The white marble building towered over Diagon Alley like a wedding cake designed by someone with fortress aspirations. Loki approached it with the Dursleys trailing behind like reluctant ducklings, noting the bronze doors and the goblin guards flanking them.
*Gringotts,* Voldemort's memories supplied. *Wizard bank. Run by goblins. Ancient, powerful, and absolutely ruthless about protecting their clients' gold. Never successfully robbed.*
Well. Never successfully robbed *yet*. But that was a project for another day.
The poem engraved on the doors made Vernon blanch:
*Enter, stranger, but take heed*
*Of what awaits the sin of greed...*
"Right then," Vernon muttered. "Let's just—quickly—"
Loki ignored him and pushed through the doors.
The entrance hall was vast, echoing, with polished marble floors and a ceiling so high it disappeared into shadow. More goblins worked behind a long counter, weighing coins, examining jewels, making notations in enormous ledgers.
*Fascinating,* Loki thought, studying them with genuine interest. They were small—barely four feet tall—with clever, sharp faces and long fingers. They wore immaculate suits and moved with precise efficiency.
Voldemort's memories supplied context: goblins were the finest metalworkers and financiers in the magical world. They'd fought several wars with wizards over the centuries. The current peace was maintained through careful political balance and mutual economic benefit.
They were also, Voldemort had learned to his cost, utterly incorruptible when it came to their professional duties.
Loki approached the nearest free goblin, a silver-haired individual examining a ruby through a jeweler's loupe.
"Excuse me," he said politely.
The goblin looked up, and his eyes—black and intelligent—fixed on Loki's face. On his scar, specifically.
"Mr. Potter," the goblin said neutrally. "We've been expecting you. Eventually."
"You know who I am?"
"Every goblin in Gringotts knows Harry Potter," the goblin replied. "The boy who destroyed the Dark Lord Voldemort. Yes, we know who you are."
Behind Loki, Vernon made a strangled noise. Petunia had gone pale.
"I need to access my vault," Loki said. "But I don't have a key. My relatives"—he gestured vaguely at the Dursleys without turning around—"never provided one."
The goblin's expression suggested this was both unsurprising and vaguely distasteful.
"Your vault requires blood verification for a replacement key," he said. "You'll need to speak with your account manager. Wait here."
He disappeared through a door behind the counter. Returned a moment later with another goblin, older, with a sharp face and shrewd eyes that assessed Loki in a single glance.
"Mr. Potter," the new goblin said. "I am Griphook, manager of the Potter family accounts. If you'll follow me?"
He led them through the hall, down a corridor lined with doors. The Dursleys huddled together, Vernon muttering about "ruddy goblins" under his breath.
Griphook showed them into a comfortable office—dark wood, leather chairs, a desk piled with documents and ledgers. A portrait of a stern-looking goblin hung on one wall.
"Please, sit," Griphook said, settling behind the desk.
The Dursleys moved toward the chairs—
"Actually," Loki said pleasantly, "Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Dudley—could you sit over there?" He pointed to chairs in the corner. "This is rather private family business."
Vernon's face purpled. "Now you listen here—"
Loki didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. The magic responded to his *intention*—the absolute certainty that the Dursleys would *stay there* and *be quiet*.
A shimmering barrier sprang up around the corner chairs. Soundproof. Invisible to anyone not magically sensitive, but Griphook's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Wandless magic," the goblin observed. "Interesting. You're untrained?"
"Completely," Loki said truthfully, settling into a chair across from the desk. "I only learned magic existed a week ago. But things have been... accelerating."
Griphook made a note in his ledger. "Indeed. Now then. You require a replacement key for your trust vault. The first replacement is complementary. Subsequent replacements will cost one galleon each."
"What's a galleon?"
"Wizard currency. Gold coins. You'll become familiar with them shortly." Griphook pulled out a silver knife and a piece of parchment covered in runic script. "I'll need seven drops of your blood on this parchment. It will verify your identity and create a new key attuned specifically to you."
Loki examined the knife. It was beautifully made—goblin work, obviously. Sharp enough to split hairs.
"This won't hurt much," Griphook said, which was goblin for *this will absolutely hurt*.
Loki held out his hand. "Go ahead."
Griphook pricked his finger seven times with professional efficiency. Each drop of blood fell on the parchment and began to glow, forming words in golden script.
