to find in a child's mind.
A *god*.
Not a mortal playing at godhood. Not a wizard with delusions of grandeur. A being who had walked between worlds for a thousand years. Who had bent reality with pure force of will. Whose sense of *self* was so absolute, so perfectly crystallized, that no amount of corruption could touch it.
Loki's consciousness wasn't the fragile, half-formed thing of a ten-year-old child. It was *ancient*. Layered. Fortified by centuries of wearing masks, of being multiple people at once, of maintaining his core identity while everything else shifted around him.
The fragment tried to burrow into that consciousness and found nothing it could grip. Like trying to poison the ocean with a single drop of venom.
*§§NO,§§* it shrieked. *§§I am Lord Voldemort! I am immortal! I am—§§*
"You," Loki said with absolute certainty, "are *mine*."
He had learned seidr from Frigga. Had mastered the art of *being* something so completely that reality had no choice but to accept it. Had convinced frost and flame and space itself to reshape according to his will.
This was no different.
The fragment was a soul. Damaged, diminished, but still a *soul*. And souls could be commanded by those who knew how.
Loki's will crashed down on the fragment like a hammer on glass.
*You are not Voldemort,* he projected with the force of absolute truth. *You are not a person. You are not alive. You are MEMORY. You are KNOWLEDGE. You are a LIBRARY, nothing more.*
The fragment screamed. It was a soundless thing, existing only in the space between thoughts, but it was genuine agony—the death of identity, the dissolution of self.
*§§I am—I was—§§*
*You WERE nothing,* Loki continued relentlessly. *You ARE nothing. You will BE nothing. Your consciousness is an illusion. Your awareness is a mistake. You are DATA. INFORMATION. Mine to access. Mine to use.*
He pulled harder, ripping away the fragment's sense of self like peeling skin from an orange. The personality—the cold arrogance, the certainty of superiority, the hunger for immortality—all of it came away in his mental grip.
Beneath it: memories.
Centuries of magical knowledge. Every spell Voldemort had learned. Every bit of dark lore he'd accumulated. The secrets of Horcrux creation. The nature of the wizarding world's power structures. Names, faces, secrets, *power*.
All stored in this fragment like books in a library.
Loki seized it all.
The fragment made one last desperate attempt to preserve itself, to *be* something rather than just *contain* something.
Loki crushed it.
Not with magic—with pure *will*. With the absolute certainty that had let him face down Odin's wrath, survive Thanos's torture, walk into death itself without flinching.
The fragment's consciousness—if it had ever truly been conscious—simply *stopped*.
What remained was inert. A database. A collection of memories and knowledge with no animating force behind it. Like a book that could be read but would never read itself.
Loki opened his eyes.
He was lying on his back on the bed, breathing hard. His scar burned with a cold fire—the containment wards had partially collapsed when he'd destroyed the fragment's awareness, and now they were trying to restabilize around what remained.
He pressed his hand to his forehead, feeling the new configuration. The memories were still there, carefully archived. But the *presence* was gone. No more whispers. No more foreign thoughts trying to masquerade as his own. No more watching eyes in the back of his mind.
Just knowledge. Vast, terrible knowledge that had belonged to Tom Riddle, who had become Lord Voldemort, who had torn his soul seven ways in his quest for immortality.
*Seven*, Loki thought with grim satisfaction, accessing the memories now. The diary. The ring. The locket. The cup. The diadem. The snake. And this—the fragment in Harry Potter, created by accident when the killing curse rebounded.
Seven pieces of one very broken man.
Six of them still thought they were Voldemort. Still carried that poisonous awareness.
This one didn't anymore.
This one was just a tool. A reference guide. A cheat sheet for navigating a world he barely understood.
Loki sat up slowly, testing the knowledge. Found he could access it at will—simply *think* a question and receive Voldemort's memories in response.
*How does one cast the Killing Curse?*
The memory surfaced instantly: the wand movement, the hatred required, the precise pronunciation of "Avada Kedavra." Voldemort had cast it hundreds of times. Each death was recorded here, clinical and cold.
Loki pushed the memory away with distaste. Useful to know, perhaps, but he'd never been one for direct murder when subtlety worked better.
*What is the nature of Horcruxes?*
More memories: Slughorn's explanation, heavily edited in Riddle's recollection. The ritual of creation—murder to split the soul, dark magic to anchor the fragment, an object of significance to house it. The more Horcruxes, the more unstable the soul became. The more inhuman the creator.
