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Chapter Text

He was going to kill Harry Potter.

For real, this time.  

If you’d asked Draco Malfoy seven years ago when given the not-quite-a-choice by Kingsley Shacklebolt, (who unsurprisingly, was still the sitting Minister for Magic), if partnering him with the Boy Who Was a Pain in the Arse would end up causing Draco to want to avada the Gryffindor Git?

The obvious answer would have been a resounding, absolute yes!

Hence, upon completion of the first year of their extremely dubious partnership (and after finishing their Auror training), Draco concluded there was a desirous need to strangle Harry Potter on the daily. 

By the end of their second year as partners, it was at least a weekly inclination.  

By the time year number four arrived, the propensity towards homicidal urges directly directed in Scarhead’s general direction proved more infrequent but still commonplace enough that Draco wondered at least once per month, if actually pushed hard enough, would he follow through on said homicidal urges?

At the completion of their sixth year as Auror partners, Draco had saved Potter’s life at least a dozen times, including, but not limited to: three dark curses, four not-so-nice hexes, the dodging of two not-so-stray killing curses, and one surprisingly well-casted crucio. 

There was also the great venomous tentacula mishap of 2003. 

Oh, and one simply could not forget their lovely run in with the manticore that left Draco in St. Mungos for nearly two weeks!

Listening to his mother screaming at him for his recklessness was something Draco never wanted to live through again!

His sectumsempra scars notwithstanding, Draco now had another eight permanent and not-so-attractive reminders to add to the other lovely scars inflicted upon his person.

Which come to think of it, were all directly and indirectly caused by the Chosen One.  

Thankfully, his pretty face was still blissfully intact, but there had been a couple close calls that Draco didn’t want to even think about!

Currently, he and Potter were working on breaking up a dragon egg smuggling ring which stretched from the western Scottish Highlands to as far east as the Carpathian Mountains in Romania.  

Which was where they were currently stationed.

The Romanian Dragon Sanctuary.

It was just earlier this week Draco had lost against The Chosen Prat, playing Quidditch in their Auror recreation league.  

The outcome of said loss was that Draco now found himself polyjuiced as Charlie frickin’ Weasley!

This ingenious idea had come directly from the Boy Wonder, who thought it would be quite amusing to watch Draco Malfoy turn himself into a knobbed-kneed-red-headed Weasley!

Yet Draco would never admit to anyone ever, that if he had to choose a Weasley to pretend to be for an entire evening, the dragon tamer would have been his only choice.  

Although, he did suppose the curse breaker who married that French Veela wasn’t too bad of a bloke either.  

Draco had even spent a weekend or three at their home in Shell Cottage, breaking bread with their growing brood and listening to Bill talk about his job at Gringotts; which he’d returned to after teaching at Hogwarts for only a year.  

The one-eared Weasley, who still ran the joke shop in Diagon Alley, was also rather humorous at times. Draco learned back in school to never take anything from one of the Weasley twins. After his unfortunate incident with the Weasley’s Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts at the end of his sixth year at school, the surviving twin wasn’t exactly keen on allowing Draco into his joke shoppe unsupervised.

However, with time (and being partnered with the great specky git) it served to soften more than a few people; George Weasley amongst them.  

Then there was the Weaselette, who was currently living her best life as the star Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies and had just been chosen to represent England in the Quidditch World Cup, starting next week.  

That hadn’t really been a surprise.  

What had been a shock was the dissolution of the relationship between Ginerva and Potter.  

Subtly shaking his long red hair, Draco smirked, remembering how that romance had crashed and burned rather spectacularly three years ago.  

His expression shifted into a sneer when those unwelcome thoughts drifted to the least of the Weasley’s large brood.

Weaselbee.  

Who was still as obnoxious and imbecilic as ever.  

Not to mention a completely bad dresser and yet, still best mates with Scarhead.

Thankfully, the Weasel had decided after a short stint working as an Auror that a life being a poster hero for the Ministry was not his cup of tea.  

The great red-headed dunderhead was now working with the one-eared twin at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes in Diagon Alley, married to Susan Bones of all people, and father of a rather precocious two-year-old daughter named Rose.  

Rose Hermione Weasley.  

Of course, Potthead was Godfather.  

Draco sighed as he quietly observed every individual who worked at the Dragon Sanctuary, as well as the others in attendance this evening.

Tonight was a small fundraiser for the sanctuary, thrown by none other than Narcissa Malfoy, herself. It had taken more than a few greased palms and favors to pull this event off at the sanctuary, but Draco suspected that whomever was procuring dragon’s eggs were doing so from inside the preserve.

Glancing to his left, Draco noticed himself standing next to his mother, who had her arm linked within his own.  

Or should he say, Charlie Weasley.  

The dragon tamer was trading identities with Draco for a singular evening, all approved by the Speckled Chosen Scarred One.  

The only caveat Draco demanded, was his mother be let in on the ruse.  

He knew if she wasn’t privy to the particulars she’d not only be incensed at having the truth kept from her, but would have sniffed out the subterfuge immediately.  

Draco didn’t want to get on her bad side any more than he already was, these days.  

Allowing his gaze to wander, Draco took a small sip of his drink of choice: giggle water.  

He was on duty, hence no firewhiskey for him tonight.   

A movement to his left caught Draco’s attention and his gaze narrowed at the small group chatting near the balcony.  

Draco recognized the lone witch: Olivia Shardlow, having gone to school with her back at Hogwarts. She’d been two years his senior and a fellow Slytherin.  

The wizard on her right was another face Draco knew from Hogwarts: Vasil Stena. The wizard had been Karkaroff’s personal lackey during the Triwizard Tournament. He’d also played Keeper for the Durmstrang Quidditch Team in the early 1990’s, right before Krum arrived on scene.  

The two other men in their group worked on the Sanctuary’s Board and from what Charlie had shared the day prior, both were clean.

At least as far as he knew. 

The shorter one went by the name Baron Von Strucker and seemed to be a quiet, unassuming gentleman.  

The tall one however, was a hulking bearded man who went by the name of Aleksander Lukin.

Something about Lukin nicked at Draco’s subconscious since their introduction only a day prior, but for the life of him, Draco couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was that was bothering him.  

Strucker was a half-blood wizard, German, and came from a wealthy family near Düsseldorf.  

Lukin however, was Russian.  

His blood status was undetermined, but Draco couldn’t help wondering if the man was a squib.  

Pureblood families in Russia didn’t tend to formally ostracize their offspring when they didn’t present with magic as children. In most cases, Pureblood families would send them away to be taken care of by the poorer family relations or sometimes, in rare cases, squibs would be offered positions of power within the muggle government.  

This was a truth Draco had only recently discovered during the few times he and the Bespectacled Buffoon engaged in clandestine operations with the muggle organization known as SHIELD.   

Draco had been reluctantly impressed with the technology SHIELD employed. The billionaire known as Tony Stark was a verifiable genius, but a right pain in the arse. Bruce Banner was just as intelligent, but seemed to be on edge all the time, as if a light wind might actually knock him over. Steve Rogers was polite enough and rather old fashioned in his manner of speech, which Draco found oddly interesting.  

It was if the man was from another time or had grown up in a magical Pureblood household.  

Then there was Clint Barton, who was the liaison between SHIELD and the magical world. On two other occasions where the muggle covert agency requested help from the British Ministry for Magic, it only involved operations within the UK. This time however, the muggle known as Nick Fury had given Potter intelligence about both Von Strucker and Lukin, explaining the former was likely a high ranking agent for the terrorist organization HYDRA, while the second muggle had ties to someone Fury would only refer to as the Winter Soldier.  

Draco didn’t know how the smuggling of dragon’s eggs factored in with some of the more outlandish things he’d learned over the past few years, but it was clear SHIELD had serious backing from high-ranking people within several muggle governments around the world.  

As he continued to observe the small group, Draco didn’t know if Shardlow or Stena were aware or part of the smuggling ring, but from what he remembered of Shardlow, Draco knew the witch and her family had remained neutral throughout the Second Wizarding War. Otto Shardlow and his wife, Beatrice, were both purebloods, but neither had come from extensive monied connections. Otto attended Durmstrang, while Beatrice was sorted into Slytherin.

She was the aunt of Bradley Vaisey, who was Draco’s former Quidditch mate. He’d played Chaser up until he’d graduated from Hogwarts, right before the Dark Lord’s return.  

He’d gone on to play professionally for the Falmouth Falcons for seven years until a rogue bludger to the head ended his career.  

Now he worked for the Daily Prophet, writing up fluff articles about everything Quidditch related.

Bradley lately, was making rumblings about starting something called a Quidditch Fantasy League, modeled after the muggle Fantasy Premier League, which started a few years prior and which Draco had heard about through Dean Thomas at Potter’s birthday party not too long ago. Thomas was helping Vaisey figure out the logistics of how to make it work, while Draco was seriously considering providing the seed money to start their little venture.  

Now though, he pulled out his flask and took another swig of Polyjuice, refraining from wincing or giving any outward appearance of the foul taste.  

Draco nodded at his doppelgänger, who discreetly took a measured sip from his own flask and winced at the foul taste.  

Shaking his head, Draco moved off the wall and walked towards Shardlow, who was avidly nodding her head at something Lukin was saying.  

As he approached, Draco noticed Shardlow’s expression shifting into a more neutral one. The other three men turned their heads nearly simultaneously, and Draco watched amused by the subtle shifting of body language amongst the three.  

It was obvious his presence was not welcome.  

He didn’t bother to speak to any of them, as he knew Charlie wasn’t personally acquainted with anyone within their circle. As he passed by however, Draco accidentally tripped and spilled his giggle water directly onto Shardlow.  

The shrieking sound she made, as well as flapping her arms in outrage, served the desired result. All eyes in the room were now on their group of five. Draco took out Weasley’s wand, (or in this case, his wand, glamoured to look like Weasley’s wand), and quickly muttered an apology as he cast an evanesco while at the exact same time, wandlessly and silently, casting his own modified tracking charm on Lukin.  

It was decided the evening prior, the goal of tonight was to place a tracking charm on either Lukin or Von Strucker. Draco had proposed Lukin for obvious reasons. A supposed squib would not have the ability to check for a tracking charm, but even so, Draco’s modification of said charm rendered it untraceable to all known detection spells and a simple finite wouldn’t do the trick either. 

“Sorry.” He muttered again in his best Charlie Weasley voice, quickly excusing himself and trying very hard not to snicker at Shardlow’s expression of outrage.  

Unfortunately, the rest of the night went by at a flobberworm’s pace. Draco left to use the loo and was met on the way out by Weasley, who led him into a secure room near the back of the kitchens. Five minutes later the real Draco Malfoy was taking his place by his mother’s side, while Charlie Weasley was begging off the gala with a small group of his fellow dragon tamers.  

“It appears the evening has been a success, my Dragon.” Narcissa demurred, as she allowed her son to lead her one final time around the room. 

“Seems that way.” Draco agreed easily. “I’ve always enjoyed watching you in your element, Mother.”

“Such a sweet thing to say.”

“True, though.” Draco noted Shardlow’s group had suddenly gained a new member, Victor Krum. “Did you invite Krum?”

“No.” Narcissa delicately shook her head, “I do believe he is Miss Shardlow’s plus one.”

Draco’s eyebrows lifted at that new piece of information. It was a testament to how well his mother knew him, that she guided him towards the group in question.  

Once they were noticed, all eyes turned towards Draco and his mother.  

“Miss Shardlow,” Narcissa greeted effortlessly, “It has been a few years.”

“Lady Malfoy.” Olivia smiled genuinely in greeting, “Draco.”

“Olivia.”

“Would you be a dear, Olivia, and introduce me to your comrades?” Narcissa smiled warmly at the group.  

“Of course, Lady Malfoy.” Olivia gestured to Krum, “You might recognize Viktor Krum.”

Krum eyed Draco with a tinge of wariness, but bowed in Pureblood tradition towards his mother.   

“Yes. Mr. Krum. I understand you will be playing against England in the Quidditch World Cup next week.”

“Yes.” Viktor nodded, “I am looking forvard to it.”

Draco smirked inwardly. Krum’s english had markedly improved since his time at Hogwarts, but he was still a bit of a stiff.

Shardlow then made the three other introductions and each of the men nodded formally. Draco could see Lukin eyeing him curiously when said introductions were made towards himself, while Von Strucker seemed far more in control and at ease. The German then went on to chat with Narcissa and compliment her on her efforts regarding the Sanctuary fundraiser. By the end of their conversation, his mother had somehow secured an invitation to an event to be held at Von Strucker’s home the following month for Mabon.

“I would be delighted to attend.” Narcissa offered graciously, “It has been quite some time since I’ve ventured into Germany. I was quite partial to Trier and the Porta Nigra, in particular.”

“Tis a lovely part of my homeland.” Von Strucker responded with a charming smile, “Perhaps we might have a chance to take a short visit during your time in country.”

“Of course.” Narcissa returned the nicety with a practiced tilt of her head, “I wanted to thank you all for coming this evening and supporting the Sanctuary. I look forward to receiving your owl and continuing our acquaintance.”

Baron Von Strucker clicked his heels and bowed in a more polished manner, which was immediately followed by Krum and Stena.  

Draco took note of Lukin, who was entirely bemused and completely out of his element. He did nod his head once again, this time in parting, clearly trying to keep up with appearances.   

It wasn’t too long afterwards the event officially concluded, and Draco escorted his mother back to their local estate, near Bucharest.

About an hour after he’d showered and dressed in his evening loungewear, Draco found himself leisurely ensconced within the small library, sipping on a shot of absinthe, an anise liqueur procured from one of his contacts near the Wizarding city centre, just east of Dacia bulevard.  

Just as he tilted his head on the back of the couch he was sitting on and closed his eyes, Draco heard his mother’s footsteps approaching.  

Even though his eyes were shut, he could feel his mother’s sharp gaze from across the room immediately upon her entrance.  

“Stop glaring at me, Mother.”

Narcissa huffed softly, which caused Draco’s lips to lift slightly in amusement. She didn’t reply however, but he could hear her and eventually the cushions next to him dipped, ever so slightly.  

Their silence droned on for a bit, and eventually Draco’s head leaned to the left. As he opened his eyes, he could see the worry behind his mother’s gaze.  

“Were you able to place the tracking charm?”

“I was.”

She nodded and sighed. “You know?” She began softly, “You’ve technically finished your obligation to the Ministry. Maybe it’s time to think about pursuing something more reasonable.”

Draco grimaced inwardly, not exactly surprised by the topic his mother seemed keen on discussing. For the last six months she’d been increasingly insistent when his seven years of indentured servitude to the Ministry was completed, that Draco resign from the Auror Department.  

There was a large part of Draco that felt it might not be a bad idea to do so. Regardless of the efforts he’d made over the past seven years and being partnered with the Chosen Git, there were still many within the Wizarding World back home who were not as accepting of the Malfoy Family due to their role in the Second Wizarding War.

Most of the Weasley family had forgiven Draco and welcomed him into their homes. There were even a few former Gryffindor’s, like Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom, who’d made a point of letting the past go.  

But there were some, like the Weasel, who weren’t as forgiving.

And many people had long memories.  

Draco had earned his place in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, or DMLE. Rumors were thick on the ground that Potter would be Head Auror within a years time, which meant Draco would have to find a new partner or leave.  

The truth was, he was rather tired of working as an Auror.  

He was darn good at it, though.

But it wasn’t what he wanted to do, long term.  

Watching his mother, Draco could see the tired lines beginning to form around her eyes. She’d worried and fretted for the past seven years, and each time he’d been injured in the line of duty, Draco could see a little more of her vibrancy being snuffed out.  

As if she was bracing herself for some inevitable doom.  

“I’ve been thinking about it.” Draco finally admitted at last, “Potter will be heading up the Auror Department soon enough, and Merlin willing, once this case is done, I might seriously ride off into the sunset.”

“Truly?”

He nodded.  

“And then what?” Narcissa wondered aloud, “Have you considered what might come next?”

Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to answer that question truthfully, but he nodded all the same.  

“When was the last time you heard from Hermione?”

Draco frowned and averted his gaze, staring into the hearth where the embers from the fire were just beginning to fade. “It’s been a while.”

“Have you tried to contact her?”

“Last time was maybe eight months ago, Mother.” He leant forward and placed his forearms on the top of his thighs, “After several failed attempts, I’ve come to conclude she has made her choice.”

He felt his mother’s hand resting on his arm and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You don’t know that for sure, my Dragon. I suspect on Asgard, the traditions of learning battle are unlike anything we can fathom. You did mention to me once that Hermione told you the Lady Sif was sent to Vanaheim as a form of penance, yes?”

Draco nodded. “That’s true.”

“What if Hermione is not able to communicate due to some kind of restraint?”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

Draco didn’t want to tell his mother how unlikely he thought her idea was.  

After he’d left Asgard seven years ago, Hermione had reached out at least once per month. Her letters, while sparse with detail, were sufficient enough Draco surmised she was trying to establish a basis for a continued friendship. He’d been eager to correspond, allowing Muninn to take his letters back to Asgard.  

The raven had been wary at first. He’d just appeared one night on Draco’s balcony back at Malfoy Manor, his dark fathomless eyes clearly judging.

As the years progressed though, each time Muninn arrived, Draco made sure to greet the great bird with a genuine smile of welcome, eventually striking up a conversation here and there.  

Draco instinctively knew Muninn understood everything.  

Whenever he’d wished to send a letter to Hermione, Draco would call upon Muninn and the raven would arrive soon thereafter. The last time however, Draco told Muninn he wouldn’t be calling him again, at least not until Hermione responded back. He didn’t wish to burden Muninn nor make him feel compelled to travel the cosmos at his behest.  

Draco was also quite sure the All-Father wasn’t exactly fond of a mere mortal using his personal familiar as a form of glorified messenger servicing.  

“I’ve been thinking about something father said a few months ago.”

“Oh?”

Draco turned his head and noticed his mother’s expression shifting. It was clear she was surprised that he’d consider any idea from Lucius.  

Their father-son relationship dynamic remained quite strained, even to this day.  

“Yes.” Draco answered, before forging on to explain, “I’m not getting any younger, Mother, and we both know at some point, I will need to carry on the Malfoy name. I suspect, and I’m sure you’d agree, the likelihood of Hermione accepting a formal suit from myself if nigh on unlikely. She’s made no effort to visit Midgard in seven years. Potter goes there to visit, but I’ve never been invited back. Whilst the Queen checks in on me from time to time, I think she only does so out of some antiquated obligation and frankly, I’m lonely. I’ve waited for seven years, naively hoping for something, some sign Hermione might actually want to get to know me. I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that the hateful person I was while we were growing up is all she will ever see me as.”

“And what if you’re wrong?”

“I don’t think I am.” Draco admitted with a tinge of sadness, “And I have to believe I deserve some happiness, even if it isn’t with my soulmate. I know I can be a good husband and father, if given the proper chance.”

Narcissa hummed in agreement. “Do you have a witch in mind?”

“I do.” He stood up and went to refill his glass of absinthe. As he poured the green liquid into his Perigord vessel, Draco continued on, “I’ve become rather friendly with Astoria Greengrass over the past year. She is sweet and kind, and comes from a good family.”

“Draco…” his mother’s tone of voice held an edge to it Draco didn’t like, “we both know that Astoria is a sweet girl, but…”

“Don’t!” He hissed out with warning, “I know what you’re going to say, but I’m going to stop you right now!”

Narcissa stood and walked over to her son, whose face was taught with irritation. “We both know of the blood curse which plagues that family!”

“Everyone knows about it, Mother. It’s why Tori hasn’t been able to find a suitable match.” He took his mother’s hand and led her back to the couch. “Tori knows about my soul bond and she will never hold it against me. She also deserves some happiness too, for whatever time she has left. I can give that to her.”

“Draco…”

“Don’t try and talk me out of it, Mother. I’ve already decided.”

“What do you think your father will say?”

“He can hang, as far as I’m concerned.”

Narcissa’s lips pursed tightly, but she didn’t comment.  

At least, not about Lucius.  

“When will you offer the formal courtship?”

“I was thinking about Yule.”

“An auspicious time.”

“I thought so too.” He mused, taking a small sip of his drink and closing his eyes at the enjoyable burn, “When we return to Wiltshire, I would like you to send an owl to Tori and invite herself and her family over to have dinner at the Manor.”

Narcissa didn’t know what to think about any of this, but she knew her son well enough to know he’da already made up his mind.  

She just hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision.  

“Very well.”

Chapter Text

Upon their return to England, Draco made sure his mother wasted no time in sending a missive to Astoria.  

Of all the things, both good and bad, which had occurred over the past seven years, Astoria proved to be a surprisingly bright spot in an otherwise gray world. She was sweet, kind, funny, intelligent, and had a remarkably positive outlook on life, despite being plagued with an incurable blood curse.

There were times in the past year when the Slytherins would get together, usually at Theo’s home, and Astoria would accompany her older sister, Daphne. Daphne had been in Draco’s year and wasn’t quite as bubbly as her younger sister, preferring to maintain a more staid and stoic resolve.  

Probably the reason she was to marry Blaise Zabini in the New Year.  

Both of them were utterly perfect for each other.  

After all the happenstance which occurred during and after their time at Hogwarts, the Slytherins who’d made it through the war remained loyal to each other. Theo was still single and not exactly thrilled with the idea of carrying on the Nott name. Pansy disappeared after Hogwarts and traveled abroad for several years, making her way across three continents and numerous wizards before finding her way back home.  

She’d married Marcus Flint two years ago.  

Milicent Bulstrode and Gregory Goyle had married five years back, and both were painfully reclusive. They rarely socialized and only ventured out for a significant occasions.  

They were also the first amongst their small group of Slytherins to have children: twin boys.  

Pansy had given birth to a daughter, eighteen months ago. The little tyke named Violet Penelope Flint was the spitting image of her mother, managing to wrap most of their group around her little finger.  

Draco was chosen to be Violet’s Godfather and Daphne, her Godmother.   

An honor Draco didn’t feel deserving of, but he couldn’t turn it down once asked.  

It was actually the birth of Violet which had reintroduced Draco to Astoria.  

Two years his Junior, Astoria had been sent abroad during the worst of the war, to France. She’d enrolled at Beauxbatons and finished her schooling there.  

Tori loved France, preferring to spend as much time as she could enjoying Wizarding Paris with all its distinctive attractions. Draco mused to himself that he would need to try and make a point to take Tori there as much as she wished. He wanted to make sure whatever time was left to her, was filled with light.

He was just about to leave his family library when the door opened and in walked his father.  

The years since the Second Wizarding War had not been kind to Lucius Malfoy.  

Once Draco had been made Head of House Malfoy, Lucius was left without any political or social standing in their world. He’d become even more reclusive than the Goyle’s, never venturing out past the safety of Malfoy Manor.  

Draco had freed their House Elves almost immediately upon taking over said Lordship. The ones who chose to remain were well-paid and offered clothes. He hadn’t been too surprised when half their elves left the Manor. Draco made sure that the elves who’d chosen to stay, his father couldn’t harm them anymore.  

Lucius Malfoy had been emasculated by the Dark Lord within the walls of his own home, but for all his groveling at the feet of Voldemort, having to bend to the whims of his only son and heir was not something Lucius had taken to graciously.  

No.

For seven years he’d been a right pain in the arse on the daily.  

It had gotten so bad over the past year, Draco decided eight months ago to purchase a rather grand townhome in Muggle London near Kensington, just to have a place to escape to when he needed a reprieve from the stress that was Lucius bloody Malfoy.  

“Draco.”

“Father.”

The tapping of his father’s cane always made Draco feel like wincing. His father had utilized that cane as a tool of punishment during Draco’s formative years. Currently, said cane was actually being used for its intended purpose, but Draco still hated that blasted thing with a passion.  

“Your mother has informed me we will be having guests for dinner in a few days time.”

“That’s the plan.”

Draco watched warily as his father took the seat to his right and once settled he called for Bixy, who brought him a snifter of firewhiskey.  

Bixy asked Draco if he wanted a glass, but a quick shake of Draco’s head, had the elf popping away.  

“You do know Miss Greengrass would not be your mother’s nor my choice of a suitable bride.”

“Then it’s lucky for me that neither of you get a vote.”

“And what of Miss Odinsdottir?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “What of her?”

“She is your soulmate, Draco!” Lucius spat out with ire, “And the singular reason which has seen me removed from my rightful place as the head of this family!”

“One of them.” Draco muttered under his breath.  

“Watch yourself, boy.”

Draco stood up and walked over to the window, keeping his back to his father on purpose.  

He was no longer afraid of his father.  

“I don’t owe you an explanation, Father. The decision is mine and mine alone. I have come to care for Astoria and she is fully aware of all emotional constraints which might affect any potential union.”

“And what of children, Draco?” Lucius challenged back, “We both know how unlikely it is Miss Greengrass carries any child to term.”

Draco sighed and rubbed both hands down his face. “It’s a concern but not an insurmountable one. Tori wants a child very much and I’ve done a bit of research on her situation. Carrying a child is not necessarily a death sentence for her and based on what I do know she likely won’t see thirty, regardless.”

“And if you have a child and she dies soon thereafter?”

Draco did turn then, his expression closed off. “I am more than capable of raising any child on my own, if need be.” Lucius didn’t reply, but he did nod after a few moments of contemplation. “I’m not asking for your approval, Father. I don’t need it and frankly even if I did, I wouldn’t bother.” Draco almost smirked at his father’s look of outrage, “But I will expect both you and mother to be supportive of Tori. Once the betrothal contracts are signed, it will be done.”

“And what do you think Miss Odinsdottir will think once she becomes aware?”

“I don’t think she’ll care one way or the other.” Draco admitted, his heart clenching at that unwelcome thought, “I need to move on with my life and live it. Wishing for something that’s never going to happen is futile and I want no part of it.”

“I see.” Lucius replied evenly, making to stand up. “Then I suppose there is nothing more to discuss?”

“No, there isn’t.”

Draco watched as his father left the library, the tapping of his cane eventually fading into the bowels of the Manor.  

Walking back to his favored spot and sitting down, Draco took the necklace Queen Frigga had gifted him and pulled it out from underneath his dress robes. Staring at it, he couldn’t help the aggrieved sigh that spilled from his lips. He then pulled it over his head, allowing the glimmering chain to dangle from his hand as the stone nestled neatly into his palm.  

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Queen Frigga, but I wanted you to know whilst I’m grateful for this generous gift, I can no longer in all good conscience, wear it.”

Draco waited for a few moments and when nothing happened, he stood up and headed for his room.  

Once there, he went into his closet and grabbed his goblin silver blade from its spot and placed a small cut on his palm, allowing the blood to pool, then gently placing it where the hidden lock was located.  

As the door opened, Draco used his wand to seal the cut and clean the blood, placing the knife back where it belonged.  

The sconces within his inner sanctum lit up as he entered. Taking in the small room, Draco walked over to a small desk and opened the top drawer, carefully placing the pendant on the green velvet cushion inside.  

As he closed the dresser drawer and made to leave, he glanced at his foe glass and was shocked when he noticed the face of Queen Frigga staring back at him.  

“Hello, young Draco.”

He bowed and replied reverently, “Queen Frigga.”

Her gaze shifted to where he’d just placed her pendant, “I see you’ve chosen to move forward and refrain from wearing my gift any longer.” She didn’t pose it as a question, but he nodded anyway. “I am sorry you feel you cannot wear it any longer.”

“It’s for the best.”

“And there is nothing I can say to change your mind?”

“I think we both know I need to move on.” Draco wasn’t exactly encouraged by Frigga’s resigned sigh. “She is well?”

The Queen’s expression softened, “She is well.”

“And her training?”

“Going very well.”

Draco nodded again, “I’m not surprised.”

Frigga’s blue eyes considered him for a moments before she asked, “You have found some measure of happiness?”

“I have found someone whom I can make happy.”

“She is unwell?”

“Yes.” Draco answered evenly, not surprised in the least Frigga knew of Tori’s condition.

“And there is no cure on your world?”

“None.” Draco replied before his eyes widened, “Would Asgard?”

“I’m afraid as you know, such blood curses are very difficult to cure.”

“Do you know why this happened to Tori?”

“Tis a generational curse and quite old.” Queen Frigga paused and then added softly, “Does the family in question know what familial line placed the curse, originally?”

“I don’t know and Astoria has never spoken of it.” Draco sat down and put his head in his hands for a moment and when his slate gaze lifted he inquired, “Do you know how long she has?”

He watched as the Queen closed her eyes and when she opened them, her eyes were filled with sorrow, “If you choose this path, young Draco, you will give the young witch a good life with what time is left to her, but you must not allow yourself to feel guilty for what is to come. Only know if your intentions remain pure and centered on her happiness, all will be well.”

“Thank you.” 

“What you are choosing is truly borne of unselfishness.”

He just shrugged. “I cannot give Tori my whole heart, but I can give her a good life. She deserves that much.”

“It’s more than some ever know.”

He paused and then asked, “Could you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Not that I expect her to inquire after me, but if Hermione does, would you please let her know I wish her well and won’t be bothering her again.”

“Draco, you might not wish to make such a hasty declaration.”

“Queen Frigga,” he swallowed his emotions down, but it was hard, “once I marry Tori, and Merlin willing, we have a child, my place will be here on this realm. I will never abandon my child for any reason and Hermione’s life is on Asgard.”

“And this is what you want?”

“I am tired of being alone and I can make Tori happy.” He answered evasively, “She deserves that, and I suppose I deserve it too.”