The goblin read them, nodding. "Blood verification complete. You are Harold James Potter, son of James Potter and Lily Potter née Evans. Heir to the Noble and Ancient House of Potter. Claimant to the Potter family magic. And—" his eyebrows rose slightly, "—you carry an interesting genetic anomaly. Parseltongue inheritance from... hm. That's unusual."
*Ah,* Loki thought. *The blood remembers Voldemort's proximity. The soul fragment left traces.*
"Is that a problem?" he asked.
"Not for banking purposes," Griphook said. "Though it may raise questions elsewhere. Parseltongue is traditionally associated with Dark magic and the Slytherin bloodline."
"But not exclusively?"
"No. It can appear spontaneously, or be transferred through... unusual circumstances." Griphook's expression suggested he had theories but wouldn't share them unsolicited. "In any case, the verification is complete."
He pulled a small golden key from a drawer in the desk. It pulsed with warm light before settling into inert gold.
"Your trust vault key," Griphook said, sliding it across the desk. "Vault 687. It contains the funds your parents set aside for your education and general expenses until you reach majority. At seventeen, you'll gain access to the main Potter family vaults."
"How much is in the trust vault?" Loki asked.
"Approximately fifty thousand galleons at last audit. With quarterly interest from investments."
Loki did quick mental math. That was... substantial. Very substantial. Enough to live comfortably for years even with Hogwarts expenses.
"And the main family vaults?"
Griphook's expression became carefully neutral. "I can provide an overview of holdings, though you cannot access the vaults themselves until majority. Would you like to see the accounting?"
"Yes, please."
The goblin pulled out a thick leather folio and opened it, revealing pages of dense script and numbers. He turned it so Loki could read.
Loki scanned the first page. Then the second. Then he sat back in his chair, reassessing everything.
*Dear gods,* he thought. *They were WEALTHY.*
Not rich. Not comfortable. *Wealthy* in the way that meant generational security. Old money invested wisely across multiple sectors.
"The Potter family has holdings in seven major businesses in the wizarding world," Griphook explained. "Including partial ownership of the Daily Prophet, shares in Zonko's Joke Shop, Flourish and Blotts, and three potion ingredient suppliers. Additionally, your parents invested in the muggle stock market—quite unusual for wizards, but your father had a certain... forward thinking approach."
He turned to another page. "Muggle investments include shares in technology companies, pharmaceutical firms, and—ah, yes—Stark Industries."
Loki's attention sharpened. "Stark Industries?"
"An American weapons and technology manufacturer. Your father bought in early—1971, during their expansion phase. Currently showing modest returns, though the sector is stable."
*Stable,* Loki thought. *For now.*
Voldemort's memories didn't include details about muggle corporations—the Dark Lord had viewed muggle affairs with contempt. But Harry Potter's memories did. Half-formed recollections of television news, of Dudley's excited chatter about cool cars and weapons he'd seen.
And Loki's own knowledge from 2018—from his time on Earth before Thanos—filled in the gaps.
Stark Industries. Howard Stark's company. Currently run by Howard himself, brilliant and erratic. In a few months—December 16th, 1991, specifically—Howard and Maria Stark would die in what would be reported as a car accident.
The company would flounder. Stock would plummet. Everyone would think Stark Industries was finished.
And then, years later, a genius son would take over and transform it into the most powerful tech company on Earth.
The stock would become worth *hundreds* of times its current value.
Loki kept his expression carefully neutral.
"These muggle investments," he said slowly. "Can I make recommendations? Suggest changes?"
"You can suggest," Griphook said. "I can advise. But significant changes require either your access to the main vault at seventeen, or approval from your magical guardian."
"Who is my magical guardian?"
"Currently, Albus Dumbledore, as named in your parents' will. He has limited authority over major financial decisions concerning your wellbeing and education. He has not exercised this authority."
*Of course he hasn't,* Loki thought. *Too busy leaving me in a cupboard to worry about my inheritance.*
"What about small investments?" he asked. "Using funds from my trust vault?"
"Those you can authorize directly, as the vault is designated for your discretionary use. Within reason."
Perfect.
Loki leaned forward. "I want to make a significant investment in Stark Industries stock. As much as I can afford from my trust vault. But not now—in December. Mid-December, specifically. Around the sixteenth."
Griphook's eyebrows rose. "That's... oddly specific. May I ask why?"
"Let's call it a hunch," Loki said. "Something I've heard. Something that makes me think the stock will become... very valuable. Eventually."