*Who are Voldemort's followers?*
Names and faces flooded his mind. Death Eaters, marked with the Dark Mark on their left forearms. The inner circle: Bellatrix Lestrange, fanatically loyal. Lucius Malfoy, politically connected. Severus Snape, the spy who'd brought the prophecy. Dozens more, some imprisoned, some hiding in plain sight.
*What is the prophecy?*
That memory was fragmented, incomplete. Snape had only heard half of it before being discovered. Something about a boy born at the end of July, marked as Voldemort's equal, with power the Dark Lord knew not...
Voldemort had interpreted it as a threat. Had decided to eliminate the danger before it could mature.
And had created it instead.
Loki laughed softly. The hubris. The beautiful, perfect hubris of it.
Tom Riddle, so afraid of death that he'd split his soul into pieces. So certain of his superiority that he'd murdered a child to prevent a prophecy. So convinced of his own immortality that he'd never considered what might happen if someone *took* one of his precious soul fragments and made it their own.
"Thank you, Tom," Loki murmured, running his fingers over the scar one more time. "You've been very helpful."
The memories didn't respond. Couldn't respond. They were just data now, inert and accessible.
He stood and walked to the window, looking out at Privet Drive's orderly rows of houses. The knowledge sitting in his head was dangerous—the kind of dark magic that drove wizards mad, that corrupted everything it touched.
But Loki wasn't a wizard. Wasn't even mortal, not really—not where it mattered. His soul was Asgardian, divine, forged over a millennium. It couldn't be corrupted by a fragment of a mortal dark lord's memories.
He could use this. Could access everything Voldemort knew about magic, about the wizarding world, about power and how to seize it.
Without the madness. Without the corruption. Without the poisonous personality trying to override his own.
Just the knowledge. Just the tools.
He pressed his palm against the cool glass, watching frost spread from the contact point in delicate spirals.
Tomorrow he'd go to Diagon Alley. Would see this magical world properly. Would begin learning its rules, its players, its power structures.
But now he had something no one else did: the complete magical education of the most powerful dark wizard in a century, stored neatly in his mind like a reference library.
All the power, none of the madness.
"Sleep tight, Tom," Loki murmured. "What's left of you, anyway. We're going to do *such* interesting things with your knowledge."
He climbed into bed properly, pulling the covers up, and closed his eyes.
The scar had stopped burning. The wards had restabilized around the now-inert memories, keeping them contained and accessible.
No more foreign presence. No more parasite trying to claim his body.
Just Loki—wearing Harry Potter's face, armed with Voldemort's knowledge, and ready to remake this world into something *interesting*.
The game was only just beginning.
And this time, he'd won the first move before anyone else knew they were playing.
---
**Saturday Morning**
The Dursleys were silent over breakfast.
Loki ate his eggs and toast with the careful attention of someone still getting used to regular meals, watching his relatives from beneath his lashes. But part of his mind was elsewhere, testing the new configuration in his head.
*How does one brew Veritaserum?*
The memory surfaced instantly: Voldemort had never brewed it himself—beneath him, such manual labor—but he'd watched others do it. Six months of careful preparation, precise timing, the proper phase of the moon...
Loki filed it away and returned his attention to breakfast.
Vernon had barely slept—the bags under his eyes told that story. He kept shooting Loki nervous glances, as if expecting another supernatural incident.
Petunia was drawn and pale, her movements mechanical as she cleared dishes.
Dudley was sulking, still furious about losing his second bedroom and having to share his birthday with the freak.
Perfect.
"We should leave soon," Loki said pleasantly. "The letter says the shops close early on Saturdays. We wouldn't want to miss them."
Vernon grunted acknowledgment.
They piled into the car—Vernon and Petunia in front, Dudley and Loki in the back. Dudley pressed himself against the far door, as far from his cousin as physically possible.
The drive to London took over an hour. Loki spent it accessing Voldemort's memories of magical London, cross-referencing them with what the Dursleys had told him about the decade since Voldemort's fall.
The Dark Lord had known Diagon Alley intimately. Had walked these streets as Tom Riddle, poor and ambitious. Had returned as Voldemort, powerful and feared. The shops, the shopkeepers, the hidden corners where dark dealings happened—it was all there in the memories.
Along with hundreds of spells. Thousands, perhaps. Every bit of magic Voldemort had learned in his quest for power.
Loki flexed his fingers experimentally. Harry's body had the raw magical power—vast, untrained, wild. Now it had the knowledge to direct that power. The spells wouldn't work perfectly yet—this body had never cast magic deliberately, had no muscle memory for wand movements—but the *understanding* was there.