“Then I will wish you well, Draco Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Queen Frigga.”

Draco watched as the foe glass went dark and then he felt his heart dropping within his chest.  

Frigga didn’t dissuade him from moving on and that more than anything else, convinced Draco he was making the right choice for himself.  

When he emerged back into his room, Draco immediately took notice that his hearth was crackling, signaling an incoming floo call.  

Walking over and then kneeling down, he waved his wand and smiled half-heartedly when the visage of Astoria appeared through the flames.  

“Draco.”

“Hey, Tori.”

“How was your trip to Romania?”

“Fine.” He paused for a split second before inquiring, “I take it your parents responded back to mine?”

“Yes.” She nodded elegantly, “Mother was thrilled to receive the invitation, while father seemed a bit more cautious.”

“Oh?”

“I think he’s having a hard time reconciling you might actually be serious about this.”

“I take it this meaning, a formal courtship?” She nodded again. “What have you told them?”

“Not much.” Astoria answered sincerely, “It’s not my place to share your secrets, Draco. Besides, I don’t think they’d believe me, regardless.”

He chuckled at that, “Would seem a bit fantastical, I suppose, if I hadn’t lived it myself.”

Astoria’s gaze heightened in the flames, while her mouth turned down into a small frown. “Are you alright?”

He shrugged. “I just finished speaking with Queen Frigga.”

Draco almost laughed when Astoria’s expression shifted to one of utter shock.  

“What did she want?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. Remember when I showed you the gift she gave me?” Astoria nodded yet again, “I made the decision tonight to remove it and place it somewhere safe. I think she was both saddened and surprised by it.”

“And Hermione?”

“Doing well, apparently.”

Draco couldn’t help but feel a sense of fondness when Astoria’s eyes narrowed with indignation. “Seems quite unlike the Hermione Granger I remember from school, to be so callous.”

“I wasn’t exactly kind back during our Hogwarts years, Tori. Besides, she has a life on Asgard and my life is here.”

“And you’re okay with it?”

“Not really, but I’m not going to stop living my life for some arbitrary what might have been.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“Don’t think it matters, to be honest. If she truly wished for something between us, she wouldn’t have ignored me for nearly two years.”

“I’m so sorry, Draco.”

“Don’t be, Tori.”

Both of them were quiet for a brief moment before Tori’s expression brightened, “I am going to Paris next weekend with Daphne to help her pick out her bridal trousseau and I managed to procure two tickets to the Wizarding Opera. Would you like to come with me?”

“What night?”

“Saturday.”

“I’ll check with Potter tomorrow, but I think I can sneak away for a couple of days.”

“Brilliant!” She beamed, which caused Draco to respond in kind, “I’m looking forward to seeing you in a few days.”

“Me too, Tori. You’re feeling well?”

“Today was a good day.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Have a good night, Draco.”

“You too. Sweet dreams.”

The floo call disconnected and Draco felt his body dropping to the floor, his head oriented up at his ceiling as his gaze stared unseeingly into nothingness. 

He didn’t know how long he laid there, he only knew that for the first time since his visit on Asgard, he was actually looking forward to the promise of a better tomorrow.  

It may not be what he’d hoped for nor envisioned at that time, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be happy and find some peace with Astoria by his side.  

All Draco did know for sure was that he was bound and determined to try and make this work.  

Chapter Text

Frigga stared unseeingly inside the stone basin as the flames within the hearth diminished slowly. Whilst she couldn’t blame Lord Malfoy for his desire to move forward with his life, it made her wonder what her daughter was thinking!

Hermione had spent the better part of her time over the past two seasons trudging through the canopied river lands of Álfheim with Loki and Lady Natasha by her side. Lady Natasha had been very diligent in teaching Hermione all manner of subterfuge, combat, tracking, and survival training.  

The latter two reasons were why the group of three had ventured afield to the home of the light elves. Natasha was previously introduced to the Great Elven Regent at a banquet just five seasons prior and discovered a kindred spirit. The two spent the entire evening talking, whilst Loki sulked alone in a far corner, clearly unhappy at being left to his own devices for an entire evening.    

A small smile graced Frigga’s countenance as she thought about her son and his paramour. In the past seven summers, she’d witnessed an almost miraculous change in her youngest boy. Loki, who was always prone to unease and malcontent, had found a semblance of peace and even smiled more. Not the biting sarcastic smiles he’d been known for nearly a thousand years, but genuine, mirthful ones he wasn’t afraid to show whenever in the presence of Lady Natasha.  

The two of them were so strikingly similar in so many ways, it never ceased to amaze Frigga. Even though she had foreseen Lady Natasha entering her son’s sphere, the seamless camaraderie they shared still served to surprise, more than not.  

Hermione, in her own way, had immediately embraced Natasha as a sister and the two were thick as thieves. Frigga’s youngest, who’d always been a voracious learner, blossomed under the watchful guidance of the Midgardian warrior. Even Thor, who was notoriously difficult to impress on the battlefield, had begun to treat Natasha as an equal within nary two seasons of her time on Asgard.  

As the seasons changed on the Realm Eternal, life also moved along the shores of Midgard. Frigga spent many a day watching over the young Lord Malfoy, eager to witness his journey of redemption and he’d not disappointed in the least. The young wizard embraced his penance with a singular focus born of expectation and a desire to change those perceptions which continued to follow him after their Wizarding war, and while there were still many who looked upon Lord Malfoy with distrust and repulsion, there were those who saw the efforts of the young wizard and were willing to offer a tentative truce of forgiveness.  

Even some going so far as to extend such formalities towards acceptance and genuine caring.  

Under her watchful eye, Frigga had seen the beginnings of something flickering between Lord Malfoy and the young Midgardian witch known as Astoria Greengrass. She bore witness to the loneliness and resignation in young Draco’s eyes as he patiently waited for Hermione to reach out.  

Frigga refrained from intervening, but only inasmuch as she’d made a promise to her husband that she would allow their youngest to form her own good opinion of Lord Malfoy.  

But Frigga was fairly certain Hermione did not foresee her soulmate abandoning their bond for another, no matter the circumstances.

So, this was why the Queen of Asgard was now walking towards the royal courtyard, to seek out her youngest child. 

As she climbed the steps, Frigga stopped midway and closed her eyes for a brief moment, allowing her inner eye to open up to the coming conversation.  

Once she was more certain of her surroundings, Frigga traversed the last few steps until her feet hit the landing and immediately took note of Hermione sitting in her favored spot, reading a book.  

Bright amber eyes lifted and a beaming smile spread across the cheeks of her youngest, causing Frigga’s heart to swell with motherly affection. 

“Mother.”

“Good afternoon, dearest. Tis a lovely day.”

“It is.” Hermione patted the space next to her before closing her book and setting it aside. “What have you been doing on this day?”

Frigga sat down regally, then grasped her daughter’s right hand and gave it a fond squeeze. “I’ve been scrying a bit today.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Releasing her daughter’s hand, Frigga took in the questioning expression of her youngest and decided it was for the best to just delve right in, “I was just conversing with young Lord Malfoy.”

Noticing Hermione’s shoulders stiffening, Frigga couldn’t help but inwardly sigh.

“And how is he?” Hermione inquired softly, her demeanor now more in keeping from when she was a child and bracing for a stern reprimand for some perceived slight. 

“He is well.” Frigga answered truthfully, “He asked me to pass along a message.”

“Oh?”

“Quite.” There was a brief pause in which Frigga watched Hermione’s brow furrowing with confusion and worry, “He has made the decision to move ahead with his life on Midgard.” 

Another weighted pause passed before Hermione asked, “I don’t understand?”

“My Hermione,” Frigga’s tone softened noticeably, “Lord Malfoy indicated you have not returned any of the missives he’s sent over the past two summers and due to this, he’s made the decision to move on with his life. He’s begun making overtures towards a formal courtship with a witch on Midgard.”

Frigga wasn’t surprised by her daughter’s sharp intake of breath.  

“I’m assuming he told you whom he intends on marrying?”

“He did, but even if he’d hadn’t, I’ve been watching him for a while.”

Hermione nodded slowly, “And he’s sure of this?”

“Hermione, we both know his life as a mortal is but a speck of time to us. He is lonely and does not wish to remain thusly. I cannot fault him for making this choice, but even I was left surprised by his choice of bride.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Frigga sighed, “Tis not my place to share the truth nor am I going to interfere more than I have done in this regard.” Frigga then stood and placed a gentle kiss on the crown of her daughter’s head, “I do think it might behoove you to speak with Lord Malfoy in person, if only to give yourselves both closure, if that’s what you truly want.”

At that comment, Hermione sighed deeply, “I’ve been remiss in keeping in touch, I’ll admit it.”

“Is there a reason why?”

She just shrugged helplessly, “I don’t know why, exactly. I suppose I’m afraid of allowing myself to open that door any further than I’ve already done. I’ve tried to let the past go, Mother. I just don’t know how to do it fully.”

“He hurt you deeply.”

“He did.”

Glancing down into the lower courtyard, Frigga took notice of her youngest son and his paramour, sparring. “I don’t expect you to have all the answers now, my Hermione. I know it can be challenging to see someone in a new light, especially when all you’ve known is pain and unkindness. All I will say, is Lord Malfoy is not the same wizard he was seven summers ago. He’s grown, matured, and done the very best he can to make amends. I know you’ve spoken a little with Harry over the seasons, but even so, you need to make sure you’re confident in your choice.”

Hermione bowed her head at the not so subtle warning, “I will, Mother.”

“Good.”

Watching her mother walk away, Hermione felt her heart constricting within her chest painfully.  

The truth was she hadn’t expected Draco to find someone else. Based on his previous correspondence, he seemed eager to allow their friendship to blossom slowly, but she hadn’t been diligent in returning his letters. Time passed so quickly during her training, especially the past season she’d spent on Álfheim.  

Standing up, Hermione closed her eyes and silently disappeared from the royal courtyard, only to reappear just outside of the Himinbjorg.  

Not surprisingly, Heimdall was already outside, waiting for her arrival.  

“Princess Hermione.”

“Hello, Heimdall.”

The overwatcher of the cosmos watched her closely as she made her way towards him.   

“You don’t seem too surprised to see me here.”

“I suspected you would visit when you were ready.”

Hermione nodded as she walked along the bifrost, passing Heimdall and moving inside the great golden dome of the Himinbjorg. Her friend followed, and Hermione silently chastised herself for not coming sooner.  

A few moments later they both were standing at the edge of the abyss, staring out into the vast realm of space, and Hermione knew those same constellations of the universe were swirling inside Heimdall’s golden gaze.  

“I spoke with Mother just now.”

“I did wonder when she might feel compelled to speak with you.” Heimdall stated deeply, “But even so, you’ve come here looking for confirmation, correct?”

Gazing up at Heimdall’s profile, Hermione couldn’t help but smile, “You know everything, don’t you?”

“Not everything,” there was a small smirk of his own, but it vanished quickly as her friend carried on, “but enough to know why you’ve come.”

“Is it true?”

At that question, Heimdall did glance down at her and she could see the confirmation of her mother’s words firmly supplanted within the overwatcher’s expression.

It was open and resigned.  

“I see.” Hermione whispered out softly, unsure of how to feel at such a monumental truth being laid bare at her feet.  

A few minutes or hours of silence passed, Hermione wasn’t sure how long she stood there staring out into the cosmos, but eventually she felt compelled to ask, “What should I do?”

“What is it you wish to do, Princess?” Heimdall’s question was part curious and part, cautious. “There’s a reason you haven’t kept in touch with the young Midgardian wizard, and I suspect it’s not for the reasons he suspects, correct?”

She nodded reluctantly.

“The last time we spoke of this, I shared how he struggled with the truth of his poor choices. In the time past from then to now, Draco Malfoy has done his very best to offer a sincere penance for his inactions during their magical war. He has worked ceaselessly, without much credit nor kindness, to change the perceptions of those around him in regards to himself, and his family name. He has willingly put himself in harms way to save others many a time, including Harry Potter.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened at that comment.  

Harry never mentioned any of this to her!  

“He’s saved Harry’s life?”

“On more than one occasion.” Heimdall answered truthfully, “Once, he nearly lost his own life in the process.”

“Why didn’t Harry tell me any of this?”

Heimdall didn’t answer immediately, and Hermione could tell her friend was trying to decide how best to explain.  

After another few moments however, Heimdall sighed.  

“Lord Potter is a brave wizard, but has difficulty forgiving those who’ve trespassed against him. This weakness expounds exponentially against those he feels have trespassed against you. He works side by side with Lord Malfoy and trusts him in that regard, however, when it comes to you, Lord Potter feels you deserve better.”

Hermione nodded, “That sounds very much like Harry.”

Glancing behind him where his sword Hǫfuð was currently sitting within the activating mechanism of the bifrost, Hermione’s gaze followed.  

After a few more moments of silence, she nodded again.  

It was a testament to their friendship that she didn’t need to explain to Heimdall her decision. He just walked up the steps of the golden dais and took his place as sentry.

Moving towards the far opening, Hermione waited as the bifrost began to activate, the flashing lightening and power truly a wondrous sight to behold.  

Then the familiar whoosh of her body propelled her towards Midgard.  

It wasn’t even a moment later her feet were supplanted firmly upon the ground, her gaze lifting to the sight of her childhood memories.  

Hogwarts castle.  

She didn’t waste any time silently disappearing, the destination clear within her mind.  

Once she reappeared, Hermione found herself standing on the front porch of number Twelve Grimmauld Place in Islington.

Debating for a moment upon how to gain entry, that decision was taken when the door opened to the visage of Kreacher staring up at her.  

“Harry Potter’s friend has returned.”

“Hello, Kreacher. Is Harry home?”

“He is, Mistress.” Kreacher opened the door and waved her inside.  

As soon as Hermione breached the threshold, Kreacher popped away, likely to find Harry and announce her arrival.  

Walking down the long narrow hallway towards the kitchen, Hermione wasn’t surprised that Grimmauld looked much the same as it had the last time she was here, during the war. The drab furnishings, gray wallpaper, and muddled feel remained entrenched into every nook and cranny. Sighing softly, she continued to glance to and fro, her expression souring at the thought of Harry living in such a stately hovel.  

If such a conundrum were even remotely possible.  

Grimmauld Place had always been a paradox.  

The ancestral home of an ancient Pureblood family, smack tight in the middle of muggle London.  

The hurried steps coming down the stairwell caused Hermione to look up to her right and she smiled as her gaze met that of her best friend. 

“Hermione!”

Before she could respond, Harry swallowed her up into a crushing hug, causing her to huff out a bemused chuckle.  

“Hello, Harry.”

Pulling away, Harry’s beaming smile dimmed slightly at the stoic expression on Hermione’s face.  

“I know that look.”

“I’m sure you do,” she teased flatly, “let’s go into the kitchen and talk.”

“Oh-kay.”

A few minutes later both of them were seated across from each other at the long table, with Hermione taking her prior spot right next to where Tonks used to sit, when she would make everyone laugh, using her talent as a metamorphagus to change her facial appearance at will.  

Harry noticed Hermione’s wistful smile and admitted sheepishly, “I haven’t had much chance to change anything around here.”

“I did notice that.” 

“It’s just myself and Kreacher, most days.”

“No one special in your life right now?”

Harry shook his head in the negative.  

Oh sure, he’d tried the dating thing, but most witches were more interested in dating the Chosen One than just plain old Harry.

“I don’t think you came all the way from Asgard to ask after my non-existent love life, right?”

“No.” Hermione replied, placing her hands carefully on the table in front of her and allowing them to meander over the old Indian Rosewood table top, “I came to ask why you never thought fit to share with me how Draco has saved your life on more than one occasion.”

Grimacing, Harry took off his glasses and rubbed them on the end of his shirt. He knew at some point this was going to be an issue, but for the life of him, he didn’t think his best friend deserved to be shackled to Draco sodding Malfoy for the rest of eternity.  

“Is it true?”

Harry nodded, placing his glasses back on his face.  

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I don’t know…” he paused and then shook his head again at Hermione’s look of incredulity, “scratch that. I do know, Hermione. Because you could do so much better than Malfoy.”

“Harry!” Hermione reprimanded softly, “That’s not your decision to make! Granted, I’ve been remiss in keeping in contact.” The last few words were more mumbled than spoken aloud.  

“He’s been seeing Astoria Greengrass.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

Glancing to the side, Hermione sighed. She wasn’t sure what to do. There was a part of her which felt a bit relieved that Malfoy had found someone else, but there was the larger part of herself that felt very conflicted about it all.  

“Just how close is he with Astoria?”

Harry shrugged, because he really didn’t know and it wasn’t as if he and Malfoy were the best of mates. 

Sure, they’d learned to tolerate each other…

…mostly.  

But there remained that bitter undercurrent of something left over from their time at school and no matter how much Harry tried to bury those feelings of animosity and distrust, they were still there, like a festering wound that wouldn’t heal properly.  

He absently scratched as his scar.  

“What do you know about Astoria?” Hermione tried again, “I vaguely remember her older sister Daphne from Hogwarts, but not much else.”

“Daphne is marrying Blaise Zabini after the new year.” Harry began, “And from what I do know, most of the Slytherins have remained rather tight knit. Parkinson is married to Flint, and they just had a kid recently. Malfoy is the child’s godfather.” That truth caused Hermione to sigh, “Theo Nott isn’t married yet, and Goyle and Bulstrode married some years ago.”

“Astoria was a few years below us in school, right?”

“She was.” Harry went to stand so he could make some tea for them both, as he needed something to do with his hands or he was going to keep cleaning his glasses, “She went to Beauxbatons to finish her schooling, from what I’ve heard.”

Hermione didn’t comment right away, she just watched as Harry prepared two cuppas for them both. When he handed hers over, Hermione reached for the cream and sugar.  

Closing her eyes at the sweet milky flavor, Hermione hummed.  

“I’d forgotten how much I’ve missed a good cuppa of Earl Grey.”

Harry chuckled and nodded as he took his own measured sip.  

The two friends sat in silence, enjoying their beverage and after a while, Hermione asked the one question she was most curious about. “Does Draco ever ask about me?”

“Sometimes, but not in a while,” Harry admitted reluctantly, “I think he’s a bit put out I’ve been invited to Asgard, yet you’ve never extended an invitation to him.”

Frowning, Hermione sat back and belatedly realized she’d been rather a poor steward of maintaining a relationship with her soulmate.  

As she set her cup down on its saucer, she asked, “Do you have an owl?”

“Sure do, upstairs.”

Nodding, Hermione stood and made her way to the top floor where the Black Family owlry was located, and where Buckbeak had spent a bit of time hiding out after she’d rescued both the hippogriff and Sirius.  

Grabbing a slip of parchment and a quill, she quickly wrote a short missive before tying it to the talon of the large brown and golden owl. As she watched it fly off into the distance, likely heading to Wiltshire, Hermione sighed again.  

It was true her training had taken over much of her time and energy these past two seasons. Natasha was a veritable taskmaster in making sure Hermione was prepared for every eventuality.  

She’d become rather proficient with a bow, knife, and a sword.  

Natasha even taught marital arts techniques like Krav Maga, Bushido, Jiujitsu, and Akido.  

Mediation had also been the order of the day most mornings, teaching Hermione how to completely clear her mind. It had been revolutionary in helping her center her magic.  

She didn’t need a wand anymore and hadn’t for the past season. 

Trudging through the realm of Álfheim had opened up Hermione’s inner eye to a certain degree, but there was that logical part of her mind that kept resisting. Divination was a tool her mother employed effortlessly, but the truth was, Hermione was scared to learn her future. She didn’t wish to be beholden to the whims of the fates.  

She liked control, logic, and reason, and divination always felt like none of those things.  

Hence why she shied away from it at school.  

Loki gently chastised her lack of vision not as a means to be cruel, but more so to remind her that locking off her mind and magic to the possibilities was hindering her own growth and development as a mage. 

It was a hard pill to swallow at times.  

Glancing up into the sky, Hermione noticed that the sun was starting to make its descent into sleep and soon the moon would be awake. The rows of townhomes in the distance reminded Hermione of a scene from the muggle movie Hook she’d watched with the Granger’s the first Christmas she’d spent on Midgard. They’d taken her to the large cineplex near their home in Hampstead Heath and bought her popcorn and a soda pop.

It was one of the best memories she’d had of her time on this realm.  

The Granger’s were still in Australia, living as Wendell and Monica Wilkins, running a thriving dental practice and enjoying their lives.  

She should have felt guilty for taking their lives in Britain away from them, but from what her mother had shared, she’d done the right thing.  

Turning and walking down the stairs, Hermione came to the top of the landing and paused. She hadn’t realized just how steeped in dark magic the Ancestral Home of the Blacks was, but now that she was more in tune with her magic, she could feel it like a spider crawling up her arms: luring her into its web.

It actually felt a tad insidious, if she was being completely honest.  

When she placed her hand on the wall, out of some morbid curiosity, there was a moment of instant recognition, as if the Black ancestral magic recognized her as one of their own.  

Closing her eyes, Hermione pushed her magic outward, knowing instinctively that the reason for this recognition was her soul bond with Draco. While Harry might live here due to Sirius leaving this home to him, it was clear Grimmauld did not view Harry as its rightful owner.  

She could sense every effort Harry had made over the years to try and make changes to Grimmauld, and each time he’d been soundly rebuffed.  

Opening her eyes, Hermione sighed.  

Harry wasn’t a stupid wizard, he’d always been rather brilliant in his own way, and she suspected at some point in the last seven seasons Harry had correctly deduced why his efforts in changing Grimmauld appeared to be in vain.  

It was likely one of the many reasons he still felt resentful of Draco.  

It would seem based on what she was currently sensing from the magic imbued within its very walls, Grimmauld Place had recognized her as its rightful Mistress, which was probably why Kreacher had referred to her as such.  

Closing her eyes again, Hermione allowed her magic to spread into the walls of the home, gently cleansing it from every bit of darkness which had permeated its foundations over the many decades it had loyally served as the Ancient House of Black. She could even feel and see the echoes of its ancestors, as her inner eye opened on its own accord, eager to scry into the past.  

She could see shadows of both Sirius and Regulus as boys; one a divergent of name and status while the another embraced it, even if he’d never wished for it. There was brotherly love too, but it had been tarnished by the cruelty of parents too entrenched in blood prejudice to see much else.  

Hermione sensed the young childlike conversations of five cousins playing together before the magical world delved into darkness. The eldest one with dark unruly hair, watching her younger siblings and cousins enjoying a bit of frivolity, but feeling painfully separated by age and circumstance.  

There was little joy to be found within Bellatrix even as a child; only weighted expectation and duty.  

As Hermione allowed her magic to sink deeper into the past, more truths were revealed: some shocking and others, strange.  

But the reality was there was little peace or love to be found within these walls, no matter how far back she scryed.  

There were only echoes of self-preservation, cunning, and loyalty to the name.  

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Hermione didn’t react, as she figured Harry was coming to find her. It wasn’t until she felt a warm hand covering her own that her eyes shot open to the steely gaze of Draco, who was eyeing her curiously.  

They stared at each other for a few moments and Hermione could see questions behind Draco’s gaze as he looked to their hands and back into her eyes.  

“What are you doing?” He asked gently.  

Entwining their hands, Hermione didn’t immediately answer, she just led Draco towards the library, where she’d spent many an hour perusing through the shelves and where she knew they’d be able to talk in private.  

Chapter Text

To say he was shocked upon receiving Hermione’s owl, would be categorized as the understatement of the century. 

Did he expect Queen Frigga to have words with Hermione so soon?  

Possibly, but even so, Draco didn’t automatically assume the most probable outcome of said conversation would end with his soulmate making an unplanned sojourn to Earth.  

But here she was, in the flesh.  

Draco would never admit to anyone having spent an inordinate amount of time over the past seven years imagining what Hermione might look like, but never in his widest imagination could he have envisioned the perfection before him. 

Hermione’s caramel curls were perfectly tamed down her back in sleek ringlets boasting swirls of both caramel and amber, perfectly mimicking her eyes. She’d also grown a couple inches taller since he’d last seen her.

Her previous mid-five foot frame was now closer to his own height.  

But what stood out to him the most was how her body had morphed into something less waif-like and more fit and toned.  

Even her manner of dress was different.  

Hermione was currently wearing dark chocolate leather trousers with matching boots, a toga-style cloak with a beige fur-trimmed collar, which was draped effortlessly over her frame, as well as a breastplate made of some kind of metal he’d never seen before, etched with what Draco could only assume were ancient Nordic runes.  

She looked every inch a warrior princess, and he was once again reminded of how utterly out of his league she was.  

“You look good.” He managed to get out, which caused Hermione’s lips to lift into a half-smile.  

“You’re looking fit, as well.”

He bowed his head at the compliment.  

“I was surprised to receive your owl.”

Hermione gestured for him to sit next to her, which he eagerly did. She then inquired, “Would you like some tea?”

“Tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

“Kreacher?”

The wizened old elf popped into the room and bowed, “Mistress calls for Kreacher?”

Ignoring Draco’s stunned expression, Hermione asked politely, “Would you mind sending up some tea and biscuits, please?”

“Of course, Mistress. Kreacher lives to serve the Ancient and Noble House of Black.”

Once Kreacher left, Draco blurted out, “What’s going on?!”

If Hermione was surprised by his question, she didn’t show it.  

She seemed completely nonplussed.

“You do know this is the ancestral home of the Black family, yes?”

Draco nodded.  

He’d known for years Potter inherited the dump from his godfather, Sirius.   

Yet it begged the question as to why Potter’s elf was referring to Hermione as his mistress.  

“I didn’t discover it myself until I arrived,” she began to explain, her tone of voice calm and even, “but I sensed the ancestral magic reaching out for me. When you found me upstairs, I was scrying into the past. The blood wards on Grimmauld are quite strong and they recognized me as its mistress.” She smiled softly when Draco’s eyes widened with sudden understanding, “I don’t know if you’re aware but Harry has tried to change this home many times.” At Draco’s incredulous look, she forged on, “I have come to suspect the wards don’t recognize him as the rightful heir to the Black family.”

“I see.” Draco murmured, because he did see, however, he was more curious about something else Hermione had said. “Scrying?” He smirked knowingly, “As in divination?”

“Yes, and make fun of me, you pompous prat.” She bantered back, causing Draco to chuckle deeply, “I’ve spent the past seven seasons studying with Loki and my mother. I haven’t had to use a wand for a full season now.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s impressive.” He admitted sincerely, “Is that why you haven’t written?”

Hermione was about to answer when Kreacher popped back into the room with a beautiful tea set.  

“Thank you, Kreacher.”

The elf bowed and disappeared, leaving the two alone again. Draco watched as Hermione prepared his tea exactly to his liking and he couldn’t help the warm feeling within his chest that she’d remembered even after all this time. He took the cuppa with a nod of thanks, watching as she served herself.  

Her preferences hadn’t changed either.  

After he took a measured sip, Draco placed the cup silently on the saucer, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Hermione took another sip, then placed her cup and saucer on the table before sitting back, her expression surprisingly open, “I first must apologize for my lack of conveyance these past two seasons. I really have no excuse to offer other than I’ve spent most of my time on the realm of Álfheim, immersed in my training.”

“That’s the home of the light elves, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did Muninn find you there?”

“My father’s ravens are not permitted on Álfheim, I’m afraid. The light elves consider them bad omens, and I didn’t even think about it at the time.”

Draco nodded and took another sip of his tea.

“Also, I will admit to you how challenging it’s been for me being back home. Time passes differently as you know, and even on Álfheim, it’s not the same as on Asgard.”

“I didn’t consider that.” Draco admitted reluctantly.  

“But it’s no excuse, Draco.” Hermione offered sincerely, “I’ve been remiss and a bit selfish in my own endeavors and for that, I’m sorry.”

He set his cuppa and saucer down, his steely gaze clearly conflicted. “I’m assuming Queen Frigga shared with you my intention to court Astoria Greengrass?”

“She did.” The two words were spoken with a tinge of something Draco couldn’t readily define, “And it’s not my intention to interfere, if you’re truly set upon this path.”

“What else did your mother tell you?”

Hermione frowned when she noticed Draco’s posture stiffening as if he was bracing for something. “Not much,” she responded quietly, “is there something more I should be aware of?”

He wasn’t sure how best to answer Hermione’s question, because on some level, Astoria’s condition wasn’t his to arbitrarily share, but on the other hand, Hermione deserved some kind of answer.  

“It’s complicated.” 

“How?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, then stood up and walked over to the window, standing with both hands locked behind his back to keep them from fidgeting.  

“Some generations past, the Greengrass family was beset with a rare blood curse. It only affects daughters and does not manifest within every generation. Unfortunately, Astoria is afflicted and there is no cure. She has maybe five to seven years left, if she’s lucky.”

Draco wasn’t surprised by Hermione’s sharp intake of breath, but he couldn’t look at her, lest his resolve waver.  

“We’ve become quite good friends,” Draco carried on, “and have discussed entering a into courtship. In fact, Astoria and her parents have been invited to the Manor later this week as a preamble for just that reason.”

The silence was deafening and yet, Draco didn’t turn around. He didn’t wish to see Hermione’s expression, for fear all he would see was indifference to his announcement.  

Several long moments passed, and just as he was about to give into temptation, he heard Hermione standing, her measured footsteps heading towards his position.  

Eventually he felt her warm presence at his right side and when he glanced down, her amber gaze was piercing him with a look he could only describe as pained understanding.  

“You care for her?”