The goblin studied him. "Mr. Potter, I should inform you that goblins take our fiduciary responsibilities seriously. If you have insider information—"
"I don't," Loki said truthfully. He had *future* information, which was different. "But I believe the company has potential that current market evaluation doesn't reflect. I'm willing to risk my own money on that belief."
"The stock will likely drop before it rises," Griphook warned. "If it rises at all. Muggle markets are volatile."
"I'm aware. I still want to buy."
A long pause. Then Griphook nodded slowly.
"Very well. I'll set up the order. Purchase authorization for Stark Industries stock, to be executed mid-December 1991, utilizing funds from vault 687. I'll need your signature here." He produced a document. "Be aware that this will use a substantial portion of your liquid assets."
"How substantial?"
"If you want a meaningful stake, we're talking perhaps twenty thousand galleons converted to dollars. That's roughly one hundred twenty thousand dollars at current exchange rates."
Loki signed without hesitation. In fifteen years, that investment would be worth millions. Tens of millions, perhaps.
"One more thing," he said as Griphook filed the document. "The main family holdings—can I make recommendations there? For future changes?"
"You can make recommendations. I can review them. Whether Dumbledore approves them is another matter."
"Then I recommend," Loki said carefully, "that in December, the Potter family investments in Stark Industries be increased significantly. If possible."
Griphook made a note. "I'll add it to my quarterly report to the guardian. Though I should warn you—wizards rarely take investment advice from eleven-year-olds."
"Even eleven-year-olds who defeated the Dark Lord?"
The goblin's lips twitched. Might have been a smile. Hard to tell.
"Point taken. Is there anything else, Mr. Potter?"
"Yes. I'd like to see my trust vault. I need to buy school supplies, and I'd like to understand exactly what I'm working with."
"Of course." Griphook stood. "If you'll follow me?"
Loki stood as well, glancing at the corner where the Dursleys sat in their soundproof prison. They looked profoundly uncomfortable, Vernon's face steadily purpling as he tried to shout through the barrier.
With a thought, Loki dissolved it.
"—TOLD YOU NOT TO GO MAKING DEALS WITH THESE—" Vernon's voice cut off as he realized he was suddenly audible.
"We're going to my vault now," Loki said pleasantly. "You can wait here, or you can come along. Your choice."
Petunia stood immediately. "We're coming."
Of course they were. Couldn't risk letting him out of sight in this mad magical world.
Griphook led them back through the corridors, down to a different chamber where a railway seemed to disappear into darkness. Small carts waited on the tracks.
"All aboard," Griphook said, climbing into the front cart.
The Dursleys looked at the tracks, at the darkness, at the rattling cart, and Petunia made a small noise of distress.
"It's perfectly safe," Griphook said, though his tone suggested he wouldn't mind if it wasn't. "Gringotts has never lost a customer."
*Not to cart accidents, anyway,* Loki thought, remembering Voldemort's knowledge of the dragon that guarded the deepest vaults, the cursed protections, the deadly consequences of attempting theft.
They climbed in—Vernon and Petunia in one cart, Dudley and Loki in another with Griphook.
"Hold on," Griphook advised.
The carts launched forward.
It was like being fired from a cannon into a labyrinth. They plunged down, swerving around corners that seemed physically impossible, rattling over underground ravines. The air grew colder. Water dripped from stalactites.
Behind them, the Dursleys were making impressive noises of terror.
Loki found himself grinning. This was actually *fun*—like riding the Bifrost, except with more imminent threat of derailment.
They passed other carts, other goblins, deeper vaults with increasingly elaborate protections. Fire spells. Waterfalls that tested for Polyjuice Potion. Darkness so absolute it seemed to have weight.
Finally, they slowed, pulling up beside vault 687.
Griphook hopped out and approached the door. He took Loki's new key and inserted it into the lock. The door *melted* away, revealing—
Gold.
Not Tony Stark wealthy—not yet—but more money than Harry Potter had ever imagined existing.
Piles of gold galleons. Stacks of silver sickles. Bronze knuts scattered like spare change. In one corner, a collection of items—books, jewelry, what looked like a ceremonial dagger.
"Your trust vault," Griphook said. "Help yourself. I recommend taking enough for school supplies and perhaps a bit extra. Most students find five hundred galleons sufficient for first year expenses, including books, robes, potion ingredients, and incidentals."
Loki pulled out a small leather pouch from his pocket—actually Dudley's pocket, but semantics—and began filling it.
"How does this work?" he asked, watching the bag stay small despite swallowing what should have been pounds of coins.
