The shop smelled like a battlefield between competing chemical weapons.
Dried herbs hung from the ceiling in bunches. Glass jars lined the walls containing everything from powdered beetles to pickled rat spleens. A cage in the corner held live rats that squeaked indignantly. Another contained fat black slugs that left glistening trails on the glass.
Loki consulted his list: *One set of brass scales, one potion-making kit containing basic equipment, supplies of the following ingredients: standard potion ingredients for first-year students.*
Vague. Unhelpfully vague.
He approached the counter where a stooped wizard with wild hair was grinding something that smoked ominously.
"Hogwarts first year?" the wizard asked without looking up.
"Yes."
"Standard kit's on the shelf—brass scales, glass phials, stirring rods, silver knife. Ingredients are pre-packaged. Five galleons for the lot."
Loki found the kit—a wooden box containing everything listed, plus a small cauldron. Adequate for classroom work.
But Voldemort's memories suggested that truly *interesting* potions required ingredients not typically sold to first-years.
"What about supplementary ingredients?" Loki asked. "For independent study?"
The wizard finally looked up. His eyes were sharp behind thick spectacles. "How independent?"
"I'd like to experiment," Loki said carefully. "Nothing dangerous. But I learn better by doing, and the basic kit seems... limited."
The wizard studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
"Ambitious. Good. Too many students just follow recipes without understanding the theory." He came around the counter. "What are you interested in? Healing potions? Transformation draughts? Poisons?"
"All of it," Loki said. "But particularly anything that affects the mind. Memory, sleep, truth-telling."
The wizard's eyebrows rose. "That's advanced work. Most of those potions take months to brew properly and require precise timing."
"I have time," Loki said. "And patience."
*And Voldemort's complete knowledge of potion-making,* he didn't add. *Including several illegal brews that this shopkeeper has probably never heard of.*
"Hm." The wizard pulled down several jars. "Valerian root for sleep draughts. Jobberknoll feathers for memory potions—expensive, but you'll need quality ingredients if you're serious. Salamander blood for strengthening solutions. And this—" he held up a jar of silver liquid, "—fluxweed. Essential for Polyjuice Potion, but also useful for several transformation brews. You won't be brewing Polyjuice for years, but having the ingredients on hand for study purposes isn't illegal."
Loki accepted each jar, reading the labels. Voldemort's memories confirmed their uses—and added several applications the shopkeeper hadn't mentioned.
"What about this?" Loki pointed to a locked cabinet behind the counter. Inside, jars glowed with various unsettling colors.
"Restricted ingredients," the wizard said. "Require a license or special permission. Venoms, certain blood products, anything that could be weaponized. Ministry regulations."
"Even for research?"
"Even for research. Though—" The wizard glanced around, lowered his voice. "—I can sell you books on the *theory* without restriction. And if you happen to harvest your own ingredients from natural sources, well, that's your business."
He pulled a slim volume from under the counter. *Advanced Potion Ingredients: Collection and Preservation*.
"Everything you need to know about finding and preparing unusual materials. Completely legal to own. What you do with the information is between you and your conscience."
Loki accepted the book with a slight smile. "Thank you. That's very helpful."
Twenty minutes later, he left the Apothecary significantly poorer but carrying a box of ingredients that would let him brew almost anything in the Hogwarts curriculum—and several things that definitely *weren't* in the curriculum.
The shopkeeper had thrown in a set of crystal phials ("better than glass for sensitive brews") and a silver knife with runes etched along the blade ("helps with ingredient preparation—keeps things fresh longer").
Loki was beginning to appreciate the magical world's approach to commerce. Ask the right questions, show genuine interest, and people became remarkably helpful.
Next stop: Eeylops Owl Emporium.
---
The shop was full of rustling, clicking, and the occasional indignant hoot. Owls of every size and color perched on stands, in cages, on the shoulders of a witch who was demonstrating their temperaments to a nervous-looking family.