“I do.” Hermione’s gaze sharpened, and for some reason he felt compelled to clarify, “Astoria knows I do not love her, but I can give her a good life, for whatever time she has left.”

“And there’s no way to heal her?”

He shook his head in the negative, “I even inquired of your mother…”

“And what did she say?” Hermione interjected.

“There are none left alive in the main branch of the family who cast the curse.”

Draco watched as Hermione sighed deeply, her gaze shifting to staring out the window. He could see her mind whirring over the possibilities, but he knew there was no hope for Astoria and he’d already given her his word.

He wasn’t about to change his mind now.  

It was simply not the way he was raised.  

“Draco,” Hermione began, “I think I know you well enough to see your resolve in this regard. I don’t believe for a single moment you would have given your word to someone if you didn’t plan to follow through. However,” she lifted her hand when Draco made to speak, “please, let me finish.” He nodded, so she continued on, “We both know blood magic cannot be cured without the countercurse from the castor or a direct family member, but we both also know that soul magic can.”

“Your mother didn’t exactly infer that as a possibility.”

“My mother has her own reasons for why she chooses to intervene, but I suspect she wanted us to talk this through, to whatever outcome.”

“Wouldn’t your mother likely know whom Astoria’s soulmate is?”

“Perhaps.” Hermione honestly didn’t know the answer to Draco’s question, but if anyone knew, it would be her mother. “But that still doesn’t change the fact you made a decision to promise yourself to another, regardless of our situation.”

“I haven’t heard from you for over a year!” He challenged back, “What was I supposed to think?!”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to reply, because on some subconscious level, she knew what Draco might surmise about her lack of correspondence.

Was she testing him?

She didn’t have the answer to that question either, but what she did know, was she’d been quite unfair to him.  

“I’ve already apologized and whether or not you wish to forgive me is your choice, but I won’t stand in your way, if this is something you truly want.”

She watched him turn around and run both of his hands aggressively through his hair.  

Hermione could sense Draco’s frustration and hurt through their bond. Now that they were in close proximity to each other, she could feel much of what he was unable to occlude, and it made her feel even worse.  

As she watched him pace, Hermione had to admit, he’d grown into a very handsome wizard. The pointy look of his youth had softened yet sharpened into a finely chiseled jawline, a regal bearing nose, full lips, perfectly space brows, a charming head of windswept hair, and eyes that were just as piercing as ever.  

Even his stature had blossomed from the thin-seeker build to one more in keeping of her brother Loki.  

Lean, yet muscled and elegant.  

When Draco finally stopped pacing, he whirled on her and snarled out, “And what do you want, Hermione? What is it you want from me? Because I’m tired of waiting and being alone!”

She was taken aback by the passion and vehemence in which Draco’s words were spoken but more to the point, it was the last comment which made her take a step back.  

She’d spoken to Heimdall and heard how Draco had struggled since the end of the war, yet despite all that, he’d managed to carve out a place for himself, bringing honor back to a name that was tarnished with so much darkness.  

It couldn’t have been an easy path and yet, she wasn’t here for any of it. She hadn’t offered her support nor friendship in any meaningful way which might have mattered and despite all of that, he’d remained loyal to the ideal that perhaps someday, she might choose to be with him.  

Seeing him now so open and vulnerable made her feel many things simultaneously.

Hurt, shame, impotence, anger at herself for her own shortcomings as a bond mate…

…but most of all she felt unworthy.  

The tears that pricked at her eyes were not wholly unexpected, but as they fell down on her cheeks she could see Draco’s expression shift from frustration and hurt to something more gentle.  

He strode over and cupped her cheeks, carefully wiping the tears away, even as questions swirled in the stormy depths of his gray eyes.  

“I’m so sorry.” She choked out. “I’ve been so selfish.”

He shook his head vehemently, “I’ve hurt you terribly.”

“That’s in the past, Draco.”

“It doesn’t excuse it, Hermione.” His thumbs kept up their slow, soothing rhythm. “Maybe I should have been more patient.”

“No,” she was quick to counter, “it’s not wrong to wish for connection and companionship, Draco. You never told me this was how you were feeling.”

“I didn’t want to burden you nor make you feel obligated.”

She gripped his wrists firmly, “A bond is not an obligation, Draco! We both knew that even before I was healed. You deserve to be happy, and I don’t want to stand in your way.”

“What I’ve always wanted was for you to give me a proper chance.”

Seeing the sincerity behind Draco’s stormy gaze made something in Hermione’s heart lurch.  

She could also feel his desperation through their bond.  

“What if I’m still not ready?”

Draco lowered his head and closed his eyes, “Do you think you ever will be?”

“I don’t know.” She whispered out emotively, “I want to be…but…”

“You need more time.” He finished woodenly, causing Hermione to swallow and nod helplessly.  

There were several moments of weighted silence and when Draco’s eyes finally lifted, Hermione could see his resolved resignation as clear as day.  

Then he took a measured step back.  

And in a blink of an eye, his expression occluded, as if all emotion had been completely purged from his body.  

It was very disconcerting and left Hermione wondering if this was Draco’s normal way of going through his day to day life.  

Hiding behind protective shields so he wouldn’t get hurt.  

“I want to thank you for coming to see me,” he said at last, “and I think it’s best if we leave it here.”

“Draco…”

“Look, Hermione…” she watched him take a deep breath, “it would be one thing if you lived here so we could see each other in the hopes of building towards a common future, but we both know you have every intention of returning to Asgard, so that leaves me with very limited options and frankly, I’m not willing to keep placing my life on hold for a maybe.”

“I would never ask that of you.”

“Yes, you would, or you wouldn’t have come.”

She half-heartedly bristled at Draco’s reprimand.

“That’s not entirely fair.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted, “but it’s our reality. I’m twenty-five and Salazar willing, I’ll live another hundred years, but that’s nothing compared to how long you’ll live. Astoria wants a family and Merlin grant me, I want one too. I know she may not live to see thirty, but what I do know is I can make whatever precious time she has left in her life happy and content and just maybe, I might find some of those things for myself, too.”

“It sounds like you’re half-in-love with her already.”

Draco just shrugged. “She’s become someone important to me. She listens and makes me feel as if I’m worthy of something good.”

Hermione dipped her head down, as she nodded slowly.  

She knew she had no right to feel jealous nor angry by Draco’s need for connection. He deserved to find some happiness and it seemed as if his decision wasn’t wholly borne of selfishness, despite his own loneliness.  

He just wanted to make sure that whatever time left to Astoria was meaningful and filled with as much happiness as he could offer.

She’d never known this side of Draco Malfoy and perhaps if she’d had, things might’ve been different for them now.

She walked over to him and cupped his left cheek, then placed a soft kiss on his right one.  

As she stepped back, Hermione noticed Draco smiling ruefully at her.  

“I wish you both the very best.” She said at last.

“Thank you.”

Before she made to leave, Hermione decided to make one final request.  

“If you both ever have need of me or Asgard…”

“I will make sure to let you know.” He finished succinctly.

She nodded one final time. “Be happy, Draco.”

“You too, Hermione.”

“Will you please tell Harry I said goodbye?”

“Of course.”

With a final look of mutual understanding, Draco watched amazed as Hermione disappeared without a sound. 

He stared unseeingly at the spot Hermione just vanished from, and felt his whole body completely deflating from all the repressed emotions he’d been bottling for years.  

While he wasn’t exactly surprised by the final outcome of their conversation, he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge it was not the one he’d hoped for when he’d received Hermione’s owl.  

Logically, he knew long distance relationships weren’t ideal, but living on two different realms made it next to impossible and Draco knew he wouldn’t be welcome back on Asgard anytime soon.  

Which now left him where he was.  

As he left the library and headed downstairs, he wasn’t surprised to find Potter waiting for him on the bottom level.  

“She’s gone?” Scarhead asked.

“Yes.”

“I take it you’re planning on courting Astoria?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Potter, but yes…that’s the plan.” Draco walked stiffly past the Chosen Git, yet before he made it down the hallway to the floo, he stopped and glanced over his left shoulder, his expression cold and closed. “I’ve always suspected you’d never forgive me for what happened when we were younger, but I never expected you to actively work against me when it came to Hermione, especially since I’ve saved your life on more than one occasion…” Draco paused to take a calming breath, “and just so you’re aware,” he bit out, “my time at the Ministry is done. I was going to stay until the end of our current case but have now wholly decided against it. I’ll be handing in my resignation to Shacklebolt first thing in the morning.” He almost smirked gleefully at Potthead’s shocked look, “Good luck finding someone else to watch your back.”  

Draco didn’t stay to listen to what Potter had to say, he just quickly stepped into the floo and vanished without another word.  

Chapter Text

When Hermione returned to Scotland, she didn’t immediately notice her own state of distress. It wasn’t until her teardrops fell from her cheeks and her breathing started to become erratic…

…that she collapsed to her knees on a sharp intake of breath.  

Her body bowed forward against her will as her hands hit the earth, desperately looking for purchase even as she tried to calm her tortured heart.  

Then her magic lashed out…

…like a crack of raw energy, unleashing its call out into the cosmos.  

At some point her chest started to burn with the force of her broken sobs and for the first time in her young life, she wondered if this was what true heartbreak felt like.  

Perhaps she deserved nothing more than to be alone for the rest of eternity. The Norns only knew how utterly mired she was living inside her own pious righteousness.

Because somehow over the past seven seasons Draco Malfoy had grown and changed, whilst she remained stuck inside her own cocoon of hubris.  

How had that happened?

Hiccoughing in gasps of uneven breaths, she closed her eyes and allowed her tears to flow freely, saturating the ground beneath her body.  

For a time she remained thusly, caught up in her own bitter sorrow, until warm hands enclosed over her own and when she glanced up, Hermione saw the worried emerald green gaze of her beloved bróðir staring back at her.

“Brár?”

Hermione’s entire body shook as she whispered out a broken, “Loki.”

“What happened?”

She shook her head, not trusting herself enough to get the right words out. She knew instinctively if she were to mention Draco’s name without giving Loki proper context, he would think before he acted and that was the last thing either she or Draco needed right now.  

All she could manage to say was, “Home.”

Loki nodded and picked her up, cradling her protectively into his body even as he looked up into the sky and commanded, “Heimdall, bring us home.”

The flash bang of light preceded the bifrost slamming into them both, whisking them both back to Asgard. 

When they arrived back inside the Himinbjorg, Heimdall was waiting.  

As was Thor.  

“Brother?”

Loki shook his head, not even bothering to answer his older sibling as he strode from the golden sphere with purpose, his gait sure and fluid.  

Thor of course, followed closely behind, his blue eyes filled with worry.  

Neither spoke as they made their way to the golden city, but before they entered through the main gate, Loki stopped.

“I’m going to take Hermione to her chambers.”

“Loki…”

“Not now, Thor.”

The God of Mischief didn’t wait for a response, he just silently disappeared, only to reappear a second later with his younger sister still cradled to his chest, her sobs now having quieted.  

Gently setting Hermione down on her bed, Loki’s heart broke as he took notice of the stained tear tracks on his sister’s cheeks, while her soft sniffling didn’t help matters either.  

“What happened?” He tried again, conjuring a kerchief for Hermione to take, which she did with a watery smile of thanks. “Why were you on Midgard? Did something happen to Harry? 

“Harry’s fine.” She answered flatly but Loki wasn’t a fool and caught the edge of something in Hermione’s tone.  

“You’re upset with him?”

She shrugged, not sure how she felt about Harry keeping secrets from her at this precise moment, but it didn’t change her current predicament nor how she felt about it.  

“Harry’s a lot like you,” she blew her nose and then sat back on her bed cushions, “he thinks he knows best how to protect me.”

“Protect you from whom?”

The askance look Hermione gave her brother made Loki realize they were likely talking about Lord Malfoy.  

“Ah!” Loki hummed slowly, “So this has to do with your bond mate?”

“You could say that.”

“What did the little cretin do now?”

“Loki!”

“What?” He challenged back, “It’s clear something’s amiss.”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to go about explaining the situation much less how she felt about any of it, so she offered for Loki to see for himself.  

His expression of incredulity was endearing, but like the curious creature he was, it didn’t stop him from taking her up on the offer and after he’d seen all there was to see, he broke eye contact and sat back, clearly unhappy.  

“You never expected Lord Malfoy to find someone else on Midgard, did you?”

Leave it to her clever brother to sink his claws right into the heart of the matter.  

“No. I suppose I didn’t.”

“Why are you surprised he does not wish to spend what little time is left available to him, alone, brár?”

“I know I should have foreseen this coming, but I didn’t.”

“Didn’t wish to is not the same as didn’t, brár.”

“Shut it, bróðir.”

Loki just shook his head.

“Getting upset at me will not change anything, Hermione. It’s clear you harbor some feelings for Lord Malfoy, yet you have willfully chosen to ignore your bond. Perhaps it was due to not being able to look beyond Lord Malfoy’s past actions and unkindness, but I also believe there is something deeper which gnaws at you.”

Folding her arms stubbornly over her chest, Hermione bit back, “And what might that be, oh wise one?”

Loki tapped at her nose playfully and chuckled when she tried to bite his finger. Thankfully, he was far quicker and pulled it back before his little hellion could do any damage.  

“We both know what it means to be an Aesir and what a life on Asgard means for those not born to it. You have watched myself and Lady Natasha straddle this conundrum, trying our best to navigate both worlds: one mortal and one immortal. It is a bridge not easily traversed in the best of circumstances and Natasha does not have the same connections Lord Malfoy has back on Midgard. To selfishly ask another to give up all they know, to watch as those they love die whilst you live on for thousands of years is no easy thing. You cannot give up your immortality, Hermione. Not unless you were to ask father to strip you of your powers and I can tell you without preamble, he would never agree to such a request. He prizes you above all, sans mother.”

Trust Loki to see to the heart of her very soul when she couldn’t even articulate her own fears. 

“How do I know Draco and I can handle being together for a season much less thousands of years?”

“I have no answer to give you, other than you needed to make the time to get to know your bond mate and you haven’t.”

“I’ve been training, Loki!”

“Yes, and it’s a convenient excuse, but not a wholly understandable one.”

She rolled her eyes, “Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”

“I am,” he chastised gently, “and I always will be, but I’m not going to placate you nor will I lie to absolve your guilt in this regard.” He stood up and grabbed her favorite blanket off the chaise by the window and gently placed it over her lower body, “I think you should rest for a bit, and once you’ve had some time to ponder, perhaps a way forward might prove a bit clearer.”

“Fine.”

Chuckling deeply at his sister’s pouting expression, Loki left her to her thoughts.

As he closed Hermione’s bedroom door, Loki wasn’t surprised to see both Thor and Natasha outside in the hallway, their voices whispering softly to each other.  

Natasha looked up first, her worry veiled behind her bright blue eyes.  

Thor however, stalked forward like the bumbling oaf he was.  

“Brother?”

“Not now, Thor.” Loki warned evenly, “Hermione is resting and I have somewhere I need to be.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Loki lifted a finger in warning, “Leave our sister be, Thor. When she is ready to explain herself, she will do so. For now, we must exercise understanding and patience.”

Natasha snickered, “Pretty words, silver tongue. Do those same sentiments apply to yourself, too?”

Loki grinned, “Of course.”

“Within reason, correct?”

Thor’s amusement served to only exasperate Loki.  

“I must say, I have truly enjoyed Lady Natasha’s time here on Asgard. She seems to be able to see right through your machinations, brother. What does it feel like to be outwitted by a mortal?”

Loki rolled his eyes, “Natasha is exceptional, brother. I would be more worried if you had even half her cleverness. Thankfully, I have not seen any increased abilities when it comes to comprehending anything of merit from you in over a thousand years.”

“I do not need subterfuge, brother.” Thor teased right back, “As I am the strongest warrior in all the nine realms.”

“And the most humble, too.”

“Why should I need humility?” Thor inquired, clearly serious in his question, which engendered a look of disbelief from Natasha.  

“It’s unwise to assume there is no force in the universe more powerful than yourself, Thor.” Natasha warned seriously, “Such arrogance and lack of foresight will not serve you well should you find yourself in a situation you can’t bludgeon through.”

“Pah!” Lifting his hammer, Thor twirled it in the air and caught it effortlessly, “I have yet to meet such a foe and even if that day comes, I will welcome the challenge.”

Shaking her head, Natasha gave Loki a look that screamed, He’s an idiot.

“Go find something useful to do, Thor.” Loki waved his hand towards the courtyard, “Isn’t there a place you and your merry band of miscreants might find to whittle the time away?”

“Why do you endeavor to remain so hard-hearted, Loki? The Warrior’s Three are quite good company.”

“Of course they are.” Loki smirked knowingly, “I’d imagine your conversations with them are truly stimulating.”

Thor nodded, clearly missing the sarcasm behind Loki’s taunt.  

Natasha though, turned her head away and smiled.  

She found the banter between the son’s of Odin intriguing, most days. Thor was entirely obtuse to Loki’s condescending tone, often missing the more nuanced biting wit and backhanded compliments.  

“I’d like to go to the marketplace, Loki?” Natasha spoke up, “I need to stop by Petrya’s stand to pick up some herbs for that healing salve Eir makes.”

“Of course, my lady.” Loki offered his arm but before they left in earnest, he warned his elder brother once more, “Let our sister, be.”

Thor threw up his hands, “I’m not a simpleton, Loki.”

“Debatable.” The God of Mischief snarked right back, then waved his hand at their sister’s door and a green barrier encased it. “Just a precaution, should you forget yourself.”

Loki then winked and escorted Natasha down the hall and out of the palace, leaving a disgruntled Thor behind.  

Once they were clear of the palace and the Einjerhar, Natasha inquired softly, “Is she really alright?”

“No.” Loki answered lowly, then glanced down with a look of amusement, “And I must say your misdirection was inspired, my lady.”

“Caught that, did you?”

“Only because I saw both you and Hermione leaving for the marketplace nary two days ago.”

“Whatever.” Her eyes were twinkling fondly, “I take it you’re heading back to Earth?”

“That was my plan.”

“Can I go with you?”

A lifted eyebrow was the only answer Natasha received, but she knew Loki intimately at this point, and was privy to most of his tells.  

They disappeared silently and reappeared suddenly back on Earth, in a place Natasha had never been to before.  

“Where are we?”

“Wiltshire, England.”

Gazing at the stately Manor in the distance, Natasha asked, “Lord Malfoy’s ancestral home?”

“The very same.”

“Was this the place your sister was tortured?”

“The very same.”

Natasha’s mouth curved down, “Why is it still standing?”

That comment caused Loki to chuckle. “Vixen.” He answered fondly, “Believe me, my lady, there was a time or three I was sorely tempted to lay waste to this entire place and all within its walls.  Alas, mother and father forbade me from acting on my baser instincts.”

Natasha nodded slowly, “I get it.”

“I know you do.” Loki lifted Natasha’s chin and placed a tender kiss on her perfect lips, “I must deal with this. I suppose you’ll wish to check in with your Director Fury?”

“If that’s okay?”

“Of course.” Loki closed his eyes and placed his hand reverently over Natasha’s neck, where his pendant still lay after all these seasons and as it glowed green, he removed his hand and it was visible once again. He then took Natasha’s right hand and placed it where his just was, “This will take you instantly wherever you wish to go. Once you are done, place your right hand over it again and call for me.”

Cupping Loki’s cheek, Natasha gave him one final kiss in parting. “Behave, silver tongue.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Loki smirked as Natasha disappeared and once he was centered emotionally, Loki walked down the lane, his destination obvious.  

When he came to the stately gate, he couldn’t help but grin at the insignia’s etched within each iron frame, the large breastplates boasting an elegant M smack in the middle while on either side there were two dragons guarding sentry and at the top, three spears set equidistant apart with two snakes curling around the centermost sphere pointing north. As Loki moved closer, his amusement faded upon reading the words etched into a swirling banner at the bottom of the breastplate: Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.

If he remembered correctly from what Hermione once shared, the engraved words were Latin and meant: Purity Will Always Conquer.

Cocking his head to the side, Loki had to wonder at the irony of such a statement.  

Purity in its truest form meant unblemished, innocent, or beyond reproach.  

These addled-minded Midgardian wizards took such meaning to believing it represented magically pure blood, but what they failed to understand is how one’s magical essence does not reside within the blood of beings, because blood is unique to each species from each world, yet magic remains constant. Magic was formed from the beginning of the universe and in its earliest stages of life was gifted by the great arbiter, Seiðr. If Seiðr found one worthy or if one was found worthy and able to petition the great arbiter, one might be granted the ability to practice magic, but Seiðr held ultimate domain upon all beings to receive such blessings.

From every corner of the universe and on every realm.  

Melding through the blood wards with ease, Loki continued on, not exactly surprised when a soft pop sounded directly in his path nary a stones throw from the front of the Manor’s oak doorway.  

The long blonde hair gave the wizard away.

Loki almost grinned at the pale wizard’s shocked expression of recognition.  

“Prince Loki?” 

“Ah, Lucius Malfoy. Yes?” The wizard nodded. “I have come to speak with your son.”

“Of course.” Lucius waved his hand for Loki to precede him into Malfoy Manor, which the God of Mischief did.  

When he entered the home, Loki was somewhat surprised how brighter it appeared since the last time he’d stepped foot in this wretched place.  

Oh, the dark magical scars were still present, but muted down into a faint echo of its former horror.  

Then a sound up and to his right caught Loki’s attention, and he couldn’t help but smile fondly as Narcissa Malfoy glided regally down the staircase, her blue-gray eyes alight with surprised delight.  

“Prince Loki!” 

Moving to the bottom step, Loki deftly took Narcissa’s outstretched hand and placed a demure kiss on the back of it. When he stepped back, Loki gripped Lady Malfoy’s hand and effortlessly guided her those last few steps, blatantly ignoring the unhappy scowl on her husband’s face.  

“Lady Malfoy. Tis very agreeable to see you again.”

“You as well, Prince Loki. I take it this isn’t strictly a social call?”

“Not as such.” Loki conceded easily, “I only came to speak with your son. Once I’ve done so, I will be returning to Asgard.”

“I see.” Narcissa gestured for Loki to walk with her towards the sitting room to their left, “Your parents are well?”

“Mother is keeping busy, as always.” Loki’s tone was fond as he spoke of his mother, “She has been keeping herself entertained by teaching Hermione the finer points of scrying.”

“Oh?” Narcissa lifted an intrigued eyebrow, “Draco’s mentioned on more than one occasion how Princess Hermione detested divination back at Hogwarts.”

Chuckling deeply, Loki hummed in agreement and took the seat Lady Malfoy offered while she and her husband took the chaise across from him. “If you’d been raised by our mother, you would come to understand why Hermione detested divination so. I suspect her distaste was more in keeping with how the subject was taught and not the subject itself.”

“Ah, yes. Sybil has always been rather eccentric but her grandmother was a gifted Seer. From what I was led to understand, Sybil has given at least one prophecy of note.”

“The one about Harry.” Loki concurred, smirking at the subtle flinch from Lucius Malfoy, “The same one Hermione and Harry found in your Ministry at the end of their, fifth year, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Lucius bit out. 

“Such a difficult situation.” Loki snarked out wickedly, “To be bested by a group of children. I’m sure it didn’t win any favors with your Dark Lord.”

“No.”

Narcissa made a tutting sound but her lips were lifted slightly, as if she found the whole thing amusing.  

“Mixy?”

A small elf popped into the room.

“Mistress?”

“Can you tell Draco we have a guest?”

“Of course, Mistress!”

The elf vanished and a few moments later, Loki heard footsteps coming down the staircase.  

When Draco Malfoy entered the room, Loki was slightly taken aback.  

Gone was the thin boy of youth and in his place stood a taller and more stately gentleman, one who appeared far more confident in his skin.  

Which was evident when Lord Malfoy’s facial expression did not register any outward emotion.  

No surprise, no hesitation…

Loki couldn’t even get a whiff of fear radiating from the wizard.

“Intriguing.” Loki murmured, almost to himself. He stood and cocked his head curiously at Draco Malfoy, who sauntered forward with an easy, measured pace.  

“Prince Loki.” Draco slightly inclined his head in greeting, “I must say, I’m not surprised to see you here.”

“Tis obvious,” Loki smirked knowingly, “you were at least cursorily expecting a visit.”

“I surmised it more likely than not.”

“Excellent,” Loki then looked down at Narcissa and Lucius, “if you both would mind giving your son and myself some time alone?”

“Of course.” Narcissa stood and reached for her husband, who seemed somewhat reluctant to leave. “Lucius, come.”

The elder wizard muttered something under his breath, but a harsh glare from his wife quickly had him following in line.  

As Loki watched the two magical’s leave, he couldn’t help but shake his head fondly, “Your mother and mine own are more alike than I realized.”

Draco smirked right back, “You have no idea.”

“No and I don’t suppose I’d wish to, either.”

“Probably safer that way.” Draco walked over to a small cart table where an assortment of what looked to be Midgardian liquor was displayed, “Might I offer you a drink?”

“Why not.” Loki responded easily, “I’ll take whatever you’re having.”

Draco poured out two equal measures of his best Ogden’s then handed one to Loki, who took it with a nod of thanks.  

When Loki took a sip, his eyebrows raised with appreciation, “A bit better than the bottle Hermione procured for Thor and myself.”

“The Malfoy’s have a rather extensive cellar of both muggle and magical spirits.”

“Hmm,” Loki demurred, “not used to drinking the plebeian swill most on this world do?”

Draco half-smiled at that truth, “My father wouldn’t be caught dead drinking anything he’d considered to be nothing better than gut rot, so no.”

Gesturing for Loki to sit, Draco took the chair adjacent and the two settled into enjoying their liquor for a few moments before Loki decided to speak, “I’m sure you have guessed my reasoning for this visit?”

“I think I have a fairly good idea.”

“I suppose I should refrain from encroaching on such a delicate matter, but when it comes to Hermione’s well-being, I promised myself once she returned from her Aesir trials, I would never idly stand by again and see her in pain.”

Loki watched Draco’s brows furrow with confusion, “She seemed fine when she left.”

“Hmm,” Loki shook his head, “she was not thusly when I found her back in Scotland.”

“I don’t understand.” Draco admitted slowly, “She said she needed more time and wished me well.”

Loki set down his tumbler and leant forward, his piercing gaze all-knowing, “Hermione is a paradox.  It is one of the many reasons I adore her so. She espouses virtue, yet has a devious streak which would put our sister Hela to shame.”

Chuckling in agreement, Draco nodded, “I’ve seen some of it.”

“There is a part of Hermione which is afraid to trust you’ve changed,” Loki went on to explain, “as she has not fully healed from the trauma which was inflicted during her time here when you were children.” Draco hung his head, and Loki could see the young Malfoy Lord had not fully forgiven himself either, “But there is a larger part of Hermione, the tender-hearted part, that fears you may resent her from taking you away from your life here on Midgard.” Draco’s head shot up and his eyes widened with sudden understanding.  

So, he’d not considered that possibility at all, Loki mused inwardly.  

“She knows how much you love your mother and I must say, that watching those you love die, generation after generation, as you live for thousands of years, is a gift and a burden.”

“I didn’t even think…” Draco whispered stunned.  

“None do,” Loki interjected, “because the gift of the Aesir is not something readily offered to mortals. Hermione knows this better than most, living here for seven seasons and watching those she cared and fought a war with, die. She still speaks of some of them, although not with the same sadness and frequency she once did, but the sting truly never fades.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Draco sighed, “Is she still taking dreamless sleep?”

“I am not familiar with such,” Loki offered warily, “and how do you know of this?”

“When I was on Asgard, I noticed she’d received a satchel from Petrya at the marketplace. Thor shared with mother and myself when he was here last, that Asgard had been the ones to introduce the magical world to a few items that are found in dreamless sleep. I also took it after the war sparingly, to help reduce the nightmares that plagued me. I made the assumption Hermione was doing the same.”

“I will venture further afield and I thank you for sharing such with me.” Loki bowed his head with gratitude, “I will also make sure Hermione is unaware of your concern.”

“You can tell her.” Draco immediately stood to pour himself another glass and gestured to Loki, who shook his head in the negative. “I don’t want her to think I’m speaking out of turn.”

“I’m sure she will not see it as such.”

“Right.” Draco quipped, drawling the word out and rolling his eyes as he sat back down.

“You two are more alike than I realized.”

“I’m not sure Hermione would agree with you,” Draco stated succinctly, “but between you and me, I’ll admit there’s a side to her which has always baffled me.”

“You’re not alone in that regard.” 

“Hmmm.” Taking a sip of his firewhiskey, Draco closed his eyes at the pleasant burn before sharing, “I’m sorry if Hermione was upset by our conversation. It wasn’t my intention to aggravate her further. On the contrary, I just want her to be happy.”

Loki sat back and eyed the young wizard who was now and had been, nothing but truthful from the first moment they’d met.   

“Do you truly wish to move forward with your life here?”

Draco sighed again. 

This time in defeat.  

“Yes and no.” Finishing off his drink, Draco set it down and Loki smirked when it instantly vanished.  House elves were rather intriguing creatures. “I’ve spent the last seven years alone, working hard to rehabilitate my family name. It hasn’t been easy and still many don’t believe my efforts are sincere enough. However, I’ve made some strides and will continue to do so.”

“And your father?”

Draco sneered, “My father has not been a concern of mine for quite some time, but since my mother remains committed to him, I do what I must to ensure her continued contentment.”

“Your dedication to your mother tis admirable.” Draco bowed his head at the compliment. “Hermione allowed me to view her memories of your most recent conversation and I find myself reluctantly impressed with your willingness to bind your life to someone whose time is limited.”