"Extension charm," Griphook said. "Standard issue for Gringotts money bags. Holds far more than it should, weighs far less than it would."
*Useful,* Loki thought, adding another handful of galleons. He grabbed some of the jewelry too—might be useful for experiments, or bribes, or just looking wealthy. Knowledge was power, but looking powerful helped too.
When he'd taken what seemed reasonable, Griphook sealed the vault and they rattled back to the surface.
The Dursleys were green and shaking when they finally stumbled out of the carts.
"Right," Vernon managed. "That's—you've got your money—can we go now?"
"Not quite," Loki said cheerfully. "I need to buy rather a lot of things. School supplies, you know."
"We'll wait in the car," Petunia said quickly.
"Wonderful. This might take a few hours."
Vernon looked like he wanted to argue, but the goblin banking hall—with its sharp-eyed creatures and casual display of wealth—was clearly too much for him.
"Fine," he ground out. "We'll be in the car. You come find us when you're done with your... shopping."
They fled.
Loki watched them go, then turned to Griphook, who was observing the entire scene with what might have been amusement.
"Thank you for your assistance," Loki said formally. "One last question—is there a way for me to contact you? If I have questions or need advice?"
"Gringotts maintains an owl post service for account holders," Griphook said. "Simply address your owl to 'Griphook, Potter Account Manager, Gringotts.' We'll respond within three business days."
"Excellent. Thank you."
They shook hands—the goblin's grip was firm and dry—and Loki headed back out into Diagon Alley.
The street was crowded now, full of families shopping for school supplies. Children ran between shops while parents called after them. Owls hooted from cages in shop windows.
Loki pulled out his list—the one that had come with his Hogwarts letter—and began to plan.
*First: Ollivanders, for a wand. He didn't need one for his magic, but apparently it was required for Wizarding spells.*
*Second: Flourish and Blotts, for books. Both the required texts and some extras.*
*Third: Madam Malkin's, for robes that actually fit.*
*Fourth: The Apothecary, for potion ingredients.*
*Fifth: Eeylops Owl Emporium, for an owl to contact Hogwarts.*
*And then—*
Then he'd see what else Diagon Alley had to offer. What secrets it held. What tools he could acquire that weren't on any official school list.
Loki pocketed his list and started walking.
The game had entered a new phase.
Time to gather his pieces.
---
# Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The shop was narrow and shabby, with peeling gold letters over the door and a single wand resting on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. Something about it made Loki's skin prickle—not with danger, but with *recognition*.
This place was *old*. Properly old. The kind of old that accumulated power like dust.
He pushed open the door. A bell tinkled somewhere in the back.
The shop was tiny, empty except for thousands of narrow boxes piled to the ceiling in teetering stacks. The air smelled of wood and metal and something else—ozone, perhaps, or the particular scent of contained lightning.
"Good afternoon," said a soft voice.
Loki turned. An old man stood there, appearing from nowhere in the way people did when they'd been there all along but you hadn't noticed. White hair, pale eyes that were distinctly unsettling in their intensity.
"Mr. Ollivander," Loki said. It wasn't a question.
"Indeed." The wandmaker moved closer, those pale eyes fixed on Loki's face. "And you are—ah. Yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter."
"You were expecting me?"
"In the way one expects the sunrise," Ollivander said vaguely. "Inevitable, though the precise timing remains uncertain. I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single one. And I remember your parents' wands quite well."
He drifted toward the shelves, fingers trailing along boxes.
"Your father—James Potter—mahogany, eleven inches, pliable, excellent for Transfiguration. I sold it to him myself. And your mother—Lily Evans—willow, ten and a quarter inches, swishy, nice for charm work. She was quite talented, your mother. Could have used any number of wands, but the willow chose her."
His pale eyes returned to Loki. "And now we must find which wand will choose you. Tell me, Mr. Potter—which is your wand arm?"
"I'm right-handed," Loki said, extending his arm.
Ollivander produced a measuring tape from his pocket. It sprang to life, measuring Loki's arm in impossible ways—shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, nostril to nostril—
"That will do," Ollivander said, and the tape measure crumpled to the floor.
The wandmaker was already pulling boxes from shelves, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this ten thousand times.
"Try this one—beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches, flexible—"
Loki took the wand. It felt inert in his hand. Dead wood, nothing more.