Loki stepped inside and was immediately dive-bombed by a small tawny owl that landed on his shoulder and nipped his ear affectionately.
"Errol, down!" the witch called. "Sorry, dear, he's very friendly. Are you looking for a school owl?"
"Yes," Loki said, gently removing the tawny owl and setting him back on his perch. "Something reliable for long-distance post."
"Hmm." The witch studied him. "First year? You'll want something hardy but not too temperamental. Barn owls are popular—intelligent, good with routes. Snowy owls are beautiful and very reliable, though they attract attention. Tawny owls like Errol are affectionate but easily distracted."
"What about her?" Loki pointed to a magnificent snowy owl in the back corner. She was watching him with luminous amber eyes, completely still except for the occasional slow blink.
"Ah." The witch smiled. "She's special, that one. Been here six months. Very particular about choosing her wizard. Won't go with just anyone—she's refused a dozen buyers."
The owl tilted her head, still watching Loki.
"May I?" Loki approached the cage.
"Be my guest. But don't be offended if she nips you. She's got strong opinions."
Loki opened the cage slowly. The snowy owl didn't move. Just looked at him with those unnerving amber eyes, as if she could see straight through Harry Potter's flesh to the god underneath.
*§§Hello,§§* Loki said in Parseltongue, curious if it would work on birds.
The owl's pupils dilated.
*Not a snake,* something whispered back. Not words, exactly, but *meaning*—the same way the boa constrictor had communicated. *But you speak with forked tongue anyway. Interesting two-legs.*
*I need a messenger,* Loki projected. *Reliable. Intelligent. Willing to travel far.*
*Where?*
*Everywhere, eventually. Near and far. Between worlds, if possible.*
The owl considered this. *Bold claim. Most two-legs stay where they're planted.*
*I'm not most two-legs.*
*No,* the owl agreed. *You smell wrong. Like sky-metal and cold places. Like you've been dead and came back.* She ruffled her feathers. *I am Hedwig. I will carry your words. But I choose when and where. Cannot force me.*
*I wouldn't dream of it.*
The owl—Hedwig—stepped onto his outstretched arm. Her talons gripped firmly but didn't puncture. She was heavier than she looked, all muscle and sleek feathers.
The witch was staring. "Well. That's a first. She's never taken to anyone so quickly."
"I think we understand each other," Loki said, stroking Hedwig's chest feathers. She closed her eyes and made a soft clicking sound of approval.
"She's ten galleons," the witch said. "Includes a cage, feeding instructions, and a care guide. Though I suspect she'll teach you more about owl care than any book."
Loki paid, accepted the cage (Hedwig remained on his shoulder, apparently deciding the cage was for lesser owls), and left.
*You know what I am,* he projected to Hedwig as they walked.
*Not entirely,* she admitted. *But you're more than you seem. And you need allies. So do I. The two-legs who own this place don't understand that I hunt for more than mice.*
*What do you hunt?*
*Secrets. Truth. The things hidden in darkness.* She clicked her beak. *You will provide interesting work, I think.*
*I think so too,* Loki agreed.
He was beginning to assemble a team. Books for knowledge. Potions for experimentation. A wand that could reshape reality. And now a familiar who understood that truth was negotiable and secrets were currency.
Not bad for a day's shopping.
But there were more shops to explore. And Loki had noticed something during his walk through Diagon Alley—a narrow side street branching off the main thoroughfare. No sign. No obvious entrance. Just a shadowy gap between buildings that most people walked past without noticing.
Voldemort's memories identified it immediately: *Knockturn Alley.*
The dark counterpart to Diagon Alley's respectable commerce. Where you could buy things the Ministry frowned upon. Where questions weren't asked and transactions happened in whispers.
Exactly the kind of place Loki needed to visit.
But not today. Not while he was still supposed to be an innocent first-year collecting school supplies. Drawing attention to himself in Knockturn Alley would raise questions he wasn't ready to answer.
Later. When he'd established his cover as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. When people expected him to be at Hogwarts, safely supervised.