“Astoria deserves happiness. It’s not fair she should have to pay for her family’s mistakes.”

“Blood curses are quite rare and challenging to be sure,” Loki advised carefully, “and yet a cure is not impossible.”

“No, but what are the chances of finding Astoria’s soulmate within a sufficient time frame to save her life?” Draco then thought of something he hadn’t considered before, “The only reason Hermione and myself discovered our own soul bond was due to her being cursed by my aunt with dark magic. Does Asgard have a way to magically determine an existing soul bond?”

“Not in the ways in which you might assume.” Loki answered honestly, “A soul globe can drain the essence of a magical, as you’re aware, and use that magic to heal, but as you also know, unless the match is a perfect one, the lesser magical being will perish which in this case, would most likely be this Astoria you speak of.”

Draco nodded and then another thought came to him, “Would your mother be able to scry into the past to see the particulars of the curse and who cast it?”

Loki mused over the question but in the end he nodded. “She likely could but do understand, if there are none left alive within the familial line of the one who cast the curse, it would be next to impossible to reverse its effects.”

“I understand.”

Loki then stood up, “I will speak with my mother in this regard.”

“Thank you.”

“I will say one final thing in parting,” Draco could sense the God of Mischief and Lies wasn’t very inclined to make any concession where he was concerned and if not for his devotion to Hermione, Draco was certain Loki would have dispatched him long ago. However, his appearance here on Hermione’s behalf did serve to give him a great deal to consider, “my sister, though stubborn, is the most loyal person I’ve ever known. It was never going to be an easy task to secure her favor but ask yourself Lord Malfoy, what is your greater motivation here? You must have known on some level my mother was watching and I even assume she spoke with you at your behest?” Draco grimaced, which caused Loki’s lips to lift with amused derision, “I’m not excusing Hermione’s lack of conveyance nor am I suggesting your concerns aren’t valid, but before you unilaterally make a decision either yourself or Hermione cannot take back, perhaps it might behoove you both to make a more concerted effort to truly see if this chasm which currently divides you both, has no hope of ever being bridged.”

“Why do you care?” Draco wondered aloud, “I know you don’t approve of me and never have.”

“Tis true, I do not care for the person you were, which was brutish, unkind, and so far removed from being a true gentleman in every manner of speaking it’s simply not worth repeating your numerous offenses.” Draco flinched uneasily at that truth, “However, even I can put my own selfish feelings aside if it will serve to make my sister’s life easier. She deserves someone who is solely devoted to her happiness and willing to make the hard sacrifices necessary to be with her. So, the question I have for you Lord Malfoy is: Are you capable of setting your own selfish wants aside to put Hermione’s needs ahead of your own, or is the gift of the Aesir and the trials you would be required to face to reach such an exalted place in the halls of my father, too large a task for you?”

Draco visibly blanched.  

He’d never considered he might be required to go through the trials of an Aesir to be with Hermione!

“No one ever indicated to me such might be required.” He admitted shakily.  

“Not in so many words,” Loki agreed readily, “but you are not a simpleton, no matter what I might think of you personally. You are Hermione’s soul mate which means, you would have to possess some exalted level of intelligence, magical prowess, and discipline in order to be seen as my sister’s perfect match.”

“That sounded like a back-handed compliment.”

Loki raised a singular eyebrow, “I do not understand such reference.”

“Of course you don’t.” Draco mocked halfheartedly.

“I will take my leave but do remember what we’ve discussed. I will speak to my mother and advise you of what she says.”

“Thank you.”

“Do not thank me, yet.”

Loki didn’t bother with being shown the door, he just disappeared silently from the room.  

Chapter Text

Once Draco was assured Loki was truly gone, he went to find his mother.  

It was not a hard guess as to where she might be.  

When he entered the main greenhouse, Draco spotted his mother tending to her silver rose bushes. 

“Mother.”

Narcissa glanced up smiling, but that soon faded as she noticed the pensive expression on her son’s face.  

“I take it your visit with Prince Loki did not fare well?”

Draco sighed, “He was actually rather pleasant, for Loki.”

“Oh?”

“Quite.” Draco reached for a pair of working gloves and pruning shears, lifting them up as a question. His mother nodded, so he got to work on the row of bushes to her immediate left. They gardened in silence for a few moments before Draco spoke up again, “Loki shared that Hermione was distressed after our talk.” A few more snips of his shears sounded, “He also mentioned something I hadn’t considered before.”

“And what was that?”

Draco didn’t look at his mum, even though he could feel her weighted gaze upon him. “He inferred Hermione’s lack of correspondence wasn’t intentional but more likely due to her not wishing to make me choose between my life here and one on Asgard.” 

He continued his task, moving down the opposite side his mother was working on, and she didn’t seem inclined to immediately offer an opinion. It wasn’t until they’d finished the entire row and she took off her gloves, signaling she was done for the time being, that she gestured for the two of them to sit down on a stone bench near the back of the greenhouse.  

Draco could tell his mother was weighing his words and her response, and it took all of his ingrained Pureblood etiquette not to fidget at the uncomfortable silence.  

After a bit, Narcissa inquired, “Do you believe him?”

“I do.” Draco answered truthfully, “Loki adores Hermione and he wouldn’t have come had she not been truly upset.” He then hung his head, “All I seem to do is hurt her.”

“Draco,” Narcissa admonished softly, “you and I both know that’s simply not true. You’ve worked very hard these past seven years to become something more than what your father and I raised you to be. You’ve endured the endless taunts and unkindness and stood strong in the face of adversity.”

“Loki warned me if I truly wish to be with Hermione, I would have to endure the trials of the Aesir.”

Narcissa’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That sounds rather ominous.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

“Did Prince Loki happen to mention just what these trials entail?”

“No, but seeing what Hermione went through for seven years, I can’t imagine it’s an easy task.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Narcissa couldn’t help but see some of the same similarities between Miss Odinsdottir’s past sojourn on this realm and Draco’s current journey.

She mentioned as such, and Draco’s eyes widened with shock.  

“So you think this has been all a test?”

“Don’t you?” Narcissa queried back, “You’ve had your feet held to the flame for years, trying desperately to prove your worth to a society which is unforgiving of those they deem lesser than. The irony is not lost on me, and perhaps this is all part of your penance.” She patted her son’s hand tenderly, “I think you must decide between doing what is right and what is easy.”

Draco scoffed out a half-heartedly snort, “That rather sounds like something Dumbledore might have said.”

“Rather does,” Narcissa admitted ruefully, “but the lesson is apropos, all the same. Choosing Astoria would be the easier path but is it the right one, my son? Is it the path which holds the greatest reward? She would be a good wife to you and you’d share a companionable affection, which might see you blessed with an heir to carry on the Malfoy name, but your time with her will be limited and the sorrow of her death plus having to buffer a potential child from such, will bring about its own set of challenges, one of which would be a permanent life here.” Draco nodded at that truth. He would never abandon his own child to live a selfish life on Asgard. He didn’t think he’d be able to see that child grow, age, and die, while he carried on living for thousands of years.

“Mum, I’m not sure I’m cut out to live a life of an Aesir.”

“I don’t suppose there are many whom are,” she agreed readily, “but even so, does that necessarily equate to settling for something on this realm which might serve to bring you a half-life?”

“Am I not relegated to such, regardless?” Draco inquired with all due seriousness, “If Hermione does not wish to be with me, then I’m going to have to take my happiness where I can find it.”

Narcissa shook her head, “I know your father and I ingrained the importance of carrying on your duty to the Malfoy name, first and foremost. We were lucky, in that we grew to love each other greatly. Many weren’t as fortunate within our circle.”

“You and father are a rarity, that’s true.”

“I have only ever wished for your happiness, Draco.” She patted his hand gently, “Are you still planning on giving the Minister your resignation come the morrow?”

Sighing heavily, Draco nodded, “I’m not sure I can work with Potter anymore, especially since I’ve discovered he’s purposefully been working against my relationship with Hermione.”

“How so?”

“He’s visited Asgard, but not once did he see fit to share with Hermione any particulars of how I’ve saved his life on more than one occasion during our Auror work.”

“Maybe Mr. Potter feels it’s not his place to advocate for or against you.”

“I think you’re being too generous, Mother.” Standing up, Draco gently guided his mother to do the same, and the two walked out of the greenhouse before Draco forged on, “Potter has always been distrustful of me, and while I’ll admit he has his own reasoning for feeling the way he does, I would have hoped after seven years, he might have been willing to give me the benefit of the doubt.” Draco watched as his mother’s lips pursed in the way they often did when she was irritated with something, and her eyes darkened slightly, “It really doesn’t matter anymore,” he admitted with more calmness than he felt, “tomorrow I’ll be done with the Ministry and Merlin willing, I’ll find something more worthwhile of my time and efforts.”

“I’m just relieved I won’t be receiving any more late night floo calls from St. Mungos.”

They walked back into the Manor and Narcissa excused herself to go check on dinner preparations while Draco made his way to his study, where he proceeded to write out his letter of resignation. It was brief and to the point, as there was simply no need to offer any empty platitudes. It wasn’t as if he’d made the choice to become an Auror and while he was bloody good at it, it didn’t change the sentiment of how he’d been forced into taking the position as Scarhead’s partner.  

Once the letter was done and sealed, Draco glanced at his owl, who was watching him closely. He could go and deliver his resignation in person, but there was that vindictive side of his personality which felt Shacklebolt didn’t really deserve the consideration. The contract he’d signed seven years ago was now fulfilled, so there was nothing keeping him from just sending the owl and washing his hands of this entire mess.  

Standing up, Draco went over to the window where his personal owl Hermod was perched in his favorite spot. Hermod was a lovely Eurasian Eagle-Owl that Draco purchased five years ago. His large orange eyes took up most of his face while his plumicornes were fairly dramatic and entirely ochre in appearance. He was a larger specimen for his breed and far more aggressive, which suited Draco just fine. Hermod had seemed like an appropriate name too, as it was the moniker for the Norse messenger of the Gods.  

“Please deliver this to Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hermod. You don’t have to wait for a response.”

Hermod hooted and immediately flew off and Draco watched pensively, until he disappeared from sight. 

Then he went and poured himself a stiff firewhiskey.

Glancing at the large grandfather clock in the corner, Draco noted it was nearing supper time and he sighed, as it felt as if he’d been awake for days at this point.  

He was beyond exhausted by the day’s events and he didn’t like feeling this way. It had been a long time since he’d allowed his emotions to overwhelm him, far preferring to maintain a sense of equanimity when it came to his day to day life. When he first started at the Ministry, each day was a struggle. He hadn’t been graced with a normal day for the first two years, because there was always someone who felt compelled to share how they despised his presence, especially within the Auror department. Robards, who was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was Draco’s primary antagonist. The older wizard was very well-known for his aversion to Death Eaters, having lost his wife and daughter during the war.  

However, Robards wasn’t the only person Draco had to suffer with. Potter had been a right pain in the arse, constantly second-guessing any suggestion Draco made and rarely giving him credit for when things would go right. Robards was quick to lay praise on Potter’s head, even going so far as to usurp Draco’s ideas and credit subsequent captures on the Boy Who Lived.  

The papers, especially the Daily Prophet, fawned over the Chosen Git, and Draco being the smart person he was, chose to remain quiet. No one would believe him anyway, and it wasn’t as though he didn’t deserve some of the ill-will sent his way.  

He’d been a right git for years. 

Had taken the Dark Mark at sixteen.

Had let Death Eaters in the school at the end of his sixth year.

Had cursed Katie Bell, used the imperius curse on Madam Rosmerta, and nearly poisoned Ronald Weasley during that same year.  

He’d not felt too bad about Weasley for obvious reasons, but had apologized to the git, nonetheless.  

But he’d never killed anyone.  

He wasn’t a murderer, despite being surrounded by them for over a year in his own home.  

So, if it took time, energy, and effort for those around him to trust in his intentions, so be it.  

Draco wasn’t too mucked up about that.  

But he was righteously livid about Potter’s other betrayal.  

For whatever reason the specky git had, it didn’t excuse purposefully choosing to let Hermione think he hadn’t actively been working on making restitution and serving his penance. It was hard being alone and Draco would be the first to admit that unwelcome truth, but it hadn’t bothered him fully until the past year or so. He’d been so busy busting his arse on the daily grind of Auror work, there’d been little time to focus on much else, especially in the beginning.  

However, Draco didn’t know any other 25-year-old wizards who’d not enjoyed the pleasures of sex since they were seventeen, either.  

Not that he hadn’t had opportunities to explore his more carnal instincts, but he hadn’t wanted to taint his bond with Hermione by seeking out sex for nothing more than a casual one-off.  

He just wasn’t raised that way.  

Hence, nearly eight years of celibacy.  

Sitting in his favored spot by the large hearth, Draco set his firewhiskey down and stared into the fire. The heat from the flames filled the room with a warm, comforting glow, even if his mood was far from such pleasantries. This would happen to him, sometimes. More so as of late, though. His mind would wander into numerous different scenarios, each more desperate than the next, wishing for something he didn’t deserve. After speaking with Loki, Draco seriously wondered if he would ever be cut out for a life on the Realm Eternal and the thought of living for thousands of years was completely barmy. 

Was he daft for thinking the way he was?

Part of him desperately wanted to return to Asgard. The small window of time he’d spent there with Hermione were among the happiest moments of his life, but they were tinged with a bittersweet essence. Many a time he would rely on those memories to try and conjure a patronus, but to date he remained largely unsuccessful.  

His current patronus was not a fully corporeal one. 

Draco had wondered for the past few years if he would share the same patronus as Hermione, since they were soul-bonded, but his research on such phenomena proved unsurprisingly, scarce. Even the Malfoy Family Library didn’t have much on the subject, except conjecture and supposition.  

Nothing to base a solid theory on.

Thinking about it made him sigh. 

Perhaps he’d skip supper and have an early night in.  

As he went to stand to leave for his room, Draco glanced out the window and noticed Hermod was returning. Opening the window, his owl landed and immediately stuck out his talon, a small scroll attached.

Draco groaned when he saw the Minister’s seal. 

Opening it, Draco wasn’t wholly surprised that the missive was brief and to the point. Kingsley did want to meet, but it was the location of said meeting which brought him up short.  

The Minister wasn’t requesting to meet at his office at the Ministry, no. Kingsley was asking they meet at a place Draco had only visited a handful of times, and instead of feeling dread, Draco could admit to himself, was more curious than anything.

It only took a few moments to come to a decision, so quill in hand, he responded in the affirmative, then sent Hermod back into the night one final time.  

Based on past experience, the Ministry’s relations with SHIELD were infrequent, but not unusual. Most of his experiences with Agent Barton in particular, had been cursory. From what Draco knew, Clint Barton was quite close with Natasha Romanov, who’d been living on Asgard for the past seven years and was helping with Hermione’s training. Draco had yet to meet the Black Widow assassin, but the few times he’d spoken with Agent Barton, the man better known as Hawkeye, had nothing but high praise for his fellow comrade in arms.  

Now, Draco would be meeting Agent Romanov in person come the morrow.  

He had to wonder what in Merlin’s name Kingsley was thinking.  

But one thing Draco did wonder, was if Agent Romanov was back on Earth, did that mean Hermione’s training was complete?

And if so, had he been too hasty in his decision to move forward with his life?

Leaving his study, Draco’s initial curiosity started to give sway to an uneasy foreboding.  

Whatever this was about, he had a pretty good idea his mother wasn’t going to like it one bit.  

Chapter Text

Morning as always, came far too soon for Draco’s liking. Having never been a morning person, even back at Hogwarts, Draco relished the art of a perfect lay in. Green damask curtains closed, the hearth embers burning subtly, giving his room a warm, peacefully glow, and the fresh smell of morning dew, it’s whisper of renewal giving him a momentary respite from an otherwise, cruel world; allowed Draco for those few precious solitary moments, to completely relax. 

Then reality, as it always did, crashed unwelcome into his haven of tranquility.  

Having to get up fully and engage the day was a load of rubbish. 

So here he was, fully dressed in his finest frippery, standing in front of his full-length mirror and assessing his clothing choice for the day with a critical eye.  

“You look fashionable, Master.”

Draco looked down at Bixy, his personal House Elf with a half-smirk, “You say that every day, Bixy.”

“And every day it’s true, Master.”

Draco sighed, “Are you ever going to stop calling me Master, Bixy?”

His elf eyed him as if he’d gone quite mad, “And why would Bixy do such a thing, Master?”

“Because I asked you to?”

Bixy folded his arms with the flair only he possessed as he taunted back, “Just because Master asks such a thing of Bixy, does not mean Bixy must obey.” That comment caused Draco to smirk full-on, “In fact, if memory serves, Master freed Bixy against Bixy’s wishes.”

“I did.”

“Yes, you did, Master.” Bixy said the last word emphatically, “And therefore, Bixy is no longer required to do what Master says.”

“Yet, you’re still here, Bixy.”

Bixy huffed, waving his hand to remove any non-existent wrinkles and lint from Draco’s dress robes, “This is Bixy’s home.” The elf stated matter-of-factly, “Bixy has attended to Master since he was a young lad.” Snapping his fingers, Draco’s wand holster appeared and Bixy attached it perfectly to Draco’s torso, his wand now secured under his right armpit, “Master knows this, as we have discussed it many times before.”

Draco watched with amusement as Bixy walked into his large walk-in closet and came out with Draco’s finest long wool overcoat. Then the elf snapped his fingers and the item was fitted impeccably on Draco’s body. With another wave of magic, a protection charm was placed to keep Draco’s attire in perfect condition.  

“There!” Bixy hummed with satisfaction, “Master finally looks ready to meet the day.”

“What would I do without you, Bixy.”

Large blue eyes stared up at him like he was utterly daft, “Lucky for you, Master, Bixy will likely outlive you, so you need not worry.”

Draco blanched and swallowed uneasily, “Bixy…”

But the elf waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, “Bixy knows Master is struggling with deciding how to spend his future, but Bixy is not worried.”

“Oh?” Draco inquired, “And why is that?”

“Bixy figures if Master leaves Bixy, then Bixy will remain here at the Manor, taking care of Lady Narcissa.” Bixy then sighed wistfully, “Perhaps Master might even introduce Bixy to the Light Elves.”

Eyes widening in shock, Draco blurted out, “How do you know about the Light Elves, Bixy?”

Shrugging, Bixy didn’t immediately answer, he just putted around Draco’s room, cleaning up as he went, but Draco remained rooted in place, unsure if he should press the issue or not.  

Unfortunately the decision was taken from him when a loud knock sounded on his door.  

“That will be the lesser Master.” Bixy spat out with a great deal of distaste.  

Draco inwardly rolled his eyes at the ongoing feud between his father and their house elves. Ever since Draco freed the lot a year into his Auror training (after he’d been summoned to the Burke Estate and found six of their elves beaten and in chains), he’d taken great pleasure in arresting Blenshin Burke and then summarily freed his House Elves the following day.  

Thankfully their revolt at being given said freedom was short-lived once Draco explained his reasoning and how he wanted to be different than his father and grandfather, before him. 

Bixy knew him best and eventually advocated with the other elves, negotiating pay, time off, and clothes. Draco even had a small lodge built near the Manor where the elves could live in privacy.  

He chuckled when Bixy snapped his fingers and the door to Draco’s room opened. Bixy would never answer the door directly for his father, which irked Lucius to no end.  

“Cretin.” Lucius muttered unkindly under his breath as he walked inside Draco’s bedroom.  

About to open his mouth and chastise Lucius, Bixy beat him to the quaffle, “Lesser Master thinks Bixy’s hearing is no good, but Bixy hears and sees all.” A pointed look from the diminutive elf didn’t cause Lucius to cower, however. 

He just turned the force of his heated glare towards his son and Heir.

“Why you ever gave them their freedom, I will never know.” 

The words were said with abject disgust, but there was an underlying layer of exasperation, too.  

“Perhaps,” Draco drawled out in his most polished tone, “if you’d actually treat the elves with more respect, as is their due, you might find yourself reciprocated with a bit more kindness.”

“What a load of…”

“You expect too much of lesser Master, Master.” Bixy interjected before Lucius could finish his tirade, “It would require traits lesser Master does not have at his disposal.”

“Why you little…”

Bixy instantly waved Lucius silent before he could spout off, which caused Draco’s smile to bloom slowly over his face.

He did enjoy these moments far more than he should.  

“Will that be all, Master?”

“Yes, Bixy.” Draco chuckled, seeing his father’s complexion shift from the normally pale one, to something far more in keeping of a Weasley, “Please release my father from your spell.” He asked politely, “But only after you leave, so you don’t have to witness what comes next.”

Bixy scoffed, “Bixy is not afraid of lesser Master. He is all bark and no bite, these days.”

A with a soft pop, Bixy left, and a second later the silencing spell released in full. 

“I simply cannot abide being disrespected like an unwelcome guest in my own home!” Lucius shouted.

Draco sighed at the ad nauseum retinue of blubbering rubbish his father spewed on the weekly. 

It was getting rather boorish and trite.

“And I’ve told you, Father, you need to remember that this is my home now. Which technically means, you are an unwelcome guest.”

“Why you ungrateful, child!”

“Why are you here?” Draco decided to cut to the point, “I usually don’t have to deal with you for at least another few days.”

“Your mother saw fit to share with me this morning that you will be resigning today from your job as an Auror.”

“I actually resigned last night.” Draco offered with more patience than he felt.

Lucius eyed him critically, “Then why are you dressed thusly?”

“I have a meeting this morning in Muggle London.”

Lucius’ lips pulled back into a sneer, “And why ever would you lower yourself to do such a thing?”

“Father,” Draco warned, “I will remind you that my life and choices are no longer your concern. You lost that right when you pledged this family to a half-blood megalomaniac with sanity issues.”

Their stare down only lasted for a few moments before Lucius capitulated, “Are you ever going to forgive me?”

“Are you ever going to admit you were wrong?”

A few more awkward moments of silence later, Draco figured Bixy was correct.  

Lucius Malfoy was clearly missing a sensitivity chip.

“I have to go,” Draco finally said, “I’m running late, as is.”

“And whom are you meeting with?”

“SHIELD.”

Lucius’ left eyebrow lifted, “Those Muggle Avengers?”

“That’s what they call themselves,” Draco admitted, “but my meeting is with the Director of SHIELD and Shacklebolt. If I had to guess, I’m thinking they want my help.”

“With?”

“Baron Von Strucker.” 

“Ah.” Lucius nodded, “Your mother did mention the invitation she managed to garner from that half-blood wizard.”

“Yes.” Draco shook his head, “And you really must stop equating every person with their blood status, Father.”

“Why?” Lucius inquired blithely, “Am I stating something untrue?”

“So, you’d be alright with someone acknowledging you as: Former Death Eater?”

Lips pursed unattractively, “No need to be unkind, Draco.”

Lifting his head and praying to every god he knew to give him strength as to not curse his own flesh and blood, Draco pleaded for help. The mental gymnastics he had to employ when conversing with his father always gave him a bloody headache!

“I need to go.”

“What should I tell your mother when she asks?”

“Tell her I’ll speak with her directly when I return home.”

“We both know that will not suffice.”

“Not my problem.” Draco taunted, “Good luck with that.” And with nothing more to say, Draco strode out of his room, heading for the floo.  

Thankfully, his father decided against following him through the Manor.  

When he finally reached the Leaky, Draco made his way out to the Muggle side where Shacklebolt was already waiting. Eyeing the Minister for Magic’s attire, Draco had to admit the wizard played the part of Muggle Aristocrat well.  

Gone were the boisterous and colorful dress robes and in their place was a three-piece William Westmacott tailored suit. The waistcoat was the only part of the ensemble with a tad more flair, and double-breasted. 

Draco had a few suits from the same designer on Saville Row, and while all of his were a version of black and grey, Shacklebolt’s suit was an interesting hue of navy Draco had never seen before. It looked almost indigo, while the waistcoat was a deep burgundy color. 

Kingsley’s loafers were tasseled and oxblood.

On anyone else, the suit would likely look garish, but on Kingsley and with his dark skin, it actually looked smashing.  

“Mr. Malfoy.” Kingsley greeted with a brisk nod. 

“Minister.”

“We are waiting on the car service to fetch us.”

“Ah.” 

Thankfully they only had to stand there for about ten minutes. A sleek black Mercedes S600 sedan pulled up in front of Foyles, a well-established Muggle bookstore that Draco had frequented several times before.  

Watching the man known as Hawkeye getting out of the driver’s seat didn’t surprise Draco in the least, but what did was the stunning red-headed woman who gracefully exited the car from the other side, her sharp blue eyes clearly assessing.  

And fixated solely on him. 

Whatever he’d assumed about Natasha Romanov, Draco had to admit, he’d underestimated not only her beauty but the aura which surrounded her.  

He’d heard Potter mention to Weasley once that the Black Widow Assassin and Prince Loki were romantically involved. Knowing what little he did of Loki, Draco made the assumption that Natasha must be a very formidable woman to have garnered Loki’s interest. 

Plump ruby lips quirked up with amusement as Natasha continued to stare at him, so Draco followed suit.  

He simply wouldn’t allow himself to show any kind of weakness, even if he was a bit intimidated.

Barton walked over and shook Kingsley’s hand. “Minister, it’s good to see you again.”

“Agent Barton.”

Clint turned his attention to Draco and nodded, “Malfoy.”

“Barton.”

“We should get going.” Clint stated, “But before we do, I wanted to introduce you both to Natasha Romanov.”

Kingsley smiled genuinely, which earned him a lifted half-smile and a polite nod. When Natasha’s gaze landed on Draco once again, her friendly demeanor vanished.  

Just lovely.  

“Shall we?” Kingsley offered, not missing any of the byplay.

Draco just nodded and allowed the Minister to slide into the muggle vehicle first, then he walked around the other side and as he went to open the back door, Natasha beat him to it. 

“Allow me.” She said, her voice throaty and entirely too smooth for Draco’s liking.  

“Thank you.” He replied evenly, sliding into the back without making eye contact.  

The drive to King Charles Street from Charing across only took about twenty minutes, making their way past Downing Street where the Muggle Prime Minister’s office was located. The secret location for SHIELD’s headquarters in London was also known as the Strategic Scientific Reserve, and was founded during the Second World War. From what Draco had learned a few years back, Tony Stark’s father Howard Stark, had also been a founding member of SHIELD, and had been quite the genius, which was where his son Tony had inherited his rather large ego from. 

Looking out the side window, Draco noticed they made a left turn into an area that went underground and once they’d reached the end, there was a large security detail blocking (a locked gate) anyone from entering the bunker. 

But the largest of the three armed guards immediately recognized Barton, opening the gate without so much as asking for bona fides. Another five minutes and Barton stopped the vehicle, turning it off, getting out, and opening Kingsley’s door. 

Natasha did the same for him, and he bowed his head in thanks, silently following alongside the Minister as they were ushered into a muggle elevator.  

Barton then pushed a button designated S6, and they began their descent.  

The bunker reminded Draco a bit of the Ministry of Magic. It would seem that wizards and muggles had the same idea when it came to hiding clandestine operations. 

When the door slid open, Romanov was the first to depart followed by Barton, Kingsley, and Draco flanking the rear. The brightly lit hallway was narrow and long, with closed doors interspersed every so often in some kind of uniformity that was amusing, if not wholly predictable.

As they walked, Draco wondered to himself just how many of these facilities SHIELD employed around the world. He couldn’t wrap his head around Bruce Banner or Tony Stark willingly spending any amount of time down here. He did suppose that Barton and Romanov preferred places like this. 

The walk seemed interminable and upon taking a left turn down another long hallway, Draco immediately took notice there was a large double door at the far end. 

Thankfully, it seemed as if that was their destination.  

A few seconds later, the same door opened, revealing Captain Steve Rogers or Captain America, as he was known by his Avengers moniker. 

The soldier bowed his head in greeting, “Welcome. Director Fury asked I bring you both to the CIC.”

“The CIC?” Kingsley asked, confused. 

“Combat Information Center.” Rogers explained shortly as he led them through the doors and down a hallway only half as long as the last, with another double door at the end. When he opened it, Draco’s eyes widened at the tactical displays throughout the room. 

To the far left was a row of what he now knew were muggle electronic computers, and each was manned by a member of SHIELD and each individual looked busy perusing through pictures and data on their computer screens. 

To the right was a long, rectangular, conference table. There was a large screen embedded into the far wall, with a scanning device below the screen, as well as several relay stations denoting different tactical operations in regions of the world Draco wasn’t wholly familiar with. At the main terminal was Maria Hill, Nick Fury’s right-hand. Her back was to their group and she looked to be typing away at a furious pace.  

To the direct front of the room was a set of nine screens, with the one in the middle being the largest, surrounded by eight smaller screens. Each displayed real-time images of combat zones around the world. The largest of the nine showed intense fighting in Sudan, while the image to its immediate left displayed a region in Darfur and the one on the immediate right was an area of Russia known as North Caucasus. The other six screens had rotating images of uprisings in Bangladesh, Paraguay, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, Sokovia, and Uzbekistan.  

Draco side-eyed Kingsley, and the man looked as stunned as he felt.  

For the past seven years, but more so the last five, Draco spent limited time involved in anything muggle related, but there had been a few instances where SHIELD and the Ministry of Magic had worked together. Draco had a strange feeling that his world view was about to expand tremendously and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t done his homework.

A door in the left back corner slammed opened and out walked Fury with none other than Tony Stark.