"No, no, definitely not. Here—maple and phoenix feather, seven inches—"
He'd barely touched this one when Ollivander snatched it back. "Absolutely not. Curious. Most curious."
Box after box. Wand after wand. Oak and unicorn hair. Ebony and dragon heartstring. Cherry and phoenix feather. Ash and something Ollivander called "thestral tail hair."
None of them felt right. Most felt actively *wrong*, like trying to wear someone else's skin.
After the twentieth failed attempt, Ollivander stepped back, regarding Loki with fascination.
"Difficult customer," he murmured. "Very difficult. Not like your parents at all. They were straightforward pairings—their magic sang clear and true. But you..." He tilted his head. "Your magic is... complicated."
*If you only knew,* Loki thought.
"Let me try some of the specialty pieces," Ollivander said, disappearing into the back of the shop.
Loki waited, examining the failed wands scattered across the counter. They were beautiful—finely crafted, humming with latent power. Just not *his* power.
Because he wasn't really a wizard, was he? Not in the way these wands expected. He was a god wearing a wizard's body. Asgardian seidr forced into the mold of mortal magic. No wonder the wands rejected him.
Ollivander returned carrying a box unlike the others. This one was made of dark wood—ebony, perhaps—and bound with what looked like actual silver wire. Runes were carved into the lid. Old runes. *Familiar* runes.
"This," Ollivander said slowly, "is quite unusual. The materials were provided by a drifter who came through my shop—oh, must be nearly forty years ago now. He had a branch and a stone, said they were from 'far away' and that someday the right person would need them."
He opened the box.
The wand inside was like nothing else in the shop.
The wood was pale—almost white—with a subtle grain that seemed to shift in the light. Not shift like an illusion, but shift like it existed in multiple places at once. The handle was wrapped in leather so old it had gone black, and at the base—
A red gem. Deep crimson, cut in a geometric pattern that hurt to look at directly. It pulsed with a light that had nothing to do with the candles in the shop.
Loki's breath caught.
No.
It couldn't be.
But he *knew* that wood. Had seen it once, during a feast in Asgard when Odin had been feeling nostalgic. A splinter from Yggdrasil itself, the World Tree that connected the Nine Realms. Wood that existed in all dimensions simultaneously. Wood that could channel any magic because it was woven from the fabric of reality itself.
And the stone—
The Aether. The Reality Stone. The Infinity Stone that could reshape existence itself.
Someone had *made a wand* from two of the most powerful artifacts in creation.
And left it in a shop in London.
Waiting.
"Who was he?" Loki heard himself ask. His voice sounded distant. "The drifter. What did he look like?"
"Old," Ollivander said, carefully lifting the wand from its box. "Very old. Long beard. Broad-brimmed hat. And—ah, yes—he wore an eyepatch. Left eye, if I recall correctly. Spoke with an odd accent I couldn't quite place."
*Odin.*
Odin had been here. Odin had *made this wand* or commissioned its making. Odin had known—
What? That Loki would die? That he'd end up here, in this body, needing a wand? That the Norns would send him to this precise moment?
Or had it been for someone else entirely, and the Norns had simply *arranged* for it to wait for him?
"He never came back for it," Ollivander continued. "Paid in gold—strange coins, not from any mint I recognized—and said the wand would know its master when they arrived. Forty years I've kept it. Tried it on a few customers over the years, but it never responded. Just sat there, inert."
He held it out to Loki.
"Perhaps," he said softly, "it's been waiting for you."
Loki reached out slowly. His fingers closed around the leather-wrapped handle.
The world *sang*.
Not metaphorically. Actually sang—a single pure note that resonated in his bones, in his blood, in the divine core of him that this mortal body couldn't quite contain.
The Reality Stone blazed. Red light filled the shop, cascading across the walls in patterns that looked like star maps, like the roots of the World Tree, like the paths between realms.
The wood of Yggdrasil recognized him. *Knew* him. Here was someone who had walked between worlds, who had touched the fabric of reality and bent it to his will. Here was someone who belonged to no single realm but moved between them like water.
The Reality Stone *reached* for him. Not trying to possess—Infinity Stones didn't work that way—but *recognizing* a compatible consciousness. Someone who understood that reality was mutable. That truth was subjective. That existence itself could be reshaped with sufficient will and knowledge.
Loki felt the wand settle into his hand like it had always belonged there.
When he looked up, Ollivander had staggered backward, shielding his eyes.
"Extraordinary," the wandmaker breathed. "In forty years—I've never—the readings are—" He seemed unable to finish sentences. "What *are* you, Mr. Potter?"