For now, he had one more stop to make.
---
Loki returned to the bookshop, this time heading straight for the section he'd noticed earlier: *Maps and Magical Geography*.
Because something had been bothering him since his conversation with the Dursleys. They'd said Dumbledore left him at Privet Drive for "protection." That he'd be "safer" with his muggle relatives.
But Voldemort's memories contained detailed knowledge of dozens of protective spells, wards, and magical safe houses. The Dark Lord had spent years breaking through such protections. He knew what worked and what didn't.
And he'd walked straight into the Potters' house on Halloween night and murdered them in minutes.
Whatever protections they'd had, Voldemort had bypassed them with ease.
So what made Privet Drive special?
The answer was in *Ancient Magicks: Blood, Bone, and Binding*.
Loki found it on the third shelf, spine cracked from use. He opened it carefully, flipping through chapters on sacrifice magic, blood wards, and protective enchantments.
There—*The Charm of Ancient Sacrifice.*
*When one sacrifices their life willingly to save another, particularly a blood relative, the act creates a magical protection of extraordinary power. The protection can be extended through the blood connection—specifically, the living blood of the protected's family. As long as the protected child resides with blood relatives and calls their house "home," they remain safe from those who would harm them.*
*The charm is unbreakable by conventional magic. It fades only when the protected comes of age or when they permanently leave the blood relative's home.*
Loki read the passage three times.
Lily Potter had died to save him—to save Harry. That sacrifice had created the protection. Dumbledore had leveraged it by placing Harry with Lily's sister, Petunia.
As long as Harry lived at Number 4, Privet Drive, as long as he could call it "home" (however loosely defined), Voldemort and his Death Eaters couldn't touch him there.
Brilliant, actually. A form of magic so old and fundamental that even Voldemort's extensive knowledge had underestimated it.
But also limiting.
Because it meant Dumbledore expected Harry to *return* to Privet Drive every summer. To maintain the protection. To stay "safe."
*Safe,* Loki thought darkly, *in a cupboard. Starved and beaten and told he was worthless. That's Dumbledore's idea of protection.*
He made a mental note: get his own accommodations as soon as legally possible. The protection might be useful for a few more years, but he wasn't spending his life trapped by other people's magic.
He bought the book—*for academic interest*—along with two others: *Magical Contracts and Binding Oaths* and *Ancient Runes: A Comprehensive Guide*.
The clerk barely glanced at his selections. Apparently eleven-year-olds buying books on blood magic and binding contracts wasn't unusual enough to warrant comment.
Loki was beginning to love the magical world's casual attitude toward dangerous knowledge.
He collected all his packages—books, robes, potion supplies, Hedwig perched on his shoulder—and headed back toward the Leaky Cauldron.
The Dursleys would be waiting. Probably furious about how long he'd taken. Definitely uncomfortable after sitting in their car for hours while he explored this strange new world.
Good.
Let them be uncomfortable. Let them wonder what he was learning, what he was planning, what he was becoming.
Because Harry Potter had just spent a very productive day acquiring the tools to become something *interesting*.
And Loki couldn't wait to put them to use.
---
The Dursleys were exactly where Loki expected them: huddled in their car like it was a life raft in hostile waters. Vernon's face was purple. Petunia looked drawn. Dudley was sulking in the back seat, having been denied whatever he'd demanded from the shops on Charing Cross Road.
Loki rapped on the window.
Vernon jumped, then rolled it down an inch. "Finally! We've been waiting for HOURS—"
"Three hours," Loki corrected pleasantly. "I needed to be thorough. Education is important, after all."
He opened the back door and began loading his packages into the trunk. The Dursleys watched with barely concealed horror as box after box went in. Books, robes, potion ingredients, a cage (empty, since Hedwig was perched on his shoulder refusing to be caged like common livestock).
"What is *that*?" Petunia asked, staring at Hedwig.
"My owl. Her name is Hedwig. She'll be living with us."
"Absolutely NOT—" Vernon started.