And the Iron Man Avenger looked none too happy at all.  

“Gentlemen.” Fury greeted in his brisk tone, clearly not impressed nor intimidated by anyone or anything.

“Fury.” Kingsley addressed just as coolly, and Draco couldn’t help the brief smirk that flitted over his lips, not surprised in the least that Romanov caught it. Her lifted eyebrow to Fury belied some kind of unspoken communication and Draco had to wonder just how well the two knew each other. 

However, before Fury could respond to Kingsley’s address, Tony Stark spoke up, “Why are the wizards here?”

Watching as Maria Hill turned and rolled her eyes, while Barton shook his head, let Draco know that the other members of SHIELD weren’t exactly fans of Tony Stark’s lack of proper decorum, billionaire status not withstanding.

Money could buy some things, it would seem, but not etiquette. 

Americans.  

“I asked Minister Shacklebolt and Mr. Malfoy to join us today,” Fury explained, “because Mr. Malfoy and his mother are uniquely positioned to obtain access to Baron Von Strucker’s inner circle.”

“And just why is SHIELD interested in a wizard?” Kingsley inquired, but Fury was eyeing Draco with a knowing gleam. “You must have done your research on the wizard prior to your jaunt to Romania?”

Jaw clenching, Draco didn’t know whether to be irritated or impressed with Fury’s knowledge of his comings and goings.  

“What exactly do you want?” Draco drawled out in a polished, yet bored tone, “I find myself rather unimpressed with the subterfuge you seem so quick to employ, Director Fury.” Draco then let his cool gaze settle over each Avenger, purposefully leaving Romanov for the last, “Since I have not had the dubious distinction of being formally introduced to Agent Romanov before this day, I am going to assume you wish to have us partner on this little project. I am also going to surmise that Von Strucker is not the intended target, but rather a means to sniff out the person you’re truly after.”

“And that would be?”

Draco’s smirk shifted into something more amused, “The gentleman in question goes by the name of the Winter Soldier which you shared cursorily, but not the exact particulars.” Fury’s gaze sharpened while Stark hissed out a stunted breath, but Barton and Romanov’s gazes fell instantly to Captain Rogers, who was standing stoically in the background and not contributing to the conversation at all. Draco thought that simply wouldn’t do. He’d been a pawn in someone else’s game before and was not keen to repeat the experience, especially if his mother was to be involved. “Bucky Barnes, aka, the Winter Soldier and former compatriot of Agent Romanov, here.” Natasha’s eyes widened, while Rogers looked even more uncomfortable. “Bucky Barnes served with Captain Rogers during the Second World War and was assumed dead, until recently. You believe he’s in league with HYDRA, but what you’ve failed to realize, Director Fury, is you’ve been infiltrated by the very organization you seek to destroy.”

“What are you talking about?” Maria Hill demanded cuttingly, while Fury’s lone eye hadn’t so much as blinked while Draco was talking. Romanov however, asked quietly at his side, “How do you know all of this?”

Draco finally allowed his gaze to land on the assessing blue of the Black Widow Assassin. He could tell she was more intrigued than upset. 

So he decided to throw her a bone, “I’m an Auror, Agent Romanov. I also have contacts all throughout the magical and muggle world.”

“Because you were a Death Eater.” Rogers finally spoke up, and Draco nodded, not seeing any reason to deny the truth. “I was, not wholly by choice. My family name has always opened doors within the greater magical world, and while the sparkle has lost its shine in recent years, there are still unsavory elements within the magical world who fear the Malfoy name and the power we wield.”

“Your contacts?” Kingsley inquired lowly.  

“My father’s, mainly.” Draco admitted, “I have leveraged those resources as needed to do my job, Kingsley, and I would do it again.”

The Minister sighed, “That wasn’t part of our agreement, Draco.”

“You blackmailed me into that agreement, lest we forget.” Draco challenged back, “And I think we both know you weren’t exactly unaware of what I did behind closed doors. You were an Auror once too, Minister, and as long as I was playing on your’s and Potter’s team, and the press was favorable, you turned a blind eye.”

Fury chuckled, while Kingsley’s expression took on an uneasy mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“You were forced into joining the Auror ranks?” Fury taunted, but Draco just allowed his smirk to deepen. “I’m sure Dean Thomas kept you appraised of all the juicy gossip over the past seven years, just like he did during the war.”

That got Fury’s hackles up, “And he was a prisoner in your home.”

“True.” Draco nodded, not willing to back down from this fight, “And I’m sure Thomas also told you that I tried to help as much as I could.”

“He did.”

“I’m not proud of the choices I made when I was younger,” Draco began, “I was scared for my mother and only wished to protect her.” His steely gaze landed on Captain Rogers, “I’ve done quite a bit of reading about the dark history of the Nazi’s during the Second World War, noting the similarities of how the Dark Lord wished to rule over Muggles and that of Hitler’s plans…and well, the parallels kept me up many a night, as I contemplated what the world might have looked like had the Dark Lord won.”

“That would never have happened.” Natasha stated with conviction. “Asgard would never allowed it.”

Draco bowed his head in agreement, because he knew it was the truth. Whatever their faults were, Odin All-Father would have burnt the Dark Lord and his followers to ashes had Potter fallen, and Hermione alongside him.   

“But when you told Potter about Strucker,” Draco said, “and by extension, the Winter Soldier, I decided to do some digging on my own.” 

Kingsley seemed thoughtful, while Fury remained stoic.  

Stark however, snorted a sound of disbelief, “How does a wizard with no access to technology have the ability to do the kind of investigation you’re purporting to have done?”

“Your arrogance assumes there aren’t other means to run an investigation.” Draco challenged back, “The Wizarding World may be small to you, but many of those who live in the shadows have grown accustomed to not only living there, but thriving. Trading in dark artifacts isn’t the only currency utilized by those within my world. Secrets are just as valuable. Having the right connections, even more so.”

“And you have the right connections?” Natasha asked, curious. 

Draco nodded again, “Both sides of my family are the oldest and most wealthy magical families within the western world. Nearly two thousand years of unbroken magic.” Draco noted the surprised looks from those within the room, sans Kingsley, “The Malfoy’s legacy was tarnished after the war, but the accumulation of favors stack up after two millennia.” Draco then allowed his expression to shift to something more predatory as he went on to explain, “I am Lord of House Malfoy, but I am also Lord of House Black. The Black family has a rather insidious reputation within the magical world and is in many ways, more feared than the Malfoy line. The Black’s were known for their penchant for the dark arts, as well as the accumulation of life debts.”

“What’s a life debt?” Barton asked warily.

“It’s exactly what it sounds like.” Natasha interjected before Draco could explain, “If you save someone’s life, then their life becomes forfeit. They must pay the life debt back at the insistence of the person or family to whom it’s owed, or they lose their magic.” She lifted her left eyebrow with impunity, “Correct?”

“I see Hermione has been teaching you about how the magical world works here on earth.”

“She has.”

“I’m not surprised,” Draco admitted, “but what she may have omitted is the life debt creates a bond, the strongest and most impenetrable bond outside a soul bond.” Draco watched Natasha’s gaze narrow accusingly, “And as you can well imagine, two thousand years of accumulated life debts are not something to be taken lightly.”

“So you use these debts as a means to coerce others into helping you?” Rogers asked with clear disgusted inflection in his voice. 

“Not as such.” Draco responded back evenly, “There are also those within the magical world who owe their financial well-being to the Malfoy and Black families. I don’t need to use a life debt when I have other means at my disposal.”

Stark was now eyeing him with a heavy dose of skepticism, “Didn’t your family have to pay war reparations?”

Draco chuckled, “Is that your way of asking how wealthy I am?” Stark shrugged, but didn’t deny it, so Draco bit back, “From what I’m led to understand, Mr. Stark, current estimates place your wealth somewhere around twelve billion dollars US, correct?”

Tony folded his arms over his chest and looked supremely smug as he nodded his response.  

Draco didn’t normally care to play the game of whom had the bigger cock, but if Stark wanted to go this route, who was Draco to deny the truth. 

He turned to Romanov and asked, “Did Hermione ever speculate on how wealthy the Malfoy family is?”

Natasha smirked, “She only mentioned it once, and assumed it was just northward of a billion pounds.”

“She’d be correct in the Malfoy’s Wizarding investments are about that much.” Stark coughed out a sound of victory, but Draco’s next words left the Iron Man completely flummoxed. “However, our Muggle investments are about twenty times as much.” His crooked grin was completely unapologetic, “The Black family’s magical vaults are about half that of the Malfoy’s, but their muggle worth is nearly twice the Malfoy’s.”

“How is that even possible?” Stark demanded.  

“How wealthy do you think the Royal Family in Great Britain is, Mr. Stark?”

“Most of their wealth is held in art, land, and jewels.”

“Exactly.” Draco demurred arrogantly. “Armand Malfoy came with William the Conqueror to Britain in 1066 and was bequeathed the largest investiture in England, which remains to this day. The Malfoy estate sits on nearly 20,000 hectares of land in Wiltshire. Most of the agriculture production in Britain is owed to my family, which accounts for nearly a quarter of our passive income. My family also owns land in Normandy, where our ancestral seat still remains to this day: The Château d’Armainvilliers.”

“It was a military stronghold in the twelfth century.” Rogers piped in. “I thought your family stayed out of the non-magical world.”

“That didn’t happen until the late seventeenth century,” Draco shared, “with the advent of the Statute of Secrecy. Prior to that time, my ancestor for whom my father was named, courted the first Queen Elizabeth.”

“Really?” Natasha asked, intrigued. 

“Yes.” Draco answered truthfully to a rumor long denied by many a member of his family, “Armand was bequeathed the title Duke of Wiltshire and my ancestors held court in royal circles for centuries. The Black family also hails from France and to this day, owns most the the state land in the country.”

“Excuse me?” Stark belted out, “Are you saying your family owns the French government?”

“I’m saying, the Muggle French Government is beholden to the Black family for all its assets and it pays a healthy stipend annually to retain that privilege.”

Tony whipped out a portable electronic device and punched in some information and an image flashed within the room, showing exactly how much income the French Government had accumulated over the past five years, which totaled nearly 300 billion euros. 

“What percentage do you receive?” Stark wondered aloud.

“Ten percent annually.”

“And you pay taxes on that?”

“The money is held in a family trust.”

“So that’s a no.”

“Part of the agreement.” Draco shrugged unapologetically. “It also means, I also have extensive contacts with the French Muggle Government.”

“The DGSE.” Barton speculated.

Draco didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to. He figured they got the picture.  

“So what is it you think you know that we don’t, Mr. Malfoy?”

The question came from Fury. 

Draco paused, wondering just how much to offer up, but in the end it mattered little to him. Whatever reason he was here would become obvious soon enough. 

“Bucky Barnes is working with Strucker. They have something you want, and if I had to hazard a guess, it’s something of great power. My sources have indicated Barnes is hiding at a HYDRA stronghold in Sokovia, alongside a man named Arnim Zola.”

“We think Zola is the one responsible for creating the Winter Soldier.” Fury stated.  

“You’re only half right,” Draco admitted, “you have a mole within your organization, Fury.”

“Oh?” Fury and Maria Hill didn’t look convinced, but Draco could tell he had the Avengers full attention. “And just whom is this mole?”

“There are three possibilities.” Draco offered, “And until I know for sure, I’m disinclined to speculate.”

“Convienient.” Stark snarked out.  

“Smart.” Draco parlayed back, “Until I know for certain what the connection is between Strucker, Lukin, Zola, and the magical world, my first priority is to protect my world.”

“Your priority should be to protect everyone.” Rogers words were spoken like the Gryffindor he would have been, had he been magical. He and Potter would have been in competition for being the biggest self-sacrificing dunderheads ever to grace the hallways of Hogwarts.  

“That’s your job, not mine.” Draco said at last, “I have no allegiance to SHIELD, and I certainly would never work for an organization that cannot figure out friend from foe.”

“Sounds a lot like your Ministry.” Fury bantered smartly back.

“Perhaps,” Draco smirked half-heartedly, “but I don’t claim to be one of Earth’s mightiest heroes.”

“He’s got you there, Fury.”

“Shut up, Stark.”

Draco watched as Stark opened a cellophane package and popped something into his mouth, chewing it with relish. 

“So, you won’t help us?” Fury asked lowly and Draco sighed, “I didn’t say that explicitly.”

“Sounded pretty explicit to me.” Romanov teased. 

“I said I wouldn’t work for SHIELD.”

“But you would work with us?” Fury amended.

“I would be open to keeping my eyes and ears open and sharing information as it comes available.”

“And your mother’s invitation to Strucker’s home in September?”

Draco’s expression darkened, “Careful, Fury.” The warning tone was clear, “While I might be amenable to offering my help, do not suppose that means you are welcome to drag my mother into your clandestine operations.”

“Narcissa wouldn’t say no, Draco.” Kingsley pointed out, earning a hard sneer for his efforts. 

“She helped at the Dragon Reserve at my request, and it wasn’t my first choice,” Draco drawled out deeply, “and as much as my mother would insist she can take care of herself…”

“You would never willingly put her in harms way.” Natasha finished succinctly, earning a stiff nod in return. “Hermione did share with me of your devotion to your mother.”

A frown fell over Draco’s lips, “How interesting.”

The look shared between the two was filled with heavy layers of subtext, but no one other than Natasha and Draco understood the byplay happening. Natasha knew Draco Malfoy had kept up a steady stream of correspondence with Hermione for years, while the daughter of Odin had remained somewhat aloof to his advances. She was still smarting from the war, and didn’t altogether trust in Malfoy’s changed behavior. Natasha could relate. She had more than her fair share of red in her ledger and had spent years trying to wipe it clean. Something told her Draco Malfoy shared the same commitment and likely felt as she did, that nothing he did would ever completely absolve him of the wicked he’d done.  

On one hand, there was a part of her that felt drawn to Draco Malfoy’s path of penance, but on the other hand, her loyalty to Loki and by extension, Hermione, outweighed any nostalgic feelings or considerations. 

“Would you be open to working directly with me on this?” Natasha queried, ignoring the pointed looks Fury and Rogers were sending her way. 

“Is this guilt or something else, Agent Romanov?”

“My ledger is red,” Natasha repeated her mantra, “and I’m trying to wipe it out.”

“How’s that been working for you?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

The smile that twitched on Draco’s lips was one of his more genuine one’s. “On one condition.”

“And that is?”

“The details of any collaboration stays between us,” Draco spoke with clear resolve, “if you break your word, the deal is off.”

“And how do you know you can trust me?”

That question did get a real chuckle, “I would imagine being Loki’s paramour for the better part of seven years, you’ve learned a thing or two about how magical vows work.”

“I have.” Natasha responded, “And he’s not going to like it.”

“No, he won’t.” Draco agreed readily, “But I’m sure you can explain it to Loki in such a way, to get him to agree.”

“You have a lot of faith in me.”

“If rumor is true about you, Agent Romanov, you excel at gaining the cooperation of others. This should be no different.”

“Why does it matter to you whether Loki knows or not?”

“Because,” Draco bit out with passion, “I will not be accused of helping SHIELD and you as some kind of preamble for personal gain.”

Natasha’s eyebrows lifted with sudden understanding and after a moment, she sighed with reluctant acceptance. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do let me know when you’ve made your choice.”

“And how will I do that?”

“You’re a smart woman,” Draco’s slate eyes were filled with amusement, “and I have no doubt you’ll find a way.”
  

Chapter Text

After the meeting with Lord Malfoy was done, Natasha found herself facing a reluctant condundrum of conscience. On the one hand, she was an agent of SHIELD, and her duty remained to protect her world from threats both domestic and other.

Then there was the other part of her that was loyal to Loki and by extension, Hermione. 

Whatever her preconceived notions of the wizard known as Draco Malfoy, he’d managed to obliterate them in the space of an hour. 

The first thing Natasha had noticed of course, was how poised and polished Draco Malfoy was. His features were as aristocratic as Loki’s, but where Loki’s eyes shown with the gleam of priceless emeralds, Draco Malfoy’s stormy gaze was distant behind fortified walls of impenetrable ice. 

No emotion he didn’t want projected, was breaking through. 

Natasha also suspected that Lord Malfoy could give Loki a run for his money on the art of distrust disguised as aloofness. 

Plus, they sported almost matching condescending smirks.  

What was it with mercurial aristocratic magical’s and smirking?

Did they practice that look in the mirror as children?

Learn it at the knee of their mother’s?

Queen Frigga would often smirk when amused, but while her’s was softer and filled with something akin to indulgence, Loki’s was borderline pathological.  

Sighing softly with wariness, Natasha had also felt the aura of Lord Malfoy’s magic the moment their gazes locked. He was obviously a powerful mage and held an internal darkness he embraced and struggled with equally. 

Also, the wizard was something of a living embodiment of a pagan God. Chiseled features, leaned, toned, and svelte physique, gorgeous eyes, nearly white hair, and a swagger which brimmed with restrained aggression, hidden behind a polite veneer of duty. 

If she hadn’t known about his contentious history with Hermione, Natasha might have wondered why Asgard’s favorite daughter wasn’t eager to tear Lord Malfoy’s clothes from his person and shag him senseless. 

Shag?

Natasha really needed to stop listening to Hermione referring to her and Loki’s extracurricular activities as the two of them: shagging like rabbits. 

Natasha rather liked rabbits, especially in pie.  

“Interesting guy.” Clint murmured from her right, and Natasha nodded, “Reminds me of Loki.”

A lifted amused eyebrow was Clint’s only response to that comment. Instead he switched gears and inquired, “Seems as if you’re back for a bit?”

She nodded again, “Looks like it.”

“He’s going to be okay with it?”

He, meaning Loki.

“Yes, Clint.” Natasha turned her head and stared her best friend down, but to Clint’s credit, he didn’t seem the least bit fazed nor intimidated. 

“Just asking.” He bantered back easily, “He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who plays second fiddle well.”

That earned a snort, “He doesn’t have to.”

“Oh?”

“Stop trying to psychoanalyze me, Clint. We both know I’m far better at it than you.”

“True.” Taking a few steps to his left, Clint leaned against the wall, his expression now a bit more uneasy, “Things are taking a dark turn, Nat. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“I sensed that too,” she admitted, “and I have to wonder what Bucky is after.”

Clint’s lips pursed, “You worked with him from before, right?”

“Yep.” Natasha didn’t like to reminisce on that time in her life, but her past always seemed to come back and haunt her in new and interesting ways, “He was HYDRA adjacent at the time, but not adverse to getting his hands dirty, should the job require.”

“Did he remember anything from his past?”

She shook her head, “Didn’t seem to.”

“And his creator?”

“Zemo?” Natasha stiffened, “Went underground right after Dreykov was killed.”

“And your old buddy Lukin?”

“He’s a pawn,” Natasha answered truthfully, “still thinks I’m working for the Black Widow Program. Undercover, of course.”

“So he’s not going to be too surprised to see you on the arm of Lord Malfoy?”

Natasha’s eyes widened comically, “Whatever made you assume that was my play?”

“I know you, Nat.” Clint cocked his head, almost in challenge, “You have never shied away from using your obvious talents to good use.” Natasha rolled her eyes, “Plus, Lukin will be more likely to trust Lord Malfoy, and by extension encourage Von Strucker to do the same, if they both think you’re in a relationship with him.”

“Normally, I would use that angle, however, I’ve come to learn that Lord Malfoy might be entering into a formal betrothal with a witch from his world.”

“I thought he and Hermione?”

Natasha shrugged helplessly, “They have a lot of baggage to work through.”

“It’s been seven years!” Clint deadpanned.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Natasha admonished, “I try as a rule, to keep out of emotional land mines.”

“Then why in the world would you ever think getting involved with the actual God of Lies was a smart play if you were trying to evade romantic ticking time bombs?!”

“Loki is not a time bomb.”

“Right.” Barton scoffed back, “And I’m just a regular guy who’s good with a bow.”

“Who also has an unhealthy obsession with Legolas from Lord of the Rings.” She chirped sweetly and started to walk out of the room, ignoring Clint’s yell of, That was supposed to be a secret!

It was a bit later that Natasha found herself alone with Director Fury inside his office. 

“I don’t know how I feel about my best operative working for the enclaves.”

“I’m not working for them, exactly.” Natasha was quick to point out, “More so, alongside.”

“You really believe they won’t wipe your memories the first chance they get once this mission is over?”

Natasha actually felt her lips lifting, “I suspect if they try, Loki might lose his shit.”

“True.” Fury nodded, pleased. “Never thought I’d be alright with him, but I suppose Asgard has its uses.”

“Uses?” Natasha snarked, “I worry about you, Director.”

Fury’s lone eye narrowed, “How so?”

“You seem to believe Stark, Rogers, Danvers, and even Banner are strong enough to protect us from what’s out there, but trust me when I tell you, it’s going to take a lot more than the Avengers Initiative to fight off a force that’s anything remotely close to Asgard’s level.”

By Fury’s expression, it was clear he didn’t believe her. 

“Loki and Hermione are powerful, and Thor, well…he’s on another level.” Natasha explained patiently, “But as strong as they are, their eldest sister is in a league of her own.”

“Hela?”

“Yep.” Natasha took a seat, all while giving Fury her full attention, “Hela laid waste to legions upon legions of Asgard’s enemies, all by herself.”

“I thought you said she was banished from Asgard.”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Natasha admitted, unsure of how much to divulge. “I get the impression Hela’s strength derives from Asgard, itself. Hence, why she was sent away.”

“I have a hard time understanding why a father would banish his own child.”

“I think it’s just how things are done on Asgard. To reach the level of a God or Goddess, an Aesir must go through the trials. Those born to the Royal Line, well…their trials are a bit different than most.”

“So you’ve shared.”

“I just think we’d be fools not do everything within our power to get Asgard, onside. Hermione still has strong connections here on Earth, and I suspect if we really needed the enclaves, they’d fight.”

Fury lifted his one good eye to the ceiling. “That’s naive, even for you, Romanov. We’ve had two World Wars in the past 100 years and the enclaves didn’t lift a finger to intervene.”

“Not that we know of.” 

“You actually think they were working behind the scenes?”

“I think they’ve had their own despots to deal with and it just so happens their agendas have lined up with ours...mostly.”

“Until another Dark Lord rises up.”

“We’ll probably be dead before that happens again.” Natasha smirked, “We’re good for at least another fifty years or so.”

Fury didn’t like where their conversation was headed so he decided to change the subject, “You going to honey trap Von Strucker?”

“Hardly,” Natasha replied, her voice as calm as she could make it, “whatever he’s up to, he’s involved with Zemo, Lukin, and Barnes. Possibly Zola as well.”

“Zemo has to be pushing ninety. Are we even sure he’s still alive?”

“I haven’t heard anything to the contrary.” Natasha averted her gaze, wondering how Fury would take the next part, “Malfoy mentioned there were three possibilities of leaks within SHIELD. I might have had a talk with Heimdall before I left Asgard.”

“He’s their overwatcher, correct?”

“Among other things.” Natasha turned her gaze back to Fury, only to find he was staring at her with a ferocity that made her uncomfortable, “And?”

“I asked him some time ago, to keep an eye on things down here. Nothing invasive,” she was quick to point out due to Fury’s deepening scowl, “just keeping track on a few people I’ve been suspicious of.”

Crossing his arms, Fury didn’t know whether to be incensed or impressed with Natasha’s initiative. 

“And?”

“Sitwell, Rumlow, and Pierce.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Natasha shook her head, “If I had to guess, I think Malfoy has a line on each of these, but I suspect Pierce is the prime suspect, but only because of Project Insight.”

Fury was taken aback, “How did you find out about that!?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, “I’ve known since before the magical war ended.” She sat back with a heavy frown, “Pierce has been trying for years to infiltrate the enclaves and from what I’ve come to learn, he was the one coordinating the research on that little space rock. You should have let Loki take it back to Asgard.”

Scoffing, Fury finally took a seat, “And give them more power?”

“Versus possibly allowing the power to fall into the wrongs hands?”

“I have top people working on it even as we speak.”

“Oh?” Natalie inquired evenly, “Would that be Erik Selvig?”

Shaking his head, Fury leaned back in his chair with exasperation, “Nothing gets past you.”

There was no reason to comment on the obvious, so Natasha didn’t. She did however, recommend, “You should have Stark run a background on Pierce’s movements and financials over the past year. If he is involved with Strucker, my guess, something should pop up.”

“Fine.” Fury conceded, not altogether happily. “Where will you be?”

“I don’t know, to be honest.” Natasha admitted smoothly, “Loki didn’t mention if he was returning to Asgard, but my best guess is he did.”

“You haven’t spoken with him?”

“Not since he brought me back to Earth.”

Fury didn’t comment on that, thinking to himself that Loki was likely still here, probably biding his time to make his presence known.  

But it did beg the question what an Asgardian God did, left to his own devices on a primitive world. 

“He wouldn’t create mayhem for fun, would he?”

“He’s not a child, Fury.” Natasha sighed aggrieved, “He wouldn’t create chaos for the sake of amusement.”

“You sure about that?” Natasha rolled her eyes again, but her lips did lift slightly, almost as if she thought the idea had some merit. “That look doesn’t fill me with reassurance, Romanov.”

Standing up, the assassin figured she needed to find a place to hang her hat for the next few weeks. “I’m going to track down Barton and see if I can bunk with him.”

Waving his hand, Fury dismissed her without another word and thankfully, Clint was waiting for her, like always. 

“I take it didn’t go well?” 

“Fury believes he’s omnipotent.”

“He has to believe that, Nat.” Clint stated the obvious, but it didn’t make it any easier for Natasha to swallow. “He’s got everything on his shoulders now.”

“It’s too much power for one person to have.”

The look Clint gave her was bemused, “You didn’t used to think that way.”

“Yeah, well…being on Asgard changes things.”

She side-eyed her best friend, but surprisingly, Clint didn’t seem to be upset nor concerned…

…he just seemed thoughtful.  

“You were actually happy there?”

She nodded, “It’s hard to explain, but I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere in my life where people live in such harmony. If I hadn’t experienced it first hand, I don’t think I would’ve ever believed such a life was possible.”

As they walked down the hallway and back to where their car was parked, Clint inquired lowly, “Are you going back?”

“You mean after the mission is done?” Clint nodded in return and Natasha paused for a few moments, before answering honestly, “Strange as it may seem, Loki and I have not discussed the future.”

“Is that your doing or his?”

“I just don’t think it’s come up.” Clint opened the double doors and allowed Natasha to precede him through, and the two walked in silence for a few moments more. Natasha could tell that Clint was mulling over her words and trying to decided how invasive he wanted to be. 

Their friendship had been born from a question asked and a kindness bestowed, and Natasha had been forever grateful that Clint had gone against his orders and led with his instincts, which were generally spot on most of the time. He was tough but fair, at least when it came to those few he called friend. 

The only two people besides herself Clint trusted implicitly were Phil Coulson, another SHIELD agent, and Fury.  

Once they were situated in the car, Clint headed out towards a local safe house in Islington, which was not too far from Kings Cross Station. It wasn’t until they’d passed by the British Museum and Russell Square that Clint finally inquired, “If Loki were to ask, would you stay?”

She didn’t look Clint’s way, just kept her gaze averted to the left as she replied, “I don’t know.”

“That’s not like you, Nat, and I’m not sure I buy it either.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I know you.” Clint challenged back, “I’m one of the very few who’ve earned that privilege and I know it might have started out as a curiosity, going to Asgard and learning more about how they train in battle, but somewhere along the way, you made the choice to stay.”

“I promised I’d help train Hermione.”

“I know,” Clint sighed, “but, come on, Nat? You’ve been gone for seven years.”

“Not completely.”

“For all intents, you have been.” Clint stated more emphatically and earned a sharp glare in return, “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Actually the opposite. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“Duly noted.” She quipped back, “But you forget who you’re talking to.”

They headed down Kings Cross Road and took a right towards Percy Circus, with their final destination being Bevin Court, just outside of Holford Gardens. When Clint pulled up, Natasha stared at the modest flat apartments that looked to be designed in the mid-twentieth century. It reminded Natasha a bit of the Brezhnevkas back in Moscow. 

Wholly uninspiring, especially after living on Asgard. 

Stepping out of the car, Natasha watched as Clint grabbed a black duffel from the trunk of the car, and she internally sighed. She’d left her clothes on Asgard and most of her other items were back in the States but she figured she would have time to pick up a few things tomorrow.

They walked up the staircase to the third level, and thankfully, their flat was the second on the right. Clint opened the door and threw his duffel on the nearest couch, while Natasha surveyed the two-bedroom flat dispassionately.

Part of her really didn’t want to be here. 

However, when she opened the door to her bedroom, she was brought up short, for there on the small twin bed was her brown duffel bag, the one she’d brought to Asgard. Walking up to it warily, she slid the zipper open slowly and peeked inside, half expecting some kind of enchantment to pop up, but instead, all her personal items were neatly stowed inside. Even her Black Widow ensemble and katanas were placed lovingly on the top, right next to her stinger gloves and boots. 

If Natasha had to guess, Loki had placed an extension charm on the bag, which was why as she pulled out each item, everything was neatly pressed and not a wrinkle to be found. 

Shaking her head, she wanted to laugh at how thoughtful Loki could be. How he knew where she’d be, well…she didn’t even want to hazard a guess. But something told her that Loki had been watching, which meant he likely overheard the conversation with Draco Malfoy.  

She gripped her necklace and plopped down on the bed as her breath left in a dramatic whooshing sound. She was so used to keeping secrets, how in the world would she ever be able to fathom being with someone who could sniff out a lie without batting an eye. 

