Title: Children of the Gods
Fandom: MCU, Harry Potter, Norse Mythology
Pairings: for snippet: Loki/Sigyn, For fic: Tony/Pepper, Bruce/Betty, Remus/Sirius, Thor/Jane
Rating: General (for snippet) Teen and Up (for the fic)
Word Count: 1800
Warnings for snippet: Racism, internalized racism, Odin's fuckery and A+++ parenting, Loki, liberal (mis)use of Norse Mythology.
Warnings for fic : mentions of past child abuse, mentions of past torture, Dumbledore bashing, selective Weasley bashing, Odin bashing, violence, severely pissed off Loki, character deaths
Author's Note: This snippet owes its existence entirely to the banner for Keira's Lord of the High Elves sneak peek. I took one look at that banner and went 'Loki as Harry's dad … PLOT BUNNY'. Timeline wise, Odin et al are a LOT older than the MCU had them. All MCU movies up to where this fic starts in THOR 1 (minus Cap's wake-up in First Avenger) are canon for this fic. Everything else gets scrapped. The MCU events (save WW2) happen roughly two full decades earlier than in MCU canon, to better match up with the Harry Potter timeline.
Summary: When Loki grabs the Casket of Ancient Winters, it does more than unlock his access to his true Jotun form. It unlocks old, long-buried memories. And that changes everything.
“STOP!” Odin bellowed.
But it was far, far too late for that. Loki felt like his mind and body were on fire. Like everything false was being burned away. Letting the monster free. But while one corner of Loki's mind was gibbering about his skin turning blue like that of the beasts, most of him was wallowing in sheer, blind rage.
Because the falsity of his Asgardian skin wasn't the only thing burning away. That had not, evidently, been the only spell Odin had cast upon Loki. Because memories of a son he'd forgotten were suddenly making themselves known. And other, even older memories were suddenly making a lot more sense.
His and Sigyn's first child, a daughter, had been plagued with severe, very nearly mortal, problems from the moment of her birth. In the end, the only thing Loki had been able to do to save her was to conquer the kingdom of the dead and set her up as its Queen. There, she would never know a moment's ill health, nor age. True, she was trapped there for eternity unless she chose to die, but Loki had not had the ability to watch her wither and die before his eyes.
After that, he and Sigyn had become very paranoid about their children. Loki had never really questioned it. The trauma of watching Hela suffer ensured that. Jormungandr, Fenrir, Narfi and Vali had all been born on Midgard, sweated over and cossetted, kept away from Asgard. They'd all also been mortal. But that's where having the Queen of the Dead as your daughter paid off, because Hela had been more than willing to allow her brothers to be reborn whenever they wanted to be.
Now, Hela's troubles made sense. Frost Giants and Asgardians could interbreed, but a successful cross-breeding required the intervention of seidr. Past the half-breed level, seidr was no longer required to ensure a healthy child. Having had no idea he was a Jotun (thinking, instead, he was at best a quarter Jotun), Loki had done nothing to ensure Hela's health. After Hela's troubles, Loki had spent every moment of Sigyn's pregnancies pouring seidr into her and their child – far more than was honestly needed to ensure a healthy half-breed child.
But it had not, actually, been Hela that had driven Loki and Sigyn to hiding on Midgard for her pregnancies. No. That, Loki now knew, was entirely due to their second child. Their firstborn son, and the one Odin had forced them both to forget. The little boy who'd been born with faintly blue-tinted skin and reddish eyes, dead giveaways to his half-Jotun status. A status Odin didn't want Loki to be aware of. So Odin had stolen their child, erased their memories, and …
Loki fought to breathe through the rage. Fought to not turn and destroy the son-of-a-nithing who had made Loki's son into his mount. Who had lied to and manipulated him every day of his life. His hands shook wildly as he stashed the Casket in the space pocket that held all the bits and bobs he might need at a moment's notice. Like extra throwing knives. And oh, how tempted was he to bury a few dozen into Odin?
The only thing stopping him was the near-compulsion to rescue Sleipnir. Rescue him, take Sigyn, flee to Midgard and … well, probably never return. Because if he did, he was probably going to kill Odin. Thankfully, Loki happened to know that all their sons were currently alive on Midgard, though currently unaware of their true parentage. They could have a proper family reunion. Something that had not happened as of yet. Oh, Loki and Sigyn had spent time on Midgard with one or more of their sons on several occasions, but never all of them at once.
With one last, hate-and-rage filled glare that promised an eternity of pain at Odin, Loki twisted on his heel and teleported to his and Sigyn's wing of the palace. Fortunately, Sigyn was at home. Loki wasn't entirely sure what he'd have done otherwise.