"She's nocturnal," Loki continued as if Vernon hadn't spoken. "She'll hunt at night and sleep during the day. You'll barely notice her. And she's necessary for school communications—all Hogwarts students correspond via owl post."
He climbed into the back seat next to Dudley, who pressed himself against the far door. Hedwig settled on Loki's lap, her amber eyes fixed on Vernon in the rearview mirror.
The owl radiated a predatory stillness that made Vernon's protests die in his throat.
"Right," Vernon managed. "Fine. The *owl* can stay. But it's *your* responsibility—"
"Of course," Loki agreed.
The drive back to Privet Drive was silent except for Vernon's occasional muttered complaints and Dudley's whispered attempts to ask what a "Quidditch" was.
Loki spent the journey organizing his thoughts.
He had supplies. He had knowledge. He had a wand that could reshape reality and an owl that could carry messages to the ends of the earth.
He had one month before Hogwarts term started.
One month to master the basics of wizarding magic. To read every book he'd purchased. To brew a few experimental potions. To learn the wand movements that would channel this body's power properly.
And to plan.
Because Voldemort's memories had given him something precious: *information.*
He knew where five of the six remaining Horcruxes were hidden. The diary—given to Lucius Malfoy for safekeeping, currently sitting in Malfoy Manor. The ring—in the ruins of the Gaunt shack, Little Hangleton. The locket—stolen from its cave hiding place by someone named R.A.B., current location unknown. The cup—buried in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts, beneath layers of protective curses. The diadem—hidden in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts.
And the snake, Nagini—still alive somewhere, not yet made into a Horcrux. That wouldn't happen until Voldemort's return.
Six pieces of soul scattered across Britain, keeping the Dark Lord tethered to life.
Loki could destroy them. Could eliminate Voldemort's immortality before he ever had a chance to return properly.
But that raised questions.
*Why* would Harry Potter—eleven years old, newly introduced to magic—know about Horcruxes? How would he find them? How would he destroy them?
The moment he touched the diary or the ring, questions would be asked. Dumbledore would investigate. The Ministry would get involved.
No. Better to be patient. To gather power quietly. To master this new magic until he was strong enough that questions didn't matter.
And to watch. To see what game Dumbledore was playing. Why he'd left a piece of Voldemort in Harry's skull. Why he'd arranged for Harry to be raised in misery. What grand design required an abused child with a dark lord fragment in his brain.
Because Dumbledore *had* to know. The wards sealing the fragment in place were too sophisticated, too carefully crafted. Someone had put them there deliberately.
Someone had wanted Harry to survive with that fragment intact.
*Why?*
The question nagged at him as they pulled into Privet Drive's perfect suburban monotony.
Vernon parked and everyone piled out. The Dursleys began unloading Loki's purchases with expressions suggesting they were handling live explosives.
"All of this goes to your room," Vernon said, not meeting Loki's eyes. "And the *owl* stays up there too. We don't want it flying around the house."
"Agreed," Loki said. Hedwig clicked her beak in amusement—she had no intention of staying cooped up, but she'd humor the ridiculous muggle for now.
Loki carried everything upstairs to his new bedroom—*his* bedroom, with a door that locked and a window that looked out at the street. He arranged his books on the shelves Dudley had left behind. Set up his potion kit on the desk. Hung his new robes in the wardrobe.
Hedwig perched on top of the wardrobe, surveying her new territory with approval.
*Better than a cage,* she projected.
*Much better,* Loki agreed.
He pulled out *The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)* and opened it to the first page.
*Chapter One: The Wand-Lighting Charm (Lumos)*
*The Wand-Lighting Charm is a simple spell used to illuminate the tip of one's wand. It is one of the first spells taught to Hogwarts students and serves as an excellent introduction to wand work...*
Loki read the instructions. Drew his wand—the Reality Stone pulsing warmly against his palm. The wood of Yggdrasil hummed with recognition.
*Lumos,* he thought, not speaking aloud. Just *wanting* the wand to produce light.