Loki was an enigma. But he was also funny, droll, sarcastic, cruel, kind, clever, and loving. Not to mention he could spar with her like no one had ever done. He challenged every part of her, and that was something Natasha the assassin didn’t know how to deal with.  

She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Standing up, Natasha put her clothes away and was about to place her duffel inside the closet when a soft knock sounded on her door. 

“Come in.”

Clint’s head preceded the rest of him as he gazed around the doorframe, his expression registering surprise when he saw her bag.

“I know you didn’t come with that.”

“Loki.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

Clint walked in and sat down on the side of her bed, his expression now expectant. Nat joined him, and as always, their silence wasn’t the least bit awkward. It had always been this way, where Clint would wait for her to say whatever was on her mind and he’d just listen and not judge. 

He was good at that. 

“How do you get used to having someone who sees through you?”

Clint lifted his head up to the ceiling, and Natasha could see his throat bobbing slightly as he swallowed uneasily. However, Clint had never shied away from the good, bad, or ugly of Natasha’s life, but he did have opinions.  

Lots of them. 

“I think you deserve to be seen, Nat. Does Loki make you feel seen?”

It only took a moment, but Natasha nodded slowly.  

“And he makes you happy?”

Again with the slow nod.

“You care for him?”

The nod was a bit hesitant in coming, but Clint could see the truth behind Nat’s gaze. 

“Do you love him?”

She blanched. 

Did she love Loki?

Was she capable of such deep emotions?

She’d had relationships, after a fashion, but usually for the job and never a permanent thing. 

“How am I supposed to answer that?”

“I don’t know, Nat.” Clint’s smile was restive, “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask.”

“We’re a right pair, aren’t we?”

Clint chuckled, “That we are.” He slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up, “I’m going to order some food. Want anything?”

Shaking her head, Natasha declined as she wasn’t hungry. 

All she felt was a foreboding sense of trepidation over what the next few weeks would bring.  

Plus, she needed to have a talk with Loki at some point, but something told her that might prove to be a bit superfluous. She suspected her Asgardian God already knew what was going on, and if she was right, he didn’t seem to be too worried about it. Her bag appearing here was a pretty good indication of his tacit support. 

At least, she hoped she was right. 

Otherwise, things were going to get very awkward, very soon.  

Chapter Text

Going back to the Manor was the last thing Draco wanted to do. 

Over the past seven years he’d learned to not second guess his instincts, especially on the job. It was what made him such a superlative Auror in every aspect. He could tell when someone was hiding something, but what he never told anyone, and especially not Potter, was he’d worked very hard on perfecting his legilimency. Usually, he could pick up on others emotional states and it went a long way in helping him determine guilt from innocence. Potter had been easy to read in the beginning, but Draco suspected somewhere along the way, Potter had finally learned how to occlude properly. 

Whether it was a skill learned from his godfather or somewhere else, Draco was fairly certain Black had a part to play in it. 

Bloody tosser. 

Seven years ago Draco had nearly bent over backwards for his estranged cousin, offering him back his Lordship of House Black; and for a few weeks it seemed as if Sirius was actually considering the idea. 

But then something changed. 

Draco wasn’t sure what that something was, only that Sirius had decided he’d rather not play nice with those in the Wizengamot who’d allowed him to rot in Azkaban for twelve years, despite Dumbledore being dead. 

Barty Crouch Sr. and Cornelius Fudge were also on that list. The former dying during the Triwizard Tournament and the latter, just before the war had ended. 

There was also the fact that Black had disappeared about a year into Draco’s dubious partnership with the Chosen One. As far as he knew at the time, Black only kept in contact with Potter, and even that wasn’t as frequent as Draco surmised it should have been, considering Sirius’ return from the dead.  

Three years into Sirius’ sabbatical, Draco had come across some interesting information from one of his father’s former associates. The wizard, who only went by the name of Mordo, was from Transylvania. From what Draco knew of the man, he’d worked closely with Abraxas, Draco’s grandfather, on a sensitive project about forty years prior. Mordo had contacted Draco via a deep undercover contact, claiming he had some pertinent information and would exchange it for a favor. 

That information, well, Draco hadn’t quite believed it…

…until today. 

Director Nick Fury of SHIELD was too well-informed about the enclaves, and Draco suspected Dean Thomas had something to do with some of it, but not all of it. For years, there had been rumors of magical’s going missing, even from before the war, but most put that down to Death Eaters and the Dark Lord. 

But Draco now knew better.  

Voldemort never worried himself about the plebes. His focus was on amassing power and currying followers among the Sacred 28. Those who had no power and no money did not interest him in the slightest. They would have been lowly servants, preyed upon at his very whim, with no hope of salvation. 

The first time Draco noted something amiss was Yule Hols during his third year at Hogwarts. This was well before the Dark Lord had been resurrected. His mother had thrown her annual New Years Gala at the Manor and everyone who was anyone from the Ministry and on the continent (mostly Pureblood), were invited to attend. Sometime around ten in the evening, he went looking for his father and found him out on the balcony near the eastern greenhouses, smoking with several of his Death Eater associates. But what caught Draco’s attention was the two wizards who were not British. Mordo had been one, and the other was Karkarov: The Former Headmaster of Durmstrang. Karkarov was sharing that several of his student’s parents had gone missing the previous year. One had been found dead, one was still missing, but the third had resurfaced, memory erased. 

Draco thought it strange, but never gave it a second thought. 

Not until he’d become aware of SHIELD, and by extension, HYDRA.  

He’d suspected for a while that Potter was funneling intel from Black to Shacklebolt. He’d also suspected that Black, a former Auror and loyal member of the Order of the Phoenix, had been tasked by Shacklebolt to use his notoriety and dubious background to the Ministry’s benefit. 

How much Shacklebolt was aware of the connection between magical’s going missing and SHIELD was confirmed today. Kingsley was an excellent chess player and by all accounts, a very good Auror himself. Trained by Alastair Moody, who was a nutter but brilliant tactician, Draco figured Kingsley had likely been on HYDRA’s scent even before the war broke out in earnest. 

The Minister for Magic had wasted no time dragging Draco into the fire and Draco suspected for years that Kingsley knew of how he’d been utilizing his less than savory contacts. It was probably why Potter had been assigned as his partner in the first place.  

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

He’d done all he could these past seven years to prove his worth. He’d risked his life time and again to show all and sundry he’d changed his allegiances, but even now, he was still being used. 

Still not trusted fully. 

Shaking his head, Draco felt a well of bitter emotions threatening to swallow him whole. 

Which was why he was currently walking up the winding hedged pathway to the Greengrass Estate. 

When Greengrass Hall came into view, it only took a second for a light pop to sound.  

It was Astoria’s personal elf, Jammie.

“Good day, Lord Malfoy.”

“Hello, Jammie. Is Astoria home?”

“She is. She is in the arboretum with her sister.” Jammie stared up at him with big blue eyes, “Would Lord Malfoy like Jammie to take you to the arboretum?”

“I think I’ll walk, Jammie.” Draco replied politely, “But if you would? Please let Astoria know I’m here and I’ll see her shortly.”

“Of course, Lord Malfoy.”

Jammie disappeared with a shimmering crack, and Draco continued to follow the path around to the right side of the estate, through a small copse of white alders, until the arboretum came into full view. 

Astoria was waiting for him with a welcoming smile. 

“Draco, this is a very nice surprise.”

“I’m sorry to drop by unannounced.”

“You never need to apologize,” she took his proffered arm and led him back through the white double doorway, “I’m always happy to see you.”

The lovely smells of star jasmine and roses filled Draco’s nostrils. He took a deep inhalation and felt his body instantly relaxing. When he gazed down into amused blue eyes, he found his lips lifting in kind. “I forgot how much I’ve missed this place.”

“It was always your favorite escape, even when we were children.”

“You loved to hide behind the lapis planters.” He remembered fondly, “I never understood why there, when there were always so many better places to hide.”

Her smirk was telling, “Maybe, I wanted you to find me.”

A lifted eyebrow was his only response, because at that moment they were interrupted by a lilting feminine voice, “Draco Malfoy, it’s been a minute.”

Gazing up into a set of mirrored eyes, Draco smiled warmly in greeting, “Daph. Lovely as always.”

“Tosser.” Daphne however, lifted her hand to an empty chair at the table she was sitting at. Draco first pulled out a seat for Tori, before taking his own. “What brings you here?”

“Can’t I just stop by and spend time with two of the the most beautiful witches I know?”

Daphne scoffed lightly and rolled her eyes, “You were never this charming in school.” She deadpanned, “Did you take one too many curses to the head doing your job as an Auror?”

“Daphne!” Astoria admonished, “Behave.”

“She doesn’t know how to, love.” Draco teased back, “Her mouth was always getting her into trouble back at school.”

Daphne blushed, which caused Draco to smirk. 

“You just were jealous I never used my mouth on you.” She bit back, which earned a scandalized gasp from her baby sister and a soft snigger from Draco. “Au contraire, mon ami dubitatif.” Draco bantered easily, “After my disastrous relations with Pansy, I swore off Slytherin witches.”

“Good thing Tori was sorted into Ravenclaw, then.”

“Too true.” Draco’s response was warm, and his easy smile caused Tori to blush an even darker shade of pink than her sister. 

“How is the job going?” Daphne inquired with interest.

“I handed in my resignation last night.” He answered, not exactly surprised by the matching expressions of shock. 

“What happened?” Astoria demanded.

“Many things.” Draco’s drawl was filled with sarcasm, but underneath it Astoria noted a tinge of something else. She turned to her sister and asked, “Daph, you mind giving us some privacy?”

“Of course not.” Daphne knew that look in her sister’s eye, and as much as she liked to state otherwise, she’d come to care quite deeply for the wizard next to her. Even Daphne could tell that Draco Malfoy was not the same person he was back during their formative years. He’d grown and changed into a good man, if still a bit stiff under the collar. She nodded to Draco, who returned the gesture and took her leave. 

After Astoria was sure her sister had left, she gave her full attention to Draco, who was watching her warily, “You didn’t have to run your sister off.”

“Of course I did,” Astoria admitted, “as I know you’re not likely to share your true feelings with her present.”

“And what makes you think I’ll share them with you.”

“Don’t take that tone with me.” Astoria warned, “You forget how well I know you.”

“Tori…”

“Don’t Tori me, Draco. You’re hurting and I want to know why.”

He sighed and shook his head. A part of him wanted to deny it, but he also knew deep down the reason he’d found his way to this very place was because he needed someone to talk to. Someone who would take his side. Tori had always been that someone, even during his darkest days.

“Where do I start?” The question was more rhetorical than anything, but Tori patted his hand and replied, “At the beginning, of course.”

“Hermione was here.”

At the look of surprise co-mingled with outrage, Draco could only smirk.

“What did she want?”

“Queen Frigga spoke with her about our conversation and among other things, Hermione wanted to see if it was true.”

“Us?”

He nodded. “I asked her if she would be willing to give me a real chance.” Astoria’s lips flattened, but Draco could tell she wasn’t surprised, “Go on.”

Pausing for a minute to gather his thoughts, Draco did. “She was at Grimmauld. Apparently Potter has been keeping in touch with her, which I knew, but he never once was honest with her about how I’ve saved his life time and again.”

“And that surprised you.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, bless Tori. 

“Of course I was! The git has been my Auror partner for seven years and in all that time you’d think the tosser could have…I don’t know! Maybe said one nice thing about how I’ve saved his sorry arse!”

“I’m not surprised.” Tori admitted, “Harry Potter has always been quite a self-righteous prat.” Draco chuckled at that truth, “And he’s the quintessential Gryffindor.”

“Too true.”

“So then what happened.”

“Hermione wouldn’t give me an answer. More to the point, she wasn’t ready to.”

“After all this time?”

“I think I’ve underestimated how deeply I hurt her back during our time at Hogwarts, and then during the war.” He grimaced as that unwelcome memory played back in his mind. He felt Tori squeezing his hand and when he looked up and held her gaze, he could see nothing but kindness reflected back at him. 

She truly was a wonder. 

He wished more than anything, he could love her as she deserved. 

“Draco, what happened in your home during the war was not your fault. You did what you could to spare Luna, and so many others.” She smiled ruefully at him, “If Hermione cannot see how much you’ve suffered and served your penance for the mistakes you’ve made, then she is not worthy of you.”

He lifted her hand and placed a chaste kiss on the back of it. “You’ve always seen the best in me, even when I haven’t seen it myself.”

“Someone has to.” Tori mocked, earning a lifted eyebrow from her friend, “You’ve always been a masochist when it comes to self-flagellation.”

“Ouch!”

“Shut it,” she snarked, “you know it’s true.”

“Possibly.”

“Then what happened?”

“She left, and as I was leaving Grimmauld I gave Potter a piece of my mind and told him I was handing in my resignation to Shacklebolt immediately.”

“That’s the spirit.” He chuckled. “How did the Potter take it?”

“Shocked, but not apologetic.”

“Color me shocked.”

“He’s a tosser.” Draco set Tori’s hand back down on the table and entwined it with his own, “After I went home, Loki showed.”

“Excuse me!”

“Yeah, that was my thought too.”

“Why in the world would Loki come and see you?”

“Because Hermione was more upset than she let on.”

Rolling her eyes, Tori scoffed. “What is it with that witch?”

“I might have wondered something similar, until Loki set me straight.”

“About?”

“Tori, have you ever considered what it might be like to have to give up your life here and leave everything behind for another life on Asgard?” She flinched back, and Draco nodded his head at the look of horrified understanding which melted over her countenance. “Exactly. I didn’t even consider it myself. Sure, I knew I’d have to serve a penance of some kind, but proving my worth to Odin All-Father? Being gifted the life of the Aesir? How in Merlin’s name would I ever be worthy of such a thing?”

Astoria didn’t comment for several minutes, but Draco could see her mind mulling over his words. In truth, he was still flummoxed by it all. 

“I think,” she began hesitantly, “you’re not looking at the bigger picture.”

“Which is?”

“Draco, you once told me that the Queen of Asgard sees all, correct?” He nodded, “She gifted you with something akin to a seer stone, so she could communicate with you, but I also believe she has kept watch over your exploits these many years. She has never once requested that stone back, correct?”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“Well, that tells me that one: she believes your capable of the penance necessary to stand by Hermione’s side, and two: she is leaving the choice to her daughter to make whatever choice Hermione deems is best for her.”

Draco was taken aback. He’d never even considered either point. “You think she’s foreseen it?”

“That I cannot say,” Tori was quick to offer, “because the future is fluid and ever-changing. I think Queen Frigga has seen the most likely scenario, and I suppose because she loves her daughter, she is willing to keep the lines of communication open to ensure the best outcome.”

Draco sat back and stared at Tori in wonder. “You’re quite brilliant.” She blushed and he smiled fondly at her, “This is why I came here, you know?”

“Of course I know, Draco.”

He sighed again and shared, “That’s not all of it.”

“Oh?”

He shared about what happened with Kingsley and his meeting with SHIELD. Not everything, but enough so Tori would understand what was coming next. 

“So, you’re going to go with Narcissa to Germany.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll be working with Muggles?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure Lucius will be thrilled by that prospect.” That caused Draco to snort out a guffaw thinking about the look of utter revulsion on his father’s face when he told him. “My father cannot get his own head out of his arse long enough to see the world is moving on without him.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of welcoming me into the family?”

“I told him he didn’t get a say either way.”

“Good for you.” Tori then said softly, “If you wish to postpone our dinner with my parents, I would understand.”

He paused, but not for the reasons Tori might assume. Working for SHIELD was going to take some time, and he needed to figure out what was happening behind the scenes. Something truly nefarious was underfoot and there was a part of him that wanted to see this through. 

Plus the upside was Potter wouldn’t be able to take credit if Draco discovered who was behind all the magical disappearances.

If he could prove that SHIELD or HYDRA were behind it, it might cause an international incident, or it might, with the right strategy, prove to the Ministry that they weren’t as isolated as they liked to believe. 

“Are you sure?” He asked. 

“I just want to make sure this is what you want, Draco.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“That was before you spoke with Hermione and Loki.” She felt compelled to point out, “I think we need to be prudent, Draco.”

“Prudent.” Draco mimicked drolly, “How romantic.”

“You’re such a prat.”

“Only with you, love.”

She shook her head, “I just put up with it better than most.”

“Too true.” He sat back and considered all the options before coming to a decision, “Alright.” He demurred, “We put off the betrothal until this mission is done.”

“Deal.” Astoria then added, “However, if for any reason you change your mind between now and then, you know I’ll be alright with it.”

“I don’t want your parents to think I’m a jilt, Tori.”

“They won’t, I promise you. I know I promised to keep your soulmate situation private, but if for some reason Hermione changes her mind…”

“She won’t.” Draco bit out unhappily, earning a rebuking look. “You don’t know that, Draco.”

“Let’s just say I’m ninety-five percent positive.”

“Well, that leaves a little wiggle-room.”

He didn’t offer any more commentary on the subject. He did however, stand up and offer his hand, which Tori took with a tender smile. “You hungry?”

“A bit.” She admitted, “It’s been a rough few days, but surprisingly, today is a good day.”

“Good.” Draco nodded, pleased. “How about we see if Jammie can whip up some of those lemon tarts you love.”

The two walked out of the arboretum together, completely unaware they were being spied on by more than one person. 

Chapter Text

Staring morosely at the waning fire in her mother’s stone basin, Hermione silently chastised herself for not thinking of doing this sooner. 

Had it been indifference, arrogance, or complacency which had guided her actions for the past seven summers?

She’d been so self-involved with her own personal growth that she’d failed in her stewardship to her soulmate. 

Not that their past was an easy obstacle to bypass, but even so, she’d not made any real effort to try and now, Draco was involved with someone else. 

Astoria Greengrass, who seemed sweet, kind, thoughtful, loyal, and devoted. It was clear to Hermione the younger witch was very much in love with Draco and was willing to accept the reality of how his soul bond hindered his regard, but from what she could see, Draco did care deeply for the younger witch. 

He looked and spoke with Astoria with a familiarity that made Hermione’s chest ache.  

Suddenly, an unbidden and unwelcome truth reared: ugly and bitter. 

Draco Malfoy had never given Hermione Granger the time of day, other than to taunt and demean. 

Shaking her head, Hermione slowly walked out onto her mother’s balcony, staring up into the night sky, where the constellations of her grandfather and great-grandfather glimmered back at her.  

It was some time before she felt a warm hand on her shoulder and glancing up, Hermione could see the worry in her mother’s eyes. 

“You were scrying.”
 
Not a question, which didn’t surprise Hermione in the least.  

“Yes.”

Frigga side-eyed the basin and sighed, “And how is Lord Malfoy?”

“Entertaining another.”

The sigh deepened, “My Hermione, you do realize mortals crave connection and despite what he might portray to the outside world, Lord Malfoy craves it more than most.”

Hermione turned back to the night sky, replying with a wavering voice, “He never seemed to much care back at Hogwarts.”

“Which you have come to learn was a facade he needed to maintain.”

“I know. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

Frigga took in her youngest with a practiced gleam. For the past seven summers she had watched, waited, and bided her time. Wondering if her stubborn daughter would ever admit the entirety of the truth to herself. Perhaps it was the warrior which lurked deep down inside, but her youngest had always been more logical than emotional. But on those rare occasion when logic gave way to love, Hermione’s barometer could and would, seismically shift the stars and cause them to fall from the heavens. 

The light she held within herself was as strong and fierce as the darkness Hela wielded. Both her girls, the pillars of House Odin, were diametrically opposite, but equally powerful.  

Hermione held some darkness inside her soul, but she never acted out for her own sake. No, she would only react in defense of those she loved. Moral ambiguity aside, Hermione did not do anything without careful consideration whereas Hela…well…

She had absolutely no compunction in laying waste to legions of Asgard’s enemies, all in the name of making her father proud.  

And proud Odin had been.  

For a thousand years, Frigga had watched as Odin and Hela took measure upon the nine realms. Odin would say he did so seeking a lasting peace, but Hela had never cared about peace. 

Hela had only craved power. 

When Thor was born, Hela nary spent two centuries with her brother before being banished. Thor had adored Hela, in the way a younger bairn idolizes his elder sibling. Hela had deigned to spend time with Thor, but there had always been an undercurrent of something between the two. It was if Hela knew she would eventually become displaced from her rightful seat. 

Odin would never allow Hela to take the Asgardian Throne, and despite what he might assume, Hela wasn’t thrilled with the minutiae that came with leadership. 

She only cared about battle. 

Frigga would speak to her eldest from time to time. After being banished from Asgard, for centuries, Hela would not entertain her mother at all, preferring to let her silence show her displeasure. However, in time, Hela had become more reflective. Not much, but it was there. Only then had she welcomed Frigga’s attempts at connection. 

The last time they’d conversed was fourteen summers prior, right before Hermione was sent to Midgard. 

Hela had taken that news with incredulity and a bit of righteous indignation on her youngest sibling’s behalf. Hela had been nearly Thor’s age when she’d been banished. Hermione wasn’t even half of that, when she’d set foot on Midgard’s shores. 

Frigga suspected Hela would keep an eye out for her sister, but there had been a moment after Hermione returned home and Frigga learned of what had happened to her youngest at the wand of the Death Eater known as Dolohov (who was still wasting his miserable existence in a vegetative state deep in their dungeons); that Frigga wondered if Hela had wanted Hermione to perish, or if she was simply curious to see for herself, Hermione’s strength of will and perseverance.

Perhaps it was time Frigga had another chat with her eldest. 

But for now, Frigga needed to reassure her youngest. 

“My Hermione,” Frigga began, “why is it so hard for you to grasp the constraints Lord Malfoy was faced with during your time on Midgard?”

“Because he enjoyed being a bully.”

“I’m sure he did, at first.” Frigga agreed readily, as she had scryed into Lord Malfoy’s past and seen the truth for herself, but there had been a subtle mindshift in the young Draco Malfoy the night of the Hogwarts Yule Ball, where Hermione had arrived on the arm of her companion, a noted celebrity in their magical world. Frigga had observed how the young Draco Malfoy had watched her daughter that night with both confusion and frustration. It was as if he was finally facing with a long buried truth and didn’t know how to deal with it. 

The change hadn’t come easily, nor was it demonstrative. The young lad had continued his tormenting of others but behind the scenes, when no one was looking, small changes were beginning to take root. Questions lingered behind stormy gray eyes, yet there was none he felt safe verbalizing those doubts to, and his parents expectations continued to weigh heavily with increasing pressure, until the valve finally gave way. 

Draco Malfoy was not a murderer. At least, he had tried very hard not to give in to his darker nature. His love for his mother had been the barometer which kept him sane during the darkest days of their Wizarding War. However, in those quiet moments when no one was watching, he cried for innocence lost from those who were supposed to take up the mantle of protection: namely his parents and godfather. 

Each were more concerned with their own battles, than fighting for a lost boy who had no choice. 

When Frigga shared these sentiments with her daughter, she could see Hermione struggling to accept her words as truth, so Frigga made a decision. Going against the edict of her husband was never an easy choice, but she would not sit idly by any longer and see her youngest suffer without having all the facts presented. 

Leading Hermione back to the basin, Frigga waved her hand and the flames erupted, the kaleidoscope of colors swirling in the ether. 

The past was far easier to scry than into the future; for the past was settled, while the future was fluid. However, scrying into the present was the easiest of the three disciplines and the only one Hermione had mastered, to date. 

It was one thing to pull a memory from your mind and drop it into a pensieve, allowing the memory to lead you to a moment already lived. The issue with memory retrieval was it only allowed you to see the memory as it existed from one’s own perspective. The noticed event changed from person to person, dependent on whatever it was that held their interest at that moment in time. 

The past was a different animal. Scrying into the past, one had to have an intimate relationship with time and understand the boundaries of how time worked. Even though the past remained fixed, all viewpoints of each participant made up the entirety of that fixed reality. Her mother had explained it once and at the time, Hermione didn’t comprehend it all, but knew enough to understand the basics. If she, for example, were to scry the Battle of Hogwarts, each reality lived through each person there, made up that fixed point in time. So, if she were trying and fixate on only one person, say Draco, she’d have to be able to locate the time thread, fix on the reality of that thread, move through space to her destination, and locate the soul she was searching for: all to witness the truth of that one soul and what they were dealing with. She would have to be able to look past the flesh to the mind of the individual, to see where their power lay. 

Her mother could scry effortlessly through time, across every reality, no matter the distance, to find the single soul she was seeking, all to understand their motivation and power.  

It was a daunting gift Hermione had never appreciated until she’d returned from Earth after the war. 

So, she watched enthralled as her mother showed her Draco’s past, which allowed Hermione to perceive her skewed reality through the larger lens of what Draco was dealing with during those moments her mother had chosen, but the one which floored her the most, was the lead up to that fateful night on the Astronomy Tower, when Dumbledore was killed by Snape. 

Draco was alone, laying in what Hermione could only assume was his room inside the Slytherin dormitory. He was fully dressed, staring at the ceiling and she was taken aback at how horrid he looked. His cheeks were sunken in and there were dark bags under his eyes. 

As he sat up, Draco swung his legs over the side of his bed and for a long moment, allowed his head to fall into his hands, and Hermione could see he was struggling. His body and hands were shaking, and when he lifted his hands off his face, there were tears falling down his cheeks. 

A few deep breaths later, he reached for his wand and cast a refreshing charm over his appearance, the loss of emotional control fading instantly from view. He then stood up and went to his desk where an onyx and ivory box, (about the size of a shoe box), was displayed. 

Draco used his wand to silently cast what must have been a diffindo, because blood welled up on his right index finger, which he placed on the lock and the box popped open. Hermione couldn’t see what was inside at first, but Draco reached in and took out a handful of what looked to be Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, which he stashed into his right pocket for safekeeping. The next thing he removed was a vial, half the size of her old vinewood wand, and Hermione’s brow furrowed when she noticed that inside said vial, was not a liquid suspension but a gas. 

“Mother, what is in the vial?”

Frigga halted the scene within the flame and waved her hand, allowing the image of the vial to float in front of them. Gazing curiously at the object, Hermione gasped, noting the reddish-purple hue had a faint greenish tinge.

“Is that what I think it is?” She turned to her mother, ashen. 

“Belladonna.” Frigga nodded, “Quite clever to change its state to something easy to inhale.”

Hermione’s hand flew over her mouth with sudden horrified, comprehension.  

She watched as the scrying continued, and Draco placed the vial into the pocket of his outer robes. He then left his room and silently walked through the Slytherin Common Room. He was so focused on leaving, he didn’t see Pansy Parkinson sitting in a shadowed corner, her worried gaze following Draco’s progress. When the common room door closed behind Draco, Hermione watched as Parkinson broke down and cried. 

Somehow, Pansy knew what Draco intended to do. How much she knew, Hermione wasn’t sure, but knowing Parkinson, Hermione suspected Pansy knew exactly what Draco had planned.  

As Draco walked purposefully though the castle, (on his way to the seventh floor), Hermione could see Draco taking in everything, almost as if he knew he’d never get the chance again and when he entered the Room of Requirement, he leant back against the stone wall (after the door had vanished from the inside), his breathing heavy and resigned.  

Removing the covering off the vanishing cabinet, Hermione watched as Draco lifted his wand and whispered the incantation: harmonia nectere passus.

Seconds later, the door to the vanishing cabinet opened, but Draco didn’t stay to see who was coming through. He immediately left the room, heading straight for the Astronomy Tower. 

Hermione knew what happened next, hearing enough from Harry’s retelling of how Dumbledore died, but seeing and hearing the anguish of Draco’s words as he leveled his shaking wand at Dumbledore, made her realize how truly alone he felt in that moment.  

And Dumbledore! That old coot had known what Draco was doing all year and never once stepped in to offer a path out for Draco, rather, setting himself up to be a fallen martyr as a last rallying cry of a manipulative wizard who’d fooled the masses. 

It was still a shock to see Draco disarming Dumbledore, and the words the old wizard spoke, almost smugly proud of Draco, gave new context now that Hermione knew of the Elder Wand.

No one would have ever suspected Draco as being the master of the Elder Wand, and if Voldemort somehow did figure it out, Dumbledore had sealed Draco’s death warrant, himself.  

Manipulative bastard.

Then Bellatrix, Fenrir, and the other Death Eaters arrived, and Hermione grimaced when Bellatrix kissed Draco’s cheek, her whispered praise causing Draco’s eyes to flash with disgust. 

She started goading Draco, demanding he kill Dumbledore, but Draco was already reaching into his robe pocket, his expression now filled with conflicted resolve…

Then Snape suddenly arrived, and Hermione could see in that singular moment, Draco’s plan crumbling around him like the sandy foundation it was. 

Snape sent the killing curse at Dumbledore and grabbed Draco, pulling him forward and down the Astronomy Tower.  

As the scrying flames ebbed away, Hermione stood there, staring unseeingly into her mother’s stone basin, her hands shaking at her side as her mind raced.

If Snape hadn’t shown exactly when he did, she had absolutely no doubt Draco would have used that vial of Belladonna, killing them all. He also didn’t know at the time, that Harry was close by, watching the scene unfolding from one level down!

Just thinking about what might have happened caused her stomach to plummet.  

Knowing Draco’s prowess with potion-making (and being Snape’s godson), it was likely Snape had some inkling of what Draco’s ultimate plan was. 

That old dungeon bat always seemed to be a step ahead of everyone else, until he wasn’t. 