"I'm not sure anymore," Loki said truthfully.
The red light faded gradually, the Reality Stone settling back into dormancy. But he could still feel it there, warm against his palm, waiting.
Ollivander was making notes in a leather journal with shaking hands. "Yggdrasil wood—that's what he called it—twelve and a quarter inches, unyielding, with a focus stone of unknown origin. Bonded to Harry Potter on June 27th, 1991. Reaction: catastrophic. Compatibility: absolute." He looked up. "That stone, Mr. Potter—do you know what it is?"
"No," Loki lied smoothly. "Should I?"
"I'm not certain I should tell you if I did know," Ollivander said. "Which I don't. The drifter wouldn't say. But I've studied wandlore my entire life, and I've never seen a wand core like this. It's not a creature part—not feather or hair or scale. It's something else. Something that responds to—" He paused, searching for words. "—to *will*. To absolute certainty. Most wands channel magic. This one seems to... shape reality to match what the wielder believes should be true."
Terrifyingly accurate, actually.
"Is that dangerous?" Loki asked, keeping his voice young and uncertain.
"In the wrong hands? Catastrophically so. In yours?" Ollivander tilted his head. "I suppose we'll find out. Though I suspect—given that you destroyed You-Know-Who as a baby—you're rather suited for dangerous magic."
He named a price—seven galleons—and Loki paid, tucking the wand carefully into his pocket. It thrummed against his side, content.
"Mr. Potter," Ollivander said as Loki turned to leave. "A word of advice?"
Loki paused.
"That wand chose you. Absolutely, irrevocably. But wands of that power—wands with that kind of core—they don't just serve their masters. They *test* them. Challenge them. They want to see what you're made of." His pale eyes were very serious. "Don't disappoint it."
"I won't," Loki promised.
He stepped out into the bright afternoon sun of Diagon Alley, his hand resting on the wand in his pocket.
Odin had left this for him. Or for someone. Forty years ago, the All-Father had walked into this shop in disguise and commissioned a wand from the World Tree and an Infinity Stone.
Why?
Odin had known the Norns' plans, sometimes. Had glimpses of fate's weaving. Had he seen this? Seen Loki's death and resurrection? Seen him ending up in Harry Potter's body, needing a wand that could bridge Asgardian and mortal magic?
Or had he simply known that *someone* would need this tool, someday, and trusted the Norns to arrange the right meeting?
Either way, the message was clear:
Odin had prepared for this. Had given him a weapon—a *tool*—perfectly suited to what he was. To what he would need to survive in this world.
A wand that could reshape reality itself.
Loki smiled slowly and headed toward Flourish and Blotts.
The game had just become infinitely more interesting.
He had Voldemort's knowledge, Harry Potter's power, and now a wand crafted from myth itself.
Let's see what he could do with that.
---
# Flourish and Blotts
The bookshop was paradise.
Three stories of books stacked floor to ceiling, with rolling ladders and cramped aisles and the particular smell of old parchment and binding glue. Witches and wizards browsed the shelves, pulling down volumes on everything from Household Charms to Advanced Transfiguration.
Loki stood in the doorway and felt something in his chest unclench.
*Books.* Glorious books. Knowledge waiting to be consumed.
He pulled out his school supply list:
*THE STANDARD BOOK OF SPELLS (GRADE 1) by Miranda Goshawk*
*A HISTORY OF MAGIC by Bathilda Bagshot*
*MAGICAL THEORY by Adalbert Waffling*
*A BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO TRANSFIGURATION by Emeric Switch*
*ONE THOUSAND MAGICAL HERBS AND FUNGI by Phyllida Spore*
*MAGICAL DRAFTS AND POTIONS by Arsenius Jigger*
*FANTASTIC BEASTS AND WHERE TO FIND THEM by Newt Scamander*
*THE DARK FORCES: A GUIDE TO SELF-PROTECTION by Quentin Trimble*
Standard first-year curriculum. Adequate for children who were actually eleven.
Loki was not actually eleven.
He approached the counter where a harried-looking witch was helping a family of five find their textbooks.
"Excuse me," he said politely. "I need the first-year Hogwarts books. And I'd like recommendations for supplementary reading."
The witch barely looked at him. "First years are on the table by the door, dear. Supplementary—what subject?"
"All of them," Loki said.
That got her attention. She looked down at him, taking in his too-thin frame, his ill-fitting clothes, his earnest expression.