The tip blazed like a star.
Not a gentle glow. Not the subtle illumination described in the textbook. Pure white light that painted the walls and ceiling in stark relief, bright enough that he had to squint against it.
The Reality Stone was *enthusiastic* about reshaping reality to include light where there had been darkness.
*Nox,* Loki thought quickly.
The light died.
He sat on his bed, wand in hand, and smiled.
This was going to be *fun*.
One month of practice. One month of learning this world's rules so he could break them properly.
And then Hogwarts.
Where Dumbledore waited. Where the diadem was hidden. Where a thousand young wizards would see Harry Potter and expect a hero.
They'd get one, eventually. Just not the kind they were expecting.
Loki opened his first book and began to read.
The game had entered its next phase.
Time to study the rules before he rewrote them entirely.
---
# One Week Later
Loki sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, surrounded by books, empty potion phials, and seven failed attempts at a basic Sleeping Draught.
The problem, he was discovering, was that wizarding magic and Asgardian seidr were *almost* compatible. Almost, but not quite.
Seidr was about *being*. You convinced reality that you were something—a flame, a shadow, a different person entirely—and reality had no choice but to accept it. The magic flowed from your core, from your divine nature, shaped by will and belief.
Wizarding magic was more... procedural. It required specific wand movements, precise pronunciation, exact measurements. It was *structured* in a way that Asgardian magic wasn't.
The Reality Stone wand helped bridge the gap—it responded to intention rather than technique. But even it required some framework to operate within.
Hence: practice.
*Wingardium Leviosa.*
The quill on his desk rose into the air, wavered, then shot toward the ceiling like a missile. It embedded itself in the plaster with a solid *thunk*.
"Damn."
*Too much power. Not enough control.*
He'd been working through *The Standard Book of Spells* for a week now, attempting every charm. Most worked—eventually. But they all required recalibration. Scaling down the raw power, focusing the intent, finding the balance between Asgardian force of will and wizarding precision.
The potion-making was going better. Voldemort's memories provided excellent step-by-step instructions, and brewing was more like cooking than spellcasting—follow the recipe, time it properly, don't deviate.
He'd successfully brewed a Cure for Boils (not that he needed it), a simple Burn-Healing Paste (useful), and a Forgetfulness Potion (very useful for future applications).
The Sleeping Draught kept failing because he was adding ingredients too quickly. Impatient. Used to Asgardian brewing where timing was more flexible.
*Patience,* he reminded himself. *This body is eleven. It's supposed to take years to learn this properly. Don't raise suspicions by mastering everything in a month.*
Though the temptation was strong.
Hedwig hooted from her perch. She'd been watching him practice with the detached amusement of a predator observing prey trying to hunt.
*Still struggling, two-legs?*
*It's more complicated than it looks,* Loki projected back.
*Flying is simple. Point yourself at the sky. Flap wings. Why do you make magic so difficult?*
*Because I'm not a bird.*
*Your loss.*
There was a knock at his door—sharp and authoritative. Petunia.
"Harry?" Her voice was strained. "There's... someone here to see you."
Loki's hand closed around his wand. He hadn't been expecting visitors. Hadn't told anyone where he lived except Gringotts, and they'd contact him by owl if needed.
"Who?" he called back.
"A Professor McGonagall. From your... school."
*Ah.*
Loki stood, banished the failed potions to a drawer with a flick of his wand (the Banishing Charm was one he'd mastered quickly—very useful), and smoothed down his clothes.
Professor McGonagall. Deputy Headmistress. Head of Gryffindor House. According to Voldemort's memories, a formidable witch and Transfiguration master. Absolutely loyal to Dumbledore.
The question was: why was she here?
He opened the door. Petunia stood in the hallway looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.
"She's downstairs," Petunia said. "In the living room. Vernon's at work, thank goodness. Dudley's at Piers's house. It's just..." She swallowed. "It's just her. And she's very... stern."
"I'll be right down," Loki said.