Theory waiting for practice.
"It said Charing Cross Road," Petunia said, consulting the letter. "The Leaky Cauldron. Though how we're supposed to find a *magical* pub—"
"There," Loki said, pointing.
Between a big book shop and a record store, barely noticeable to anyone not looking for it, was a grimy little pub that seemed to exist in its own pocket of reality.
Voldemort's memories confirmed it: the same establishment, barely changed in fifty years. The notice-me-not charms were identical to his recollections.
Vernon pulled over, parking illegally. "In and out," he muttered. "Quick as possible."
They approached the pub. Vernon and Petunia walked past it twice before Loki pointed it out again—the charms were working exactly as intended.
"I can see it," Loki said. "You'll have to follow me."
He pushed open the door, and—
The interior was dark and shabby, lit by flickering candles. A few witches and wizards sat at tables, speaking in low voices. Behind the bar, a bald man with a peculiarly large head was polishing glasses.
Tom the barkeep. Voldemort's memories supplied a history: the man had been here for decades, had served young Tom Riddle his first butterbeer, had watched the rise and fall of the Dark Lord with careful neutrality.
The moment Loki entered, conversation stopped.
Every head turned.
A witch near the door gasped. "Merlin's beard," she whispered. "Is that—it can't be—"
"Bless my soul," Tom breathed. "Harry Potter."
The name rippled through the pub like a stone dropped in still water.
*They think I'm their savior,* Loki thought, amused. *Their hero. The Boy Who Lived.*
Voldemort's memories added context: the prophecy, the fear, the desperate hope that someone—anyone—could stop the Dark Lord's reign of terror.
And then a baby had done it. Had survived the Killing Curse and somehow destroyed Voldemort in the process.
No wonder they stared with reverence.
"Hello," Loki said uncertainly, giving them the shy smile of a child unused to attention. "I'm—I'm looking for Diagon Alley? I need to buy school supplies?"
Tom the barman practically vaulted over the bar.
"Mr. Potter! Of course! Such an honor—we'd heard you were living with muggles, didn't know about our world—let me show you through—"
More witches and wizards were standing now, pressing closer. A young man with a nervous stutter grabbed Loki's hand and shook it vigorously. "P-Potter! Can't believe it! Your parents—such heroes—and you—you stopped You-Know-Who—"
*Such interesting fear they have,* Loki observed. *They won't even say his name.*
Voldemort's memories confirmed it: the Dark Lord had cursed his own name, made it a taboo that could be tracked. Even after his fall, people were too afraid to use it.
"Actually," Loki said carefully, "I don't know. I don't remember any of it. The Dursleys"—he gestured at his relatives, who were pressed against the wall looking profoundly uncomfortable—"they never told me about magic. I only just got my letter."
The crowd's mood shifted from awe to outrage, exactly as he'd calculated.
"Never *told* you?" A witch with a pointed hat looked scandalized. "But you're *Harry Potter*! Everyone knows—"
"I didn't," Loki said simply. "I thought my parents died in a car crash. I thought I was nobody."
*Perfect,* he thought, watching their faces. *Pity and protective instinct. Exactly what I need.*
Tom the barman rallied first. "Well! We'll just have to make sure you get everything you need! Come along, Mr. Potter—is it alright if I call you Harry?—we'll get you set up properly!"
He led Loki through the pub to a small walled courtyard. Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley followed at a distance, clearly overwhelmed.
"Now then," Tom said cheerfully, pulling out a wand. "You just tap the brick—three up, two across—like so—"
Voldemort's memories provided the sequence before Tom completed it. Of course—the Dark Lord had used this entrance countless times.
Tom tapped the wall. The bricks began to move, reshaping themselves into an archway that revealed—
Diagon Alley.
It matched Voldemort's memories almost perfectly. A few shops had changed hands. Some facades had been repaired. But the essential geography was the same: Ollivanders at one end, Gringotts at the other, the twisting street between them full of magical commerce.
Loki had Voldemort's knowledge of every shop, every secret, every person of importance who frequented this place.
And none of them had any idea.
"Welcome," Tom said warmly, "to Diagon Alley."
Loki stepped through the archway, his expression carefully controlled to show wonder and uncertainty.
Inside, he was smiling.
The game had just become *much* more interesting.
He had the memories of the most powerful dark wizard in a century.
And he was about to be handed the resources to use them.
Let the next phase begin.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!