"All of them?" she repeated.
"I've only just learned magic exists," Loki explained. "I'm rather behind. I'd like to catch up."
The witch's expression softened. "Muggleborn, then? Well, not to worry, dear. Everyone starts somewhere. Let me see—"
She came around the counter, pulling books from shelves with practiced efficiency.
"For Charms, you'll want *Quintessence: A Quest* by Adalbert Waffling—bit advanced but excellent foundation work. For Transfiguration, *A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration* won't be useful yet, but *Transfiguration Today* publishes back issues that are more approachable. For Defense—well, the curriculum changes every year depending on the teacher, but *Dark Arts Outsmarted* is a solid overview."
She continued down the list, piling books in Loki's arms. History, Astronomy, Herbology, Potions—supplementary texts for each subject, some aimed at students, others clearly meant for adult practitioners.
"And," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "if you're serious about catching up, you'll want *Hogwarts: A History*. Most Muggleborns find it invaluable. Explains all the traditions and expectations that purebloods take for granted."
"Thank you," Loki said sincerely. "That's perfect."
He carried his haul to the counter—nearly twenty books—and the witch began tallying the cost.
While she worked, Loki's eyes wandered the shop. There was a section marked "Advanced Magic" with books chained to the shelves. Another section labeled "Restricted—Hogwarts Library Only." And in the back corner, a small alcove with a sign: *Dark Arts—For Academic Study Only*.
"Excuse me," Loki said as the witch wrapped his books in brown paper. "That section in the back—am I allowed to browse there?"
She followed his gaze and frowned. "You can browse. Whether we'll sell to you depends on what you're looking for. Some of those books require proof of age or professional credentials. Ministry regulations."
"I'm just curious," Loki said. "I'd like to understand what I'm supposed to be protecting myself against."
The witch considered this. "Fair enough. Browse if you like. But be careful which books you touch—some of them bite."
Loki paid for his first batch—twelve galleons, three sickles—and left the package at the counter. Then he wandered toward the Dark Arts section.
It was smaller than he'd expected. Perhaps thirty volumes, most with ominous titles: *Shadows and Secrets*, *The Art of Curses*, *Blood Magic: Theory and Practice*.
Loki scanned the spines, cross-referencing against Voldemort's memories. Most of these the Dark Lord had read and dismissed as elementary. A few he'd found useful. One or two he'd written himself, under pseudonyms.
There—*Magick Moste Evile*. Voldemort had consulted this one while researching Horcruxes. The book was chained to the shelf, with a warning label: *Restricted. Hogwarts Library Access Only.*
Next to it: *Secrets of the Darkest Art*. Even more restricted. Voldemort had stolen a copy from the Restricted Section as a student. This was the book that had taught him how to split his soul.
Both books watched him with what felt like awareness. Waiting to see if he'd try to open them.
Loki moved past them. He already had Voldemort's memories of their contents. No need to arouse suspicion by showing interest in Horcrux creation.
But there were other books here worth examining. *Moonshadow: An Advanced Defense Text* looked promising. *The Lost Art of Runes* as well—Voldemort had been dismissive of rune magic, considering it too slow and inflexible, but Loki had used runes in Asgard to great effect.
He pulled down *Moonshadow* and flipped through it. Advanced shielding charms. Countercurses. The theory behind magical defense. The author argued that the best defense was understanding your opponent's magic better than they did themselves.
Loki approved.
He took that one to the counter, along with *The Lost Art of Runes* and a slim volume titled *Wandless Magic: Myth or Reality?* (he already knew the answer, but it would be interesting to see what wizards believed).
The witch raised her eyebrows at *Moonshadow* but said nothing, adding it to his pile.
"That's thirty galleons total," she said. "You're certainly taking your studies seriously, dear."
"Knowledge is power," Loki said, channeling his best earnest-student impression. "I don't want to be behind when term starts."
"You'll do well at Hogwarts," the witch predicted, handing over the packages. "Just—pace yourself. You can't learn everything in a month."
*Watch me,* Loki thought.
He left Flourish and Blotts laden with books and deeply satisfied. Three good hours of reading here, at minimum. Plus Voldemort's memories to cross-reference. He could probably complete a theoretical mastery of first-year curriculum in a week if he focused.
Next stop: Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
---
The robe shop was blissfully straightforward. Madam Malkin—a squat witch in mauve robes—took one look at Loki's too-large Dursley hand-me-downs and made a sympathetic noise.