He descended the stairs slowly, giving himself time to shift mental gears. Time to become Harry Potter—grateful, slightly overwhelmed, eager to please.
The stern woman in the living room matched Voldemort's memories exactly. Tall, angular, wearing emerald robes and a pointed hat. Square spectacles. An expression that suggested she suffered no fools.
"Mr. Potter," she said as he entered. "I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. May I sit?"
"Of course," Loki said, settling into a chair across from her. "Would you like tea?"
Petunia made a strangled noise from the doorway.
"Tea would be lovely, thank you Mrs. Dursley," McGonagall said without looking at her.
Petunia fled to the kitchen.
McGonagall studied Loki with sharp eyes. "I apologize for the unannounced visit, Mr. Potter. Normally we would send an owl, but your circumstances are... unusual."
"How so?"
"You were raised by muggles. Without knowledge of magic. Without proper preparation for our world." Her expression softened slightly. "When the Headmaster informed me of your situation, I thought it best to visit personally. To ensure you have everything you need. To answer any questions."
*The Headmaster informed her,* Loki noted. *Which means Dumbledore knows I went to Diagon Alley. Knows I bought supplies. Is keeping track.*
"That's very kind," Loki said. "I went to Diagon Alley last week. Got my school things. The shopkeepers were very helpful."
"Yes, I heard." McGonagall's lips twitched—might have been approval. "Tom at the Leaky Cauldron mentioned you caused quite a stir. Half the Alley recognized you."
"I didn't mean to cause a fuss," Loki said, channeling embarrassment. "I just needed books and robes and—"
"No apology necessary, Mr. Potter. You have a... notable history. People are curious." She accepted tea from Petunia, who set the tray down and vanished immediately. "Now then. Have you had a chance to read your school books?"
"Some of them," Loki said carefully. "I've been practicing the first-year charms. And I tried brewing a few simple potions."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose. "Already? That's very ambitious. Most students wait until they reach Hogwarts."
"I wanted to catch up," Loki said. "The Dursleys never told me about magic. I'm ten years behind everyone else."
"Not behind," McGonagall said firmly. "Muggleborn students start at eleven with no magical background at all. Many become exceptional witches and wizards. Your mother, for instance, was one of the brightest students Hogwarts has ever seen. Muggleborn, and absolutely brilliant."
*My mother.* Right. Lily Potter. Who died to save him. Whose sacrifice created the protection that kept him "safe" in this miserable house.
"Did you know her well?" Loki asked.
"I taught her Transfiguration for seven years. She was talented, hardworking, and kind. Your father as well—though he was rather more mischievous." McGonagall's expression suggested this was an understatement. "They would be very proud of you, Mr. Potter."
*Would they?* Loki wondered. *Proud of their son being possessed by the god who conquered New York? Who tried to subjugate Earth? Who murdered hundreds?*
Probably not.
But Lily and James Potter were dead, and their son's body now housed someone rather more complicated than they'd anticipated.
"I hope so," Loki said quietly. Let McGonagall see vulnerability. Let her think he was a lonely child desperate for connection to his lost parents.
"Now," McGonagall said briskly, shifting topics. "I wanted to ensure you understand how to reach Hogwarts. King's Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters. You'll need to be there by eleven o'clock on September first."
"I read that in the letter," Loki confirmed. "Though I'm not quite sure how to find the platform. It's not on any muggle map."
"No, it wouldn't be. The platform exists between platforms nine and ten. You'll need to walk straight at the barrier between them. I know it sounds alarming, but I assure you it's perfectly safe."
"Walk through a wall," Loki said flatly.
"Through the barrier, yes. Hogwarts students do it twice a year. No one has been harmed yet."
*Yet,* Loki noted.
"Will the Dursleys need to accompany me?" he asked. Please say no. Please say no.
"If they can, it would be helpful. But if not, there will be Hogwarts staff at the station to assist first-years. Many parents simply drop their children at King's Cross proper."