He’d really been the consummate spy. 

Probably would have given Natasha a run for her money, too.

Feeling the heavy weight of her own turmoil, Hermione sat down on her mother’s favored sjeselong, which was covered in rich olive muslin, imported from the shores of Álfheim.

Frigga watched as her daughter struggled with her emotions. It was never an easy thing to be confronted with something which challenged the status quo. Her youngest was and still remained, the most stubborn of her children. Hela’s penchant for power and glory was the barometer which meted her banishment from home. To this day, Hela still struggled with accepting her fate. While Odin may have nurtured Hela’s propensity towards domination, he wasn’t one to take life indiscriminately. War and its consequences, reached out into the Nine Realms and beyond, yet Odin had never sought it out, but was always ready to face the fire when it came barreling down like a rabid bilgesnipe.

Thor however, was far too complacent and easy-going. He had seen battle true; but had yet to face the ugly reality of war. In the skirmishes of his youth, Thor had yet to find any foe his equal. This had given him an inflated sense of entitlement. Frigga worried that when war finally did come, Thor would not know how to lead as a general should, and would run head first into the fray without consideration for himself nor his siblings. 

If Thor was too trusting, Loki was the exact opposite. Her youngest son always looked for the lie behind every truth. He was not one to trust or blindly follow. Loki had a reason for everything he did. He was clever, cunning, intelligent, and powerful. He also did not see battle as something to aspire, but more as something to master. 

Just so he would never be caught unawares.  

Hermione though, was stubborn. Every choice was meted with logic and purpose, but not wholly dispassionately. However, her youngest had never looked favorably upon the abstract. It was one of the reasons she struggled so with the art of divining. Even now, Frigga could see Hermione trying to rationalize with reason where her logic was failing. 

It was this more than anything, that let Frigga know her daughter was second-guessing her most recent interactions with Lord Malfoy. Perhaps it might have behooved Frigga to intercede well before now, but Odin believed their children were more than capable of finding their own path. 

Frigga didn’t disagree, persay, more so felt that it was her right, as a mother first, to nudge her children in the right direction. 

Whether they heeded her wizened counsel, was a different story.  

“I feel as if I never truly knew him.” Hermione admitted at last.  

“There is similarity in how your brother behaves, but you have always taken the time to push past his barriers to the heart underneath.”

“But he’s my brother.”

“And Lord Malfoy is your bondmate.” Frigga imparted wisely, “Yet for reasons which elude me, my Hermione, you have chosen to ignore that bond.”

Shaking her head, Hermione didn’t feel it was necessary, yet again, to belabor how Malfoy had bullied her back on Midgard. Then there was the deeper unwelcome thought of being related to Lucius Malfoy. 

She knew Draco loved his father, but it was also clear he’d finally broken away from Lucius’ demands to become his own person. 

Would that have happened had her mother not advocated for Malfoy to become the Lord of his House?

Hermione glanced at her mother, who was smiling knowingly at her. 

“Astoria seems like a sweet witch.”

“She is.” Frigga agreed readily, because it was true. Under other circumstances in other realities, Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy would find their happiness with each other, however fleeting. She would give him a son and heir, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, and the boy would grow up knowing the love of a father that Draco Malfoy had never experienced in his lifetime. 

Draco would eventually become Lord of his House upon the death of his father. He would lose his wife and never remarry, not in any timeline Frigga had born witness to. He does however, welcome his son’s marriage to a half-blood witch named Rose Weasley.  

The only daughter of the mortal muggleborn Hermione Granger and her best friend, Ronald Weasley.  

Frigga will admit only to herself, how much time she’d spent scrying into that particular timeline. How the circumstances had been eerily similar, yet still, enough removed it had given her much to consider.  

Lord Malfoy in this particular timeline, does finally see the error of his ways, but it is only due to nearly losing his only son to a time mishap. He must join forces with those he once considered enemy, to save his son from undoing their timeline, irrevocably.

Frigga has seen the depth of Lord Malfoy’s heart in every reality, and one thing remains true: he loves deeply and without reservation once he makes the choice to do so.

It does not change the fact his soul is mated with her daughter’s because in every reality, the same truth remains. In some universes, their souls do not find each other due to Lord Malfoy honoring his parents ideology over his own heart. In other realities, he dies. In some, he pines from afar, never quite feeling good enough to measure. 

But there are universes where her daughter and Lord Malfoy do find each other. The path of true love is never smooth sailing however, and the two of them face many obstacles, some nearly insurmountable, but persevere, they do. 

Frigga has scryed into this future and has seen possibilities both concerning, yet inevitable.

“I think,” she begins encouragingly, “it’s hard to make an informed choice without getting to know someone first and I do think if you were to make the overture, Lord Malfoy would be more than willing to meet you half way.”

“What about Astoria?” Hermione inquires with feeling, and Frigga smiles adoringly at her gentle daughter, who has a kinder heart than all of her siblings, combined. 

“She too, has a bondmate.” Frigga replied easily, “But before you inquire,” she could see her daughter’s curiosity flourishing, “just know that things must unfold in their proper time, my Hermione.”

Sighing, Hermione nodded slowly. She knew enough of how the threads of time worked to know her mother was right. 

“I would like to request a favor.”

“You wish to invite Lord Malfoy here.”

“I wish I had your gifts, Mum.”

Frigga softly huffed, before her expression shifted to something more wistful, “You will, in time.”

Chapter Text

Erik Selvig, noted Doctor of Theoretical Astrophysics and tenured professor at Culver University, was currently working with several individuals, (one of them his former protégé Dr. Bruce Banner), on a top secret research project deep within SHIELD’s underground facility located near the Utah Badlands.  

Tony Stark, self-proclaimed genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist; was also in attendance, pacing around the large lab and popping dehydrated blueberries in his mouth every few minutes. 

Doctor Jane Foster, Erik’s current protégé, sat busily working on a set of algorithms at a computer station to his left. Her much lauded dissertation on astronomical anomalies had brought her to the attention of SHIELD and she was recruited to help him and Banner on their research. 

However, Jane seemed more interested in whatever she was researching than the work he and Bruce were doing with the scepter. 

“This thing has a matrix unlike anything I’ve ever seen before,” Bruce admitted uneasily, “and it’s almost sentient.”

“It looks like a network of neurons.” Erik offered, watching as Bruce nodded thoughtfully, “I would agree.” Bruce bent over the specialized spectrometer that Tony recently invented and gave the stone another look, “It makes me wonder if this thing isn’t some kind of artificial intelligence.”

Tony stopped pacing, his ears perking up, “A supercomputer?”

“Maybe.” Bruce answered warily, running a hand through his hair as he stood back up, “If this thing is as powerful as Fury thinks, I wonder just what it’s capable of.”

“Have you noticed how, when we’re around that thing,” Jane piped up, her eyes never leaving her computer screens, but she’d clearly been listening in, “how it seems to lure you in?” Three sets of eyes turned to her stunned and after a few moments of silence, she glanced up to see they were all staring at her. “What?”

Banner shook his head, “You think it can influence us?”

She shrugged, “I think it’s a powerful alien object and it’s logical to assume it might contain certain abilities, mind control among them.”

“Wow!” Tony scoffed, “Way to jump to the worst possible conclusion.”

Jane glared unimpressed at Tony, who smirked right back at her. 

It had been obvious from the get-go, Jane wasn’t exactly fond of Stark and he knew it too, so in typical Tony fashion, leveled up the antagonism and sarcastic remarks on the daily. 

“It’s a logical leap,” Jane bit back, “and, I’ve been able to isolate the scepter’s gamma signature.”

She almost snorted seeing the identical gobsmacked expressions on the three men’s faces. 

“Really?” Bruce inquired at last, his eyes alight with curiosity, “How did you manage it?”

Jane wanted to take more credit than she deserved but the truth was over the past several months, whatever was powering the scepter, seemed to be reacting to the phenomenon she’d been observing over this past year. 

“As Erik knows, I’ve been studying something I call: hyper dimension anomalies.”

“Excuse me?” The tone of Tony’s words were borderline snippy. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“They’re shifts in gravity,” Jane explained slowly, her tone not exactly polite but that was neither here nor there, “spatial extrusions into our fabric of reality.” 

“Wormholes.” Bruce muttered and Jane enthused, “Exactly! When I first started noticing these extrusions, the patterns were entirely random. However, over the past six months, the energy surges are occurring with greater frequency. It’s almost as if a door is opening within the fabric of space.”

Erik walked over and looked at Jane’s screen, taking note of the quantum equations she was generating. He then glanced over at the scepter and frowned, “You think they’re connected?”

Jane nodded, “I do. I’ve also noticed how the ploton particle surges are located primarily in one location.”

“And that’s where?” Tony wondered aloud. 

“London.”

Jane punched in a few prompts on her keyboard and a map of London with red signatures spaced out over a twenty square kilometer area noted where the spatial extrusions were happening. 

“Have you reported this to Fury?” Erik asked, and wasn’t surprised when Jane shook her head in the negative. “You want to go to London?”

“I think it might be a good idea.” Jane replied, “My mathematical modeling of the Einstein-Rosen Bridge and the stabilizing sensors should, in theory, create a temporary stable quantum field, as long as I’m able to calculate the ploton degeneration.”  

“And if you can’t?” Bruce inquired. 

“I suppose in theory, I could be transported to another dimension, but I’m not even sure if what I’m seeing is in fact, a wormhole.”

“That’s an awful risk to take if you’re right.” Tony mused thoughtfully. 

“How long will the emitters work for?” Bruce wanted to know. 

“They’re untested but if my calculations are sound, I’d say about fifteen minutes.”

“Wouldn’t that depend on ploton surge?” Tony asked, lifting his head up thinking, “I know my Dad was working with a scientist years ago during SHIELD’s early days, who was looking at quantum mechanics. I think there was something in my Dad’s notes about a quantum realm.”

“Hank Pym.” Erik stated, and Tony snapped his fingers and nodded fervently. 

“I’ve read some of his previous work.” Jane admitted, “Some interesting stuff too, but nothing denoting anything substantive about the quantum realm being real.”

“Killjoy.” Tony deadpanned, earning a shake of the head from Bruce and a dramatic eye roll from Jane. 

“Say you’re right,” Erik forged ahead, purposefully ignoring Stark’s antics, “what does it all mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Jane sighed, “but if I had to take an educated guess, I’m thinking based on how the spatial extrusions are becoming more pronounced and located in a single area, that London might be an ancestral point of convergence.”

“Ancestral?” Bruce queried, “You’re saying this phenomena has happened before?”

“It’s another theory I’ve been working on,” Jane shared, “as gravitational forces change due to these spatial wormholes and could explain how many of the great ancient structures might have been built around 5000 years ago.”

“You’re talking about the Pyramids, Stonehenge, Newgrange, as well as the Megalithic Temples in Malta.” Bruce postulated, causing Jane to nod again. “Again, it’s just a working theory, but it would explain how many of those structures were able to be built.”

“Aliens.” Tony snarked, “You forgot to mention the aliens.”

“I didn’t.” Jane challenged back, “There’s just no scientific evidence proving those structures were built by aliens.”

“Maybe if you’d met Rock of Ages,” Tony snarked, “you might be more inclined to think along those lines.”

Erik shook his head, “I still cannot believe you both met a Norse God.”

“He’s a real hoot,” Tony bantered, “and he’s quite taken with Natasha, so there’s that.”

Jane frowned, “Didn’t you say that Loki Odinson’s sister lived in Great Britain during her sojourn here on Earth?”

“Yeah.” Bruce answered for them both, “She attended some magical school in Scotland for six years and then fought in a magical war against some megalomaniac wizard bent on world domination and subjugation.”

“So trite and overdone.” Jane spat out, causing Tony to chuckle in agreement. She then addressed Erik, “I’m going to make arrangements to head to London. Can we keep this on the QT for now?”

“I don’t see why not.” Erik looked at Jane’s computer again, noting that some of the hot spots overlapped. “Maybe focus your search in that area.” He pointed to the Royal Docks, “There seems to be several intersecting points.”

“I can arrange for you to use one of my corporate jets.” Tony offered magnanimously, earning a surprised look from Bruce and a more skeptical one from Jane. “It makes the most sense.” Tony argued, “If you want to keep Fury’s nose out of this, there’s no better way than sneaking out of dodge on one of my planes.” Tony then took out a slim device and tapped in his security code, “Jarvis?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark.”

“Wheels up in…” He eyed Jane, who responded with, “Six hours.”

“Six hours, Jarvis.”

“Very good, Mr. Stark.”

“You coming?” Jane asked Erik, and after a few moments he nodded. “I’m very interested to see if this actually pans out.”

“Good.” Jane grabbed a flash drive and plugged it into the computer portal, then preceded to download all of her data so she could continue to work on it on the plane. “I’ll see if Darcy wants to join us.”

“That girl is a menace.” Tony pointed out, earning another scathing glare from Jane. 

“She’s a bit eccentric but willing to help.”

“Did you know, she asked me if I had a commemorative T-shirt extolling myself as, and I quote: Tony Stark: narcisstic billionaire playboy. She totally forgot to include the genius, philanthropist parts!”

“Not everyone has your attention to minutiae, Stark.” Jane quipped, earning a scowl from Tony for her efforts, while Bruce coughed not-so-discreetly from behind his hand. 

“I heard that, Bruce!”

Bruce just shrugged helplessly, lifting his hands up, silently pleading: what was I supposed to do?

“I’m going to go and get packed.” Jane interjected quickly before Tony devolved into his normal chaotic self.  

“I’ll meet you at the transportation hub in an hour.” Erik said.

After Jane left, Bruce turned to Erik and inquired, “Do you really think her research is sound?”

Erik didn’t even need to second guess the question, he nodded firmly. “Jane’s theories are solid and I think,” he waved to the scepter, “if she’s right and the scepter is reacting in some way to the spatial extrusions, then something big is coming.”

“Lovely.” Tony drawled, “Just what we don’t need, more aliens showing up.”

“Probably better than insane wizards.”

“Eh,” Tony grinned, “same shit, different day. Jarvis?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“Start diagnostic level six on the scepter.”

“Of course, Mr. Stark. Best estimates will put completion in just over three hours.”

“Good.” Tony patted Bruce on the shoulder, “Let’s go get some grub. I hear there’s a great shawarma place down the road. I’ve always wanted to try it.”

“Are you kidding?” Bruce mused as he followed behind Tony out of the lab, “We’re in the middle of nowhere!” Bruce paused and looked at Tony skeptically, “When you say down the road?” Tony though, just smirked playfully, “Tony! I don’t do well in confined spaces, you know that, right?”

“You’ll be fine.”

Watching Tony strutting down the hallway, Bruce shook his head.

How did he get himself into these situations? 

He could also feel the other guy grumbling unhappily beneath the surface. 

The other guy was always bubbling under his skin, just waiting to unleash his anger on an unsuspecting world, but thanks to Loki’s gift, Bruce was learning to relax and take better control of that side of his personality. 

Grabbing Loki’s gift, Bruce took a calming breath, closing his eyes and trying to restore some order to his frayed nerves. He didn’t want to come out and say it in front of Erik and Tony, but Bruce was convinced Jane was onto something when she postulated how the scepter seemed to be luring them in. Bruce could feel it, the subtle shifting of his thoughts. It was as if the scepter wanted to be used, but even after all his research, he still couldn’t figure out how to activate the thing. 

It was like it needed some kind of impetus.

He was still amazed Odin had allowed it to remain on Earth, but both Thor and Loki had tested Tony’s security protocols and felt that short of a Norse God descending on SHIELD, it would be next to impossible for a mere mortal to break in.

Bruce was a bit more skeptical. He assumed the reason Odin hadn’t insisted the scepter be returned to Asgard was because he already knew what it was and what it did and didn’t think anyone on Earth was smart enough to uncover its secrets. 

Either that, or he had someone watching them closely. 

Bruce figured it was a combination of both assumptions plus maybe something else he hadn’t quite thought of yet. 

When he passed by the gymnasium, Bruce noted that Steve was inside, wailing away on a punching bag with bare knuckles. The echoes of the hits: precise yet percussive, caused Bruce to stop and watch. 

Of all those who’d been recruited by Fury, Steve was the most transparent. He didn’t believe in pulling his punches because he was honest to a fault. What you saw was what you got and the only thing that bothered Steve was finding out that his best friend Bucky Barnes, was alive and well: and working for HYDRA.

The Winter Soldier was a name Natasha was familiar with, but Fury would never explain why. Bruce also knew of the Red Room’s Black Widow Program, but based on conflicting reports (that he was able to access via less than savory methods), Natasha at some point during her training was likely given the same super soldier serum as Barnes. 

Fury would never answer Bruce’s questions about this, always prevaricating, but once thing Bruce had picked up on, was Natasha’s background with Barnes was complex.

Now watching Steve, Bruce had to wonder if Captain America had any suspicions of the same. 

Steve was smart, there was no doubt about it. He was a brilliant tactician and field general, had a keen eye for detail and could strategize better than Fury. However, Steve was ethical to a fault, whereas Fury gave the term dubious an uneasy distinction Bruce didn’t like to entertain. 

“You going to stand there staring or come on in?” Steve stopped his forward punching motion and glanced over his right shoulder with a smirk. 

Bruce eyed the shattered punching bags on the floor curiously, while he could feel the other guy huff, unimpressed. 

“Didn’t mean to disturb your training.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Steve walked over to a water bottle that was set on a tall wooden stool and took a healthy swig. As he set the bottle back down, Steve asked, “You doing okay?”

“Sure.” Bruce replied evenly, “Just like every other day being confined underground in a lab.”

“You seem like the kind of guy who thrives on research.”

“Sometimes,” Bruce admitted, “but I didn’t think I’d be stuck here this long.”

“Ah!” A small chuckle escaped, “Taking longer to figure out how that scepter works than you thought?”

“Something like that.”

Grabbing the bottle again, Steve took another healthy swig then set himself down on the stool, his expression contemplative. “How much did Fury tell you about how they acquired the scepter?”

“Not much.” Bruce admitted warily, “Why? You’re thinking there’s more to it?”

Steve didn’t respond for a few minutes and when he finally did, his tone was reserved, almost as if he was reluctant to share his thoughts, but more worried if he didn’t speak up, he might never get the chance again.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about how long HYDRA had that scepter in its possession and I have come to suspect it’s some kind of mind control device.”

Bruce nodded, as he too, had come to the same conclusion.  

“You’re thinking they used it on your friend and turned him into a lethal assassin.” Bruce postulated correctly and Steve returned the gesture in confirmation. 

“I knew of Zola and his work with Red Skull.” Steve stated evenly, “But what concerns me is they had that thing for a long time…”

“So they probably know exactly what it’s capable of.” Bruce finished hurriedly, wanting to kick himself for not thinking of that angle sooner. “So all we’d need to do…”

“Is get our hands on Strucker or…”

“Have one of the magical’s do it for us and invade his mind!”

Steve sighed, but nodded again. He didn’t like the idea, but in every scenario he’d come up with, this was the quickest way to Bucky. 

“You think they’ll do it?”

“I think,” Steve warned, “that Natasha will have no problem convincing Lord Malfoy this is the easiest way and from what Fury has said, Draco Malfoy is quite proficient with mind magics.”

Bruce silently agreed, but in his gut he had to wonder just how Loki or Hermione, for that matter, would feel about them putting both Natasha and Lord Malfoy in the crosshairs of the Winter Soldier. 

From all of Bruce’s research on the former Soviet operative, he was lethal. 

There was even speculation that he was the one behind the death of Howard Stark and his wife; and while Bruce could see the wisdom of Steve’s idea, the other guy wasn’t exactly convinced this was the wisest course of action and that alone, gave him pause.  

He just hoped for everyone’s sake, Steve’s plan would go off without a hitch because otherwise, they’d likely be dealing with not one, but two very angry Norse Gods. 

Chapter Text

It amused Loki greatly to watch the machinations of the mere mortals in SHIELD as they plotted and schemed. Nick Fury liked to believe he was the master of all he surveyed, but the man was woefully ill-informed.

There were also these Avenger people, who were also just as prone to delusions of grandeur, but at least some of them had a modicum of intelligence, even if they all lacked the necessary killer instincts needed to play the game of subterfuge and emerge victorious. 

In fact, the only person to have the penchant for perfidy was his lovely Natasha. But even with all her cunning, she seemed to believe she could still keep secrets from him. 

It was adorable. 

Even now, she was plotting and planning without a care for her own safety, hence why he was keeping an eye on her plus attending to other necessary matters on Midgard. 

And to think he once believed this particular realm was boring and beneath notice. 

Loki hadn’t had been gifted this much entertainment in centuries. 

Currently, he was watching a small contingent of mortals: two young females and an older male. The one woman who appeared to be in charge, had shoulder-length dark brown hair and eyes just as deep. Her build and stature was slight, but it was clear she more than made up for such hindrances with sheer intelligence. 

If Loki gave it too much thought, the woman reminded him of bit of his brár.

The other woman was slightly taller, with lighter hair and eyes. She also seemed to exhibit an exercise in controlled chaos and couldn’t keep her trap shut, constantly offering opinion but clearly not the intellectual equal of either party.

Which begged the question as to why she was there. 

The solo male was older, at least a good generation from the women. He was tall, about Thor’s height, with light blue eyes and greying hair. From the rushed repartee with the dark-haired female, they seemed to be colleagues after a fashion.

What had garnered Loki’s attention towards the erstwhile trio, was their clear interest in the spatial wormholes present within this part of London. Loki had sensed them from the moment he’d stepped foot back on Midgard. The fabric of space and reality were shifting, signaling the convergence was drawing nearer everyday.  

The convergence. A once in a five-thousand year occurrence when all Nine Realms within Yggdrasil aligned. This alignment caused the dimensional boundaries between each realm to thin, almost as if the veil between worlds lifted for a brief window, only to shut once again upon its completion for another five thousand years. But during this brief season, physical and hyper dimensional anomalies would begin to occur randomly, but eventually converge in a singular location on each realm as the convergence draws nearer to its climax. Shifts in gravity, space, and reality would cause invisible wormholes to appear and disappear without warning. However, at its pinnacle, larger portals would become visible in the sky above each realms central locale, creating a window, in which each realm can be seen by all.

Asgard would be visible at the highest echelon, with Helheim at the bottom. 

It would seem however, that Midgardians had advanced to such a degree they could not only sense the convergence, but could seek it out for study. 

Hence why he was silently watching the one called Jane, taking readings with a machine she’d clearly invented herself. 

“The greatest concentration is deeper inside this warehouse,” the mortal Jane pointed to what looked to be an run-downed building the size of the royal courtyard on Asgard, “and if you set up the emitters there and there,” she pointed to the lower left entrance and a walkway to the right as they moved inside the building, “it should stabilize the spatial extrusions at least long enough for me to get a closer look at the frequency of the ploton particle wavelengths affecting the Einstein-Rosen Bridge effect.”

Loki’s eyebrows lifted with something akin to actual shock. 

Had this mortal actually theorized correctly on how the Bifrost worked?

And if that were truly so, these Midgardians were further along in their evolutionary progress than Loki ever thought possible.

He followed the mortal woman silently as she ventured further afield and in the midst of his ruminating, Loki almost missed the second this Jane person, vanished right before his eyes. 

He quickly sent out a pulse of magic but to his dismay, nothing immediately pinged back and his gaze narrowed in thought. 

There were very few places within the Nine Realms Loki didn’t have instant access to.  

He was about to walk into the wormhole, when he heard the shrill cry from the other female mortal, calling out for this Jane person. 

“Jane Foster!” Darcy bellowed “Where are you?”

Not wishing to injure his hearing even a second further, Loki stepped into the void and was immediately transported away from Midgard. 

At the other side of the spatial extrusion, Jane’s initial reaction was equally worried yet thrilled to be proven right. As she glanced around, her brows furrowed at the vast cavern she found herself in. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. The walls were darker than obsidian, while in the center of the room, a lone monolith in the shape of a large square was hovering off the floor about the space of a foot. 

Walking over carefully, Jane knelt down to get a closer look, using her left hand to balance herself while the right one carefully caressed the edge of the stone edifice. Upon further inspection, she could barely make out some kind of ancient runic symbols when a red flash from the monolith surrounded her, and then she felt her body being thrown back onto the hard, cold, floor.  

Groaning and then wincing when she felt the back of her head and felt a lump forming, Jane was about to try and get up when a visage of a gorgeous man with bright green eyes was staring down at her. Unfortunately, the look he was giving her wasn’t exactly pleased. 

In fact, he looked quite pissed off. 

“What is it with mortals barreling into the unknown with nary a thought for self-preservation?!”

“Excuse me?” She heard the words coming out of her mouth almost instinctively, but her body felt rooted in place, unsure who this person was, but by the looks of him and the description Bruce had given, Jane figured she might have a clue. 

Loki watched bemused as the tiny mortal woman gaped up at him like she was in shock. He knelt down and went to reach for her arm, and was then summarily blasted back when a beam of red light hit him square in the chest.  

Thankfully his magic shielded him from the worst of it, but the mortal was not faring much better. Shaking himself clear, Loki stood again and approached this Jane Foster, kneeling down a safe enough distance away that she (and the energy inside of her), wouldn’t feel threatened.  

“You are Jane Foster.” He greeted smoothly and almost rolled his eyes are her stunted gasp. “I am Loki Odinson of Asgard,” her gaze widened knowingly and he did smirk, “and by your reaction, it appears you have heard of me. I take it you are familiar with SHIELD?” Jane nodded, “We need to get you removed from this place before the wormhole collapses.”

“Yes…” she blurted out, still a bit shaken, “there is only a fifteen minute window.”

“Ah!” Loki nodded and stood, politely holding out his hand. He could tell Jane was eyeing it warily but to her credit, she took it and allowed him to help her to her feet. Thankfully, she didn’t perceive him as a threat, but it was also clear she had no idea of what she’d just done or that the Aether was now inside of her. 

Hearing footsteps to his left, Loki gazed over his shoulder and frowned, seeing Hela approaching with a look that would freeze all of Jötunheimr.

“Brother?”

“Sister.” Loki demurred with a discreet nod of greeting.

Hela eyed the mortal woman with a sneer, “I take it you didn’t bring that thing into my realm?”

“Excuse me!” Jane blurted out at the same time Loki answered, “You know better than to ask such things.”

“Then what is she doing here?” Hela demanded and then as if a light bulb had suddenly turned on, her gaze narrowed threateningly. “By the Norns! Do not tell me she infected herself?!”

“Infected?!” Jane’s tone was elevating with each word but Loki chose to ignore it, instead nodding to his sister, “She is from Midgard and somehow, was able to figure out a way to detect the spatial anomalies due to the convergence. Hence, how she found herself here.”

“And you just happened to be, what?”

“I was on Midgard, observing.”

“Of course you were.” Hela scoffed, “And you didn’t think to stop her?”

“I was not sure this mortal was actually intelligent enough to discover the truth.”

“Hey!” Jane screeched, causing both Asgardians to flinch, “I’m right here!”

“Obviously.” Loki deadpanned, “I do believe they heard that bellow all the way inside the fiery pits of Múspellsheimr.”

“Rude.”

“True.” Loki snarked, then sighed when he could see his sister becoming agitated. “It would seem the Aether has found a new, albeit, temporary home.”

“Father is not going to be pleased.”

“I cannot imagine he will be.” Loki agreed, “I will need to take this mortal back to Asgard.”

“What!?!” 

“Will you please refrain from howling like a Draugr.” Hela smirked at Loki’s words, while Jane just looked askance at them both. “We have but a small window to remove ourselves from your realm, sister. I would be remiss in not asking permission, however, time is of the essence.”

Hela sighed, then turned her head up towards the caverns zenith and grumbled, “As if I have a choice. If I try and forcibly remove it, it might bring this entire hovel down upon us.” Her bright eyes glittered with malice, “And I’m quite curious to see how father reacts when he discovers how the Aether thought a mere mortal was an adequate host.”

That comment caused Loki to frown, as he worried silently if there was something more to this that he was missing. 

Howwver, in the end, Hela reluctantly allowed them safe passage and the two intrepid explorers found there way back to the same spot in the abandoned warehouse where the mortal Darcy was currently yelling Jane’s name with a fervor reserved for a legion of bilgesnipe. 

“There you are!” Darcy rushed over to Jane, who put her hands up quickly, lest Darcy think it a good idea to offer one of her bear hugs and get blown across the warehouse floor. Eric however, had come running too and his eyes widened comically with recognition, taking in the Norse God standing next to Jane. 

Darcy though, took a bit longer to realize they weren’t alone and when her greedy gaze drank in the Asgardian God of Mischief, she whistled out appreciatively, “Who’s the tall drink of water and where can I find one just like him?”

Bristling, Loki replied caustically, “There is only one of me, I’m afraid.”

“Are you taken?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can I take you home?” 

Jane gasped with shock, while Darcy continued to eye Loki like he was her next meal. 

“Why in the Norns would I ever allow you to take me to your home?” Loki inquired blithely.

“So I can climb you like a tree?”

“Darcy!” Jane cried out, while Erik just stood back, clearly unsure what to say or do. 

Darcy however, didn’t have that problem nor a filter of any kind as she continued on. “What?” She waved her hand suggestively at Loki, all while looking him up and down with a come hither grin, “He looks like he’d be a good time, and I haven’t had a good time in like…well…at least a year, maybe longer.”

“Darcy, I don’t think you should be saying something like that to a man you’ve never met before.”

“Why ever not?” She bit back, unfazed. “Scoop him up before someone else does.”