"First time shopping for yourself, dear?"
"Something like that," Loki agreed.
She bustled him onto a stool and began taking measurements with her wand. Tape measures flew through the air, recording numbers that appeared in glowing script.
"Hogwarts first year?" she asked. "You'll need three sets of plain work robes, one winter cloak, one pointed hat. And I'd recommend getting a few things for weekends—robes aren't required then, but wizarding casual wear is different from muggle clothing."
"Whatever you think best," Loki said.
While she worked, another boy entered the shop—pale, pointed face, platinum blond hair. He climbed onto the stool next to Loki and Madam Malkin's assistant began measuring him.
The boy glanced at Loki and immediately began talking.
"Hogwarts too?" he drawled. "My father's next door buying my books and Mother's looking at wands. Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."
He had the casual arrogance of someone who'd never been told no. Loki recognized the type immediately—Fandral had been like this in his youth, before Asgard's warriors had taught him humility.
"Do you have your own broom?" the boy demanded.
"No," Loki said.
"Play Quidditch at all?"
"I don't know what that is."
The boy looked scandalized. "It's *the* sport. Flying. Chasers, Beaters, Seekers. Surely you've—wait, are you *muggleborn*?"
The word came out slightly distasteful.
"Orphan," Loki corrected mildly. "Raised by muggle relatives who didn't tell me about magic."
"Oh." The boy looked slightly mollified, as if this was a forgivable excuse. "Well, you'll learn quickly enough. I'm Draco. Draco Malfoy. You've probably heard of my father—Lucius Malfoy. He's very important at the Ministry."
"I'm Harry," Loki said. "Harry Potter."
Draco's reaction was immediate and gratifying—his eyes widened, fixed on Loki's forehead where his scar was partially hidden by his hair.
"You're *Harry Potter*? The Harry Potter?"
"So I'm told," Loki said dryly.
"Blimey." Draco seemed torn between excitement and uncertainty. "Everyone talks about you. You defeated You-Know-Who when you were a baby. Saved the entire wizarding world."
"So I'm told," Loki repeated.
"What's he like?" Draco leaned in conspiratorially. "You-Know-Who. You were there when he—when you defeated him. Do you remember anything?"
"No," Loki lied. "I was a baby. I don't remember my parents either."
"Right. Of course." Draco straightened. "Well. My father says You-Know-Who had the right ideas about wizard purity, even if his methods were too extreme. Says we need strong wizards leading our world, not weak Ministry bureaucrats who cater to muggles."
*Ah,* Loki thought. *A Death Eater's son. How convenient.*
Voldemort's memories supplied context: Lucius Malfoy, inner circle, wealthy, influential. Had claimed to be under the Imperius Curse after Voldemort's fall. Bought his way out of Azkaban. Now spent his time shaping Ministry policy and quietly maintaining Death Eater networks.
Waiting for his master to return.
"That's interesting," Loki said carefully. "Though I'd think defeating the darkest wizard in a century would require strength, not weakness."
Draco blinked, clearly not having considered this angle.
"Well—yes—of course you're strong—I didn't mean—" He floundered. "I just meant that Father says blood purity matters. That's all. Old families like mine and yours—we have stronger magic than muggleborns."
"Is that proven?" Loki asked mildly. "Scientifically?"
"Everyone knows it," Draco said, which Loki had learned was human for *I have no evidence but I refuse to question my assumptions*.
"Interesting," Loki said again.
Madam Malkin announced his robes were ready. Draco was still being measured, his assistant struggling with his fidgeting.
"I'll probably see you at Hogwarts," Draco said as Loki climbed off the stool. "You should sit with me on the train. I can introduce you to the right sort of people. Help you avoid the wrong sort." He said it like he was offering a tremendous favor.
"I'll keep that in mind," Loki said neutrally.
He collected his packages—three sets of black robes, a winter cloak, several casual robes in deep green and dark blue—and left.
*The right sort of people,* he thought with amusement. *Meaning purebloods. Death Eater children. Future followers for when Voldemort returns.*
Because Voldemort *would* return. Six Horcruxes remained, and as long as they existed, he couldn't truly die. Sooner or later, someone would find one. Would help him rebuild.
Unless someone found them first.
Unless someone who knew exactly where they were hidden and exactly how to destroy them decided to do something about it.
Loki smiled to himself and headed toward the Apothecary.
The day was proving very educational indeed.
---
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