Sigyn had long been his rock, even before they'd married. The daughter of a minor courtier, they'd met thanks entirely to Frigga and her willingness to indulge child-Loki's desire to learn seidr. She'd sent him to a seidkonur to learn the basics, and Sigyn had become a pupil as well shortly thereafter. Sigyn had been the only girl amongst the apprentice seidkonur to not sneer at either himself or the sole other boy also learning the use of seidr.
They had fallen in love in the due course of time, and over the millennia, Sigyn had never turned from him, when practically everyone else save Frigga had. Loki loved her with everything in him, and did anything ever happen to her, Ygddrasil would burn.
Sigyn shot to her feet when he appeared, concern writ large across her face even as she pulled him into an embrace. “Loki, what's wrong?”
Loki shuddered wildly. “I'll explain later, right now, there's two things we need to do, and then we're going to Midgard, never to return.”
Harry had always known something odd was going on. Well, maybe not always. But, from his earliest conscious memories? Yes. There were only so many times a person could dream the same dreams – of cruel laughter and green light, or the roar of an engine and the sense of flight – before it became clear something was … different. Add in the very strange meetings he had every now and again with people who treated him … very oddly … and then disappeared, and different quickly became downright odd.
Honestly, the odd, unexplained things that happened when he got upset were the easiest thing for Harry to explain, at least once he'd started school and had access to a library. One that had a few fiction books that involved magic. Harry had been deeply tempted, more than once over the years, to try to do more, but if there was one thing his reading had told him, it was that messing with magic when you didn't know what the heck you were doing was a really good, if messy, way to die. Or worse.
Then the letter came. Normally, Harry didn't make such a rookie mistake as to waft something of 'his' in the Dursleys' general presence. He'd learned the hard way that was a good way to get that thing taken away or (semi)permanently denied access to. But that letter had been distracting in the extreme. Even without opening it, Harry knew it was the confirmation of his suspicions as regarded magic. There was no other explanation for the exactitude of the address. Literally no one who did not have the last name of Dursley knew that Harry lived in the cupboard under the stairs. Not even Piers or the others in Dudley's gang.
Getting a hold of an envelope after that mistake proved to be ridiculously problematic. Which had led them to the hut on the rock. Which had led to Hagrid, and a very eye-opening discussion about the past and his parents. And a very distressing visit to a pub full of people who acted like he was the Queen, Sean Connery, and the Beatles all rolled into one.
Diagon Alley, though, compensated for the people in the pub. Harry felt like his head was spinning around on his neck in a complete circle in his efforts to see everything. Hagrid had to grab him by his shirt more than once to keep Harry from diving into some shop or other. Or that other Alley. Harry made due note to visit the place sometime when he was older, and actually knew enough magic to defend himself. Hagrid didn't seem to know how to lie, so Harry was willing to believe the Alley was on the dangerous side. That, however, didn't mean it wasn't worth a look. Later.
It became clear, the closer they got to the bank, that there was … something … going on. A bunch of people seemed to both be attracted to something near the bank's steps and to be trying to avoid it. Harry, unfortunately, was far too short to be able to see what the fuss was about until they were almost on top of it.
It was a horse. An absolutely enormous gray horse. The kind of horse that knights of old rode to war, but … bigger. Bigger even than a Shire horse. A horse that wore a bridle, but no other tack. And this horse had eight legs. Something about that was poking at Harry's memory, like he'd heard of such a thing before, but he couldn't remember where. He'd read far too many books, both fiction and non, to properly keep track of a detail like that.
“Now that's a fine beast, that is.” Hagrid said. He was eyeing the horse the way Marge eyed her bulldogs.
“Is it a magical horse, Hagrid?” He asked.
“Not one I'm familiar with, Harry.” Hagrid admitted after a moment. “Though it looks a bit like an Abraxan. Bit too many legs to be a proper one, though, and no wings. Smart beastie, though. He's not fussing any, or running off. And with this crowd, most beasties would.”
Harry had to agree with that. He'd not encountered many horses, but from what he knew of them, they generally did not do well with being surrounded by crowds unless they'd both been trained to deal with it and had their rider or owner close by.
The goblins, once he could see the pair guarding the bank doors past the crowds, were … surprising. They shouldn't have been, really. After all, magic, and magic creatures. Magical beings on the same level as humans made sense. Though after Hagrid's comments on them, Harry decided a respectful nod as they passed was in order. Despite what the Dursleys thought, a bit of good manners hurt no one.
The inside of the bank was every bit as interesting as the outside. So many people, both magical and (to Harry's surprise) visibly non-magical, given the clothing being worn. So many goblins, too. And then there was the couple standing talking to one of the goblins. They looked like they were on their way to some fancy ball. The man wore a very smart suit that was almost a tuxedo. The woman with him (his wife, maybe?) was in the sort of full-skirted, fancy gown you saw in an old-style Regency ball.
The pair concluded their business just as he and Hagrid drew even with them. When they turned, Harry had just enough time to note the man's glowing green eyes focus intently on him before the man spoke, surprise and delight evident in his tone.