"I'm sure we can manage," Loki said, already planning to have the Dursleys drop him at the station entrance and flee.
McGonagall set down her teacup. "One more thing, Mr. Potter. Your situation—growing up without knowledge of magic—means you may find some aspects of magical culture confusing. If you have questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to owl me at Hogwarts. Or speak to your Head of House once you're sorted."
"Sorted?"
"Into one of the four Houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin. It's a tradition. The Sorting Hat determines which House best suits each student. Your parents were both Gryffindors," she added. "As was I."
*And Voldemort was a Slytherin,* Loki thought. *Along with most of his Death Eaters.*
"What determines the sorting?" he asked.
"The Hat reads your character. Gryffindor values bravery and daring. Hufflepuff values loyalty and hard work. Ravenclaw values intelligence and creativity. Slytherin values ambition and cunning." She paused. "Each House has produced great witches and wizards. And each has produced those who went astray. The House doesn't define you, Mr. Potter. Your choices do."
Interesting that she felt the need to say that. As if warning him not to judge Houses by reputation.
Or warning him that being sorted into Slytherin wouldn't make him evil.
*She knows something,* Loki realized. *Something about me that makes her think I might not end up in Gryffindor like my parents.*
"I'll remember that," Loki said.
McGonagall stood. "I should be going. But before I do—may I ask how you're doing, Mr. Potter? Truly? I know the Dursleys are your only family, but if there are concerns—"
"I'm fine," Loki said quickly. Too quickly.
McGonagall's expression suggested she didn't believe him but wouldn't push. "The Headmaster placed you here for your protection. Blood wards. Very powerful magic. As long as you call this place home, you're safe from those who might wish you harm."
*There it was.* The acknowledgment that Dumbledore knew about the blood wards. That he'd deliberately placed Harry here, knowing the protection required him to suffer through the Dursleys' hospitality.
"I understand," Loki said neutrally.
McGonagall studied him for a long moment. Then she pulled a small card from her robes and handed it to him. "My office address at Hogwarts. If you need anything—truly anything—please write."
"Thank you, Professor."
She swept toward the fireplace, then paused. "And Mr. Potter? Don't worry too much about catching up. Hogwarts is designed to teach students from all backgrounds. You'll do just fine."
With a crack, she vanished into green flames.
Loki stared at the empty fireplace.
*Floo travel,* Voldemort's memories supplied. *Magical transportation via fireplaces. Every magical home has at least one connected to the Floo Network.*
He looked around the Dursleys' living room. Their fireplace was purely decorative—gas-powered, never used.
Not connected to the Floo Network because they weren't magical.
Which meant McGonagall had apparated in, used a Portkey, or arrived via some other method. The fireplace exit was just theater.
Impressive theater, admittedly.
Petunia crept back into the living room, looking around as if expecting more witches to appear from the furniture.
"Is she gone?"
"Yes," Loki said. "She just wanted to make sure I was prepared for school."
"Right. School." Petunia wrapped her arms around herself. "Your... magic school. Where you'll learn to do all that... *that*."
"Yes," Loki agreed.
"And you'll be gone from September through June?"
"Mostly. There are holidays at Christmas and Easter."
"But mostly gone," Petunia repeated, and there was something in her voice—not quite relief, but close to it. The prospect of a household without magic, without reminders of her sister, without the nephew who made the lights flicker when he was angry.
"Mostly gone," Loki confirmed.
Petunia nodded and fled back to the kitchen.
Loki returned to his room, mind churning.
McGonagall's visit hadn't been random. Dumbledore had sent her—to assess, to observe, to ensure Harry Potter was properly positioned for whatever game the Headmaster was playing.
She'd seen a polite, eager child trying to catch up on his magical education.
She hadn't seen the god wearing that child's face. The ancient consciousness analyzing every word, every gesture, every hint about what waited at Hogwarts.
Good.
Let Dumbledore think Harry Potter was exactly what he appeared to be: an abused child, grateful for rescue, ready to be shaped into whatever role destiny required.
---
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