Jane, clearly at a loss, was silently pleading for Erik to step in quickly, before the Norse God next to her decided to do something…

…well, he wasn’t known as the God of Mischief and Lies for no reason.

Then he cleared his throat. “As amusing as I’m not finding this conversation,” Loki began, “time is of the essence and I need to remove you from this realm, Jane Foster.”

“Excuse me?” Erik finally found his voice, although it did sound several pitches higher than normal, “And just where do you think you’ll be taking her?”

“To Asgard, of course.” Loki responded, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.  

Erik turned his attention back to Jane, who shrugged helplessly. “The emitters worked.”

“And?”

“I ended up somewhere I don’t think I should have been.”

“Oh?”

Loki’s heavy sigh was filled with annoyance. “Tis too long to mull over and I’d rather not remain here much longer, lest we garner unwanted attention.”

“From?”

The question came from Jane, but by the dark expression on Loki’s face, he was quickly losing patience. 

“Can someone tell me who tall, dark, and brooding is?” Darcy demanded. 

“Loki Odinson of Asgard.”

“Rriiigghttt!” Darcy drawled out the world slowly, “And I’m the Queen of England.”

Loki rolled his eyes, “You are no more a Queen than I am.”

“Rude!”

“Yet very true.” The words were filled with easy sarcasm, causing Darcy to fold her arms over her chest angrily. “Shall we?”

Jane wasn’t sure what to do. It was clear there was something unknown and possibly dangerous now inside of her, which if Loki was to be believed, was called the Aether. She’d never heard of anything of the kind, but she also knew here in front of her, was a golden opportunity presented to learn more.

And if there was ever a chance to gain more information, Jane Foster Ph.D., would never turn down such a boon. 

“Fine.” She capitulated, then quickly inquired of Erik, “Please collect the emitters and run the data set. I’ll have a look when I return.”

The man known as Erik nodded, while Darcy asked coldly, “And what about me?”

“Go with Erik. I’ll sign off on your paperwork when I get back.”

“The things I do for six measly college credits.”

Jane refrained from commenting or rolling her eyes, she did though, follow Loki as he made his way out of the building.  

Once they were clear, Loki took her arm and said, “Hold on.”

Nodding, Jane grabbed on for dear life as she heard the Norse God yelling out, “Heimdall, open the bifrost!”

A split second later the rainbow bridge slammed into them both, whisking Loki and his guest, back to Asgard.  

Chapter Text

In the dark reaches of space, on the outer rim of the great unknown and close to the realm of Svartálfheim, a lone Harrow spaceship suddenly came to life after being dormant for nearly five millennia.

Once, Svartálfheim was a world of perpetual night—a jagged, volcanic wasteland lit only by the faint gleam of distant stars and the ghostly shimmer of black crystal spires. The air itself shimmered with trace energies from the Aether, and its skies were a storm of slow-moving meteors and ash clouds. Here, in this primeval darkness, the Dark Elves thrived under the rule of Malekith the Accursed. A master of sorcery and deception, Malekith’s reign was marked by absolute loyalty from his people and relentless hostility toward all who dwelled in the light. In the ancient accounts of Asgard, he was not merely a king but a scourge of the Nine Realms—a warlord who bound his fate to the cosmic weapon known as the Aether.

Long before the stars had names, before Odin or even his father Bor claimed the throne of Asgard, there was Malekith the Accursed—thirteenth son of a thirteenth son, born beneath a blood eclipse in the shadowed heart of Svartálfheim. The Dark Elves’ homeworld was a place of perpetual twilight, its skies a veil of deep violet and ash, lit only by fractured moonlight reflecting off jagged obsidian peaks. Great rivers of molten silver carved through the black stone plains, while vast forests of petrified trees whispered in a wind older than the Nine Realms themselves. It was a realm forged in shadow and silence, and its people were just as unforgiving.

Malekith’s rise to power was as much the result of cruelty as cunning. Orphaned in war, sold into slavery, he learned to kill as a boy in the blood arenas, and to charm as a prisoner in the courts of Svartálfheim’s rival houses. Gifted in the dark arts and schooled in the weaponry of his people—starforged blades, energy pikes, and the dreaded black hole grenades, and he eventually commanded the loyalty of the Great Houses, uniting them under a single banner for the first time in an age.

Under his reign, the Dark Elves became a scourge upon the Nine Realms. They mastered the art of cloaking their vessels from even Heimdall’s sight, and their greatest creation was the Harrow, a colossal warship powered by a captive singularity. Yet Malekith’s true ambition was not conquest for its own sake, but to return the cosmos to the eternal darkness that had existed before the birth of light. For this, he sought the Aether, an ancient manifestation of the Reality Stone capable of unmaking the laws of the universe themselves.

The first attempt came during the last Convergence, in the reign of Bor, when Malekith’s legions swept from the shadow gates of Svartálfheim in alliance with certain warbands of Jotunheim’s Frost Giants. These alliances were forged not out of trust, but mutual hatred for Asgard and its light. In the ancient sagas — and in scattered whispers among the Norn — it is said that Laufey’s father, King Farbauti, himself sanctioned the pact, lending ice-born battalions to Malekith’s cause. The battle raged for days, staining the shores of Svartálfheim with fire and frost alike. Though they came within a whisper of victory, Bor wielded Gungnir and drove the Dark Elves back into exile, forcing Malekith to seal himself and his remaining followers in enchanted stasis deep within the Harrow’s vaults — sleeping in the void for five thousand years, awaiting the Aether’s call.

Now, that call had come.

The Aether, one of the six primordial Infinity Stones in its liquid form, possessed the terrifying ability to reshape matter and energy itself. To Malekith, it was the instrument that would end the tyranny of light and bring forth an eternal era of darkness. With it, he could remake the universe to suit the Dark Elves’ nature: cold, silent, unending night. And during the last Convergence, he nearly succeeded.

Flashback – Millennia Earlier

The war council chamber of Svartálfheim was lit only by cold lanterns of captured starlight, their silver glow reflecting off the onyx pillars like pale moons. At the head of the obsidian table sat Malekith, draped in the black-and-crimson battle cloak of his station. Across from him loomed King Farbauti, the towering Frost Giant of Jotunheim, his skin a pale, glacial blue and his eyes like shards of frozen ocean. Frost clung to his fur-lined armor, hissing as it met the warmth of the chamber.

“Our hatred for Asgard burns colder than the deepest ice,” Farbauti rumbled, his voice a grinding avalanche. “Bor’s reign will not last the winter if we strike together.”

Malekith inclined his head, a thin smile curling his lips. “Light blinds the weak. But we—” his gaze swept over the Dark Elf captains lining the hall “—we were born in shadow. Together, we will snuff it out.”

A map of the Nine Realms shimmered in midair, the points of convergence marked with a blood-red light. Malekith’s finger traced the alignment. “Here is where the Realms will touch, where the Aether’s power can unmake the fabric of reality itself. My Harrow fleets will darken the skies. Your ice legions will shatter their defenses.”

“And the spoils?” Farbauti asked.

“The spoils,” Malekith replied, “are a universe remade. Eternal night for my people. Eternal winter for yours. Bor will choke in the dark.”

The Frost Giant king’s eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, silence hung heavy in the chamber. Then Farbauti extended his massive, frost-rimed hand. Malekith clasped it without hesitation, their pact sealed not with ceremony, but with shared malice.

The war that followed would drench the shores of Svartálfheim in blood and ice, and though they came close to victory, Bor’s fury would break them. Farbauti would fall in the snows of his own realm, and his son Laufey would inherit both the throne and the grudge against Asgard. The alliance between darkness and frost would be buried, but not forgotten.

The present roared back as the Harrow’s dormant systems surged to life. The giant T-shaped vessel, its deep black exterior swallowing starlight, gleamed once more with the faint, menacing red of its singular aperture. That crimson eye—the size of a small meteor—glared into the void, a silent predator awoken. Within its cavernous docking bay lay smaller Harrow craft, sleek predators awaiting release. Its singularity core pulsed, ready to carry the vessel across the cosmos in an instant, its cloaking field still potent enough to blind even Asgard’s vigilant overseers.

This was the last domain of the Dark Elves, the warship of Malekith the Accursed, and now it stirred with life. In the shadowed corridors, biometric cocoons cracked and hissed as the warriors within awoke from their millennia-long slumber.

Malekith himself emerged from his own cocoon, his pale, scarred face betraying neither shock nor hesitation, only the cold certainty of purpose. He moved through the upper halls, taking note as his people shook off the long sleep. Then he heard heavy footsteps and turned to see Algrim, his most trusted warrior.

“Lorth’kai shadethon, Algrim. Harudeth lok’tor,” Malekith said in the guttural tongue of the Dark Elves. (The stars die with us, Algrim. Darkness rises again)

“The Aether awakens us,” he continued, voice low and dangerous, “and the Convergence returns.”

“It is so,” Algrim replied, bowing his head.

“We must be ready for what is to come,” Malekith warned. “We cannot wait another five thousand years to bring the universe back to darkness.”

“What would you have us do, Malekith?”

The leader of the Dark Elves turned to gaze into the void beyond the Harrow’s aperture. “We will make war. But first, we will forge the weapon we require.”

Deep within the Harrow’s core, past the armories and hangars, lay a chamber older than the ship itself, a vault of shadow-forged relics from the first age of the Dark Elves. Here, Malekith retrieved a blackened, spiked stone, pulsing faintly with crimson light: a Kurse Stone, forbidden even among his people.

“You know what this will do,” Malekith said, holding it before Algrim.

“I do,” Algrim replied without hesitation.

“It will burn away your flesh, your will, your very self—until only the rage remains.”

“If it brings the fall of Asgard, I accept.”

Malekith’s eyes narrowed with approval. “Then kneel.”

The Kurse Stone sank into Algrim’s chest like molten metal into snow. His body convulsed violently, bones cracking, muscle swelling beneath armor that split at the seams. Horned protrusions tore through his helm, his skin blackened to the color of coal, and his eyes blazed red with unholy fire. When the transformation ended, the warrior who rose was no longer Algrim, but Kurse, a living engine of destruction.

Malekith regarded his creation with grim satisfaction. “The last time we made war, we failed. This time, Asgard will know despair before it knows death.”

The Harrow’s engines roared, its singularity core flaring to life. As the stars shifted outside its aperture, the Dark Elves prepared to vanish into the shadows; to strike without warning, just as they had millennia before…

Far across the void, in the frozen citadel of Utgard, the Frost Giants of Jotunheim gathered in the longhall of their king. Laufey sat upon a throne carved from a single slab of eternal ice, the banners of his house stirring in the bitter wind. Before him knelt a messenger, frostbitten and weary from the trek across the wastes.

“My king,” the messenger rasped, “the old enemy stirs. The Harrow sails once more.”

Laufey’s crimson eyes narrowed, glinting like molten embers within glacial stone. “Malekith…” he murmured, tasting the name as though it were both a curse and a promise. He rose from his throne, towering over his court. “My father, Farbauti, fought beside him when the Nine Realms last trembled. Bor’s line crushed them then… but Odin’s grip weakens.”

A cruel smile touched the Frost Giant’s lips. “Perhaps the age of darkness and ice will come at last.”

Beyond the icy walls of Utgard, the auroras twisted unnaturally, as though the very sky sensed that an ancient alliance—thought long dead—was ready to stir once more.

Chapter Text

The golden light of the Bifrost faded, leaving Jane Foster blinking against the sudden brilliance of the chamber around her. She stood within a vast circular hall of gold and brass, its floor an intricate mosaic that seemed to hum faintly with residual energy. The air smelled faintly of ozone and cold metal.

Before her loomed a figure as still and unyielding as the great doors behind him. Heimdall, Guardian of the Bifrost, stood in his gilded armor, his great sword Hófud planted firmly before him. His amber eyes regarded her in a way that made her feel stripped to the bone—not cruelly, but with the certainty of someone who saw far more than he let on.

“You are Jane Foster of Midgard,” Heimdall said, his deep voice echoing in the chamber.

Jane swallowed. “I…guess that’s not a secret around here.”

“Nothing is a secret from me,” Heimdall replied. His gaze flicked to Loki. “You bring her here without the All-Father’s leave. Again you court trouble.”

Loki’s smile was a lazy curve. “She was already in Hela’s domain when I found her. I thought perhaps Father would appreciate my retrieving what might otherwise be…lost.”

Jane crossed her arms. “You make it sound like I’m a misdelivered package.”

Heimdall’s eyes lingered on her, unblinking. “You have been touched by the convergence.”

Jane frowned. “Touched? That doesn’t sound great.”

“It is not a blessing,” Heimdall said simply. “But it is…significant.”

“Which is why we shouldn’t keep the All-Father waiting,” Loki cut in smoothly.

Heimdall stepped aside, the great doors of the observatory parting to reveal the golden bridge beyond. “Go then. But know this, Jane Foster; you walk now in a realm where every word matters and every step has weight.”

Jane managed a dry smile. “Yeah, sounds just like grad school.”

Loki smirked as he led her forward.

Jane stepped onto the bridge, her breath catching. Before her stretched a prismatic ribbon of light arcing into infinity, suspended above a sea of stars. Energy shimmered beneath her feet, humming with impossible power.

Her mind raced. Not refraction…no! A curvature of spacetime. Goodness, they’ve stabilized a wormhole!

She was standing on a functioning Einstein–Rosen Bridge!

The very thing she’d built her career chasing on paper, alive before her in impossible color and sound.

“It’s…incredible,” she murmured before she could stop herself. “The gravitational shear must be—”

“Flattering, really,” Loki interrupted smoothly, his long stride unhurried beside her. “I didn’t know you’d be so impressed with my home.”

Jane’s awe hardened instantly into irritation. “I’m impressed with the physics, not with you kidnapping me.”

“Kidnapping is such an ugly word,” Loki replied. “I prefer escorted under protest.”

“You found me in the middle of nowhere and in another realm, without explaining anything!”

“And yet here you are, still breathing,” Loki said with infuriating calm.

The glittering arc of the Bifrost ended at the golden heart of Asgard. Towers of impossible height reached into a sky streaked with shimmering ribbons of light. A detachment of Einherjar in burnished armor stood at attention, their expressions unreadable.

The great hall was all grandeur and intimidation with towering columns, sweeping banners, and the high throne where Odin All-Father sat, his one eye locking on Loki with the weight of centuries. Thor stood at the base of the dais, arms folded tight across his chest.

“Loki,” Odin began, his voice heavy with restrained displeasure, “you bring a mortal here without my leave?”

“Not just any mortal,” Loki said, voice smooth as polished steel. “I found her in Hela’s domain.”

The words drew a visible ripple through the hall.

Frigga’s eyes narrowed in concern. Hermione, standing beside her mother, stepped forward. “You mean you took her there?”

“No,” Loki replied evenly. “She was already there when I arrived.”

Thor’s brow furrowed. “Impossible. No mortal could survive—”

“I’m right here,” Jane cut in, her tone sharp. “And believe me, I wasn’t there on purpose.”

Odin’s gaze fixed on her. “Explain.”

Jane took a deep breath. “I’ve been tracking gravitational anomalies for months. The readings matched what I’d expect from an Einstein–Rosen Bridge. They led me to an abandoned site in London and then suddenly, I wasn’t in London anymore. I was somewhere cold, dark, and empty. Then—” she jabbed a finger toward Loki “—he shows up like it’s just another Tuesday.”

“Because it was,” Loki said lightly. “The convergence has begun. The boundaries between realms are weakening. She slipped through a fracture,” Loki shrugged, “or perhaps it found her.”

Odin’s voice dropped low. “The convergence is deepening sooner than expected.” His eye returned to Jane. “If it touched you, mortal, then you are a thread in its weave and that is dangerous for us all.”

“I told you she shouldn’t remain on Midgard,” Loki said. “So, I acted accordingly.”

Thor’s tone was tight. “You acted without thought for consequence.”

Hermione’s voice cut through. “He acted to protect her. And in this, I agree with him. Father, she should be taken to Eir in the healing rooms. If the convergence is affecting her, we must understand how.”

Odin regarded his daughter for a long moment before giving a single, slow nod. “Very well. See to it.” His gaze flicked to Jane. “And you will answer every question asked of you.”

Jane managed a thin smile. “Not like I have much of a choice.”

Frigga descended from the dais, placing a reassuring hand on Jane’s arm. “You are safe here, Jane Foster. Trust in that.”

Hermione stepped forward. “Come, Ms. Foster. I’ll escort you.”

“I’ll come as well,” Loki said.

“Not without me,” Thor added firmly.

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Wonderful. The three of us. What could possibly go wrong?”

They left the throne room into a sunlit corridor of golden reliefs depicting Asgard’s victories. Jane found herself between Hermione and Thor, with Loki just behind, moving with infuriating ease.

“You know,” Loki said conversationally, “if you keep glowering like that, brother, courtiers will think you’re about to declare war on the furniture.”

Thor shot him a sidelong glare. “If you spent half as much time thinking before you act, I might not have cause to glower at all.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Loki replied.

Hermione groaned. “By the Norns, must you two always?”

Jane muttered, “What is this, godly sibling rivalry hour?”

“Always,” Hermione said without hesitation.

They passed a pair of Einherjar who watched Jane with thinly veiled suspicion. Hermione’s voice lowered. “Asgard runs on old grudges and older politics. Speak plainly, but watch your tongue, some great-great-grandfathers are still alive to be offended.”

Jane gave a dry snort. “Noted.” She glanced back toward Loki. “And him? Is he always so—”

Hermione’s eyes sharpened. “If you’re about to disparage my brother, don’t. He’s not what most think he is. And I will defend him against anyone.”

Jane raised her hands in mock surrender. “Alright. Fierce sister loyalty noted.”

They stepped out onto a high balcony. Below them, the golden city sprawled in all its majesty, bathed in shifting rainbow light. Jane’s irritation cracked under the sheer wonder. “It’s so beautiful.”

“It’s home,” Hermione said softly. Then, with quiet steel, “And it’s worth protecting, which is exactly what my brother and I do. Even if others misunderstand his methods.”

Jane studied her for a moment, then smiled faintly. “I think I like you.”

Hermione smirked. “Good. It’ll make your stay here much easier.”

They arrived at the Healing Chambers, a place of white marble and soft golden light. The air was cool and clean, filled with the faint scent of crushed herbs. Eir, the chief healer, stood waiting, her long robes trailing on the polished floor.

“So this is the mortal who walked into Hela’s realm and returned alive,” Eir said, her tone a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.

“She didn’t just walk in,” Loki corrected. “The convergence brought her there.”

Eir’s brows knit together as she circled Jane, scanning her with a hand glowing faintly with diagnostic magic. “You carry… something,” she murmured. “Residual energy from the rift. It has touched you deeply.”

Jane frowned. “Touched me, how?”

Eir looked to Odin’s children, her expression grave. “It is too early to tell, but this is no simple accident.”

Hermione stepped closer to Jane, resting a reassuring hand on her arm. “We’ll find out what it means.”

Jane tried to smile, but the uncertainty in Eir’s voice lingered like a shadow.

They watched as Eir ran a series of scans, using healing runes which glittered like speckled gold ash floating through the air. She would twist and turn with her fingers, humming thoughtfully at something and then begin again. Jane however, was watching with something akin to wonder on her face, “That's a quantum field generator, isn't it?"

“It’s a soul forge,” Eir responded, not looking at the mortal woman, more concerned with what she was seeing. 

Jane tried very hard not to roll her eyes, “Does a Soul Forge transfer molecular energy from one place to another?"

Eir now turned to look down at the mortal she’d initially dismissed with a surprised look, “Yes.”

Turning towards Hermione, Jane smirked, “Quantam field generator.” 

The Soul Forge’s soft golden light swept over Jane’s form, lattices of energy mapping her essence in delicate, glowing lines. Occasionally, the weave flared crimson, pulsing with an alien rhythm that made the healers exchange wary glances.

“The Soul Forge,” Eir explained evenly, her eyes never leaving the shimmering projection. “reads the truth of the body and the soul and what I see here is not of Midgard, nor of any living host.”

Jane shifted uncomfortably. “Meaning?”

Eir’s gaze lifted to Odin (who had suddenly appeared like smoke, alongside Frigga, who was right behind him), her voice taking on a grave weight. “All-Father, it is the Aether.”

Odin’s jaw tightened not with shock, but with grim confirmation. “So,” he murmured. “It has left Helheim.”

Jane’s eyes darted between them. “Hel-what?”

“Helheim,” Hermione answered before Odin could. “Realm of the dead. Our sister Hela’s domain.”

Odin stepped forward, his presence heavy as the crown on his brow. “My father Bor sealed the Aether there at the end of the last Convergence. Even Malekith could not follow it into my daughter’s realm. It was to be beyond the reach of gods or men.” His single eye narrowed on Jane. “And yet, here it is, inside a mortal from Midgard.”

Frigga’s expression clouded. “Which means the seal is broken if the Aether can leave Helheim…”

“…and so can those who would hunt for it,” Odin finished.

Thor’s fists curled. “Then Malekith will come for her.”

“He will,” Odin said simply. “And he may not come alone.” His gaze cut unintentionally toward Loki. “Malekith has allied with Jotunheim before. Farbauti, Laufey’s father, and he once shared a vision for Asgard’s ruin. Whether that alliance still lives, remains to be seen.”

Natasha’s arms crossed. “Doesn’t sound like the kind of thing we can sit around and find out.”

Odin’s reply was to turn and stride from the healing chamber. “All of you; with me.”

They followed through vaulted corridors until they emerged into a great circular chamber. At its heart towered a depiction of Yggdrasil, its roots and branches spreading across the ceiling and floor. Beside it rested an ancient tome, its blackened leather binding worn from centuries of use.

Odin opened it, the pages spilling golden light. “Before there was light, there was darkness and from that darkness came the Dark Elves: beings older than the stars. They sought not to rule the universe, but to return it to shadow.”

He turned the page to an illustration of Bor, tall and stern, standing amid the carnage of battle. “At the last Convergence, Malekith attempted to wield the Aether to drown the Nine Realms in eternal night. My father led our armies against him. The Dark Elves were defeated and the Aether was hidden in Helheim.”

Jane’s eyes lingered on the image of the swirling, black-red substance curling like smoke around Malekith’s hands. “It’s not a weapon?”

“No,” Odin answered, “it is a force. Fluid, ever-changing, and alive in its own way. It corrupts. It consumes, and now it has chosen you as its host.”

Frigga’s hand came to rest lightly on Jane’s shoulder, her voice soft but firm. “We will find a way to separate it from you.”

Odin closed the book with a resonant thud. “But know this, the Convergence approaches. Malekith will stop at nothing to reclaim what he has lost and the Aether is far more dangerous in your body, Jane Foster, than in the coldest vaults of Helheim.”

The shadow of his words hung over them as they exchanged glances: warriors, sorcerers, spies, and mortals alike. Each feeling the weight of the darkness gathering beyond Asgard’s walls.

Chapter Text

The world was frozen in shades of gray. Snow drifted through the alleyways of Moscow in the winter of 1945, muffling the sounds of war. Somewhere beneath the city, in a chamber lit by harsh white lamps, James Buchanan Barnes opened his eyes for the first time in weeks.

He didn’t remember falling from the HYDRA train.

He didn’t remember the screaming wind or the icy river that swallowed him whole.

He didn’t remember the hands that dragged him from the banks, half-dead and bleeding, into the belly of a hidden facility.

But Arnim Zola remembered.

The Swiss scientist stood over him with clinical detachment, his face obscured by the glare of the light. “Sergeant Barnes,” he said in a voice that was almost gentle. “You are very fortunate we found you. But you have lost much.”

The missing arm. 

The fractured skull. 

The shattered memory. 

All replaced, repaired, rewritten. 

The steel prosthetic that would one day make him legend gleamed under the lights.

They rebuilt him not as a man, but as a weapon.

Years bled together. Cryogenic sleep between missions. Waking only when the kill list required him. His mind wiped and rewritten so many times that even the concept of self became meaningless. In HYDRA’s records, he was not James Barnes. 

He was the Winter Soldier.

And even now, fifty years later, it was all Bucky Barnes remembered.

Elsewhere in the heart of London, the rain had just begun to fall, turning the narrow streets slick with reflected lamplight. Inside a rented flat above a tailor’s shop, the curtains were drawn and the air was heavy with the scent of strong tea and damp wool.

Steve Rogers sat at a weathered table littered with scattered files, grainy photographs, and half-empty mugs. An old file photo of Bucky Barnes; the Bucky he’d known before the war, lay at the center, its corners worn from being handled too often.

Natasha Romanov leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her leather jacket creaking faintly as she shifted. “You’re chasing a ghost, Rogers.”

Steve didn’t look up. “Not a ghost. My friend. And if HYDRA has him, I’m going to bring him back.”

Her voice was calm, but there was tension under it. “You’re not the only one who’s crossed his path.”

That made Steve glance up. “You’ve seen him?”

Natasha’s lips curved into something between a smile and a grimace. “Years ago. The Red Room training program sent me on an extraction mission in Kiev and my contact didn’t show. But he did. I thought I was about to die, but instead, he pulled me out. Trained me for a month in infiltration and weapons work. I never did know his name and never saw his face. Just the mask. The metal arm. And the fact that he could take down a room full of operatives without breaking a sweat.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “You’re saying he was your—”

“—mentor?” She shook her head. “Not exactly. More like a ghost assigned to make me better and then he vanished, like he’d never been there. It wasn’t until years later I learned they called him the Winter Soldier. And by then, he was already a legend.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “He’s not. He’s just Bucky.”

“Maybe to you, but to everyone else in my world, he’s an executioner with no past and no mercy. And Steve—” she stepped forward, voice low, “—if you go after him, you’ll need to be ready for the possibility that your friend doesn’t exist anymore. HYDRA has a way of erasing what came before.”

Steve didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll just have to remind him.”

“I’m going to head out and meet my contact,” Natasha said suddenly, putting an end to their emotional exchange, which always made her feel uncomfortable.

Steve just had this way of being so earnest and good…it left her skin crawling, and not in a good way.

“You want company?”

“Only if you make yourself scarce.” Natasha warned, “My contact tends to get jittery with people he doesn’t know.”

As they left, little did Natasha and Steve know that thousands of miles away, in the dim back room of a seedy wizarding tavern tucked in the oldest quarter of St. Petersburg, Draco Malfoy was sitting across an old worn table from a man whose presence made the shadows feel deeper.

The Russian wizard’s hair was streaked with silver, but his frame was still whipcord lean, his long fingers restless against a half-empty glass. His name was Kirill Dolohov—cousin to Antonin Dolohov—whose reputation in the magical underworld needed no embellishment. Kirill’s eyes held the same cold, assessing gleam as his infamous relative, though there was a hint of sly amusement lurking beneath.

“You’re certain this is accurate?” Draco’s voice was low, each syllable deliberate.

Kirill smirked faintly. “You think I’d waste your time with fairy tales?” The wizard’s voice was raspy and deep, “This came from a very reliable source: a man with blood ties to my family. Not a wizard, but…connected. Knows where to look. Knows how to stay alive.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “A squib?”

Kirill’s smirk widened, but he didn’t answer directly. “Some family lines are complicated. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

On the table between them lay a weathered folder bound in dragonhide. Inside were photographs and documents that should have been lost to both magical and Muggle history—grainy shots of HYDRA labs, diagrams of steel prosthetics, and lists of materials too rare to exist in the Muggle world without magical intervention.

Draco’s fingers rested on one of the reports. “Dragon embryos?”

Kirill nodded once. “Rare. Potent. HYDRA’s been weaving them into their serum for decades. Not just science but old magic, and weaponized. Gives more power than any Muggle could ever dream of wielding on their own. Whomever they’re using it on, won’t be easy to kill.”

Draco’s gaze sharpened. “I’ve heard whispers about this. Strucker? Lukin?”

Kirill’s expression turned wolfish. “You’ve already met them, haven’t you? At that little soirée in Romania. What was it, again? A dragon sanctuary charity benefit?”

Draco didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. The memory of the charity gala was still sharp: champagne glasses clinking, the glitter of rare dragon eggs behind enchanted glass, and the calculating smiles of men who saw Draco Malfoy as nothing more than a Ministry stooge.

“They will regret this,” Draco said at last. “This violates the Statute of Secrecy in so many ways, it’s astounding. Do you have any idea how long this has been going on?”

Kirill’s smile thinned. “Long enough that its roots are older than HYDRA itself. In the beginning, the research was commissioned at the behest of Grindelwald. He had a fascination with hybridizing magic and science, and was not above using Muggle war machines to do it.”

“Grindelwald hated Muggles,” Draco felt compelled to point out, his tone sharpened with distaste.

Kirill gave a slow, humorless smile. “Hated them? Yes. But used them? That, young Malfoy, is a different matter entirely.”

Draco sat back, mind turning over the implications. Grindelwald’s hand in this meant that HYDRA’s hybridization of science and magic wasn’t some opportunistic afterthought, it was legacy. One passed down in shadow, surviving wars and regime changes, buried in both magical and Muggle history.

Kirill lifted his glass. “Germany, Draco. That’s where the thread has always crossed. You have your in with Strucker and Lukin, so use it. Before someone else does.”

“Why are you helping me?” Draco wondered aloud, “I know you’re cursorily aware of at least some of the rumors of what befell Antonin?”

Kirill shrugged, unbothered, “Antonin was a powerful wizard, but his mind was warped and twisted. Following the Dark Lord ruined him.”

“I don’t think he’d agree with your assessment.”

“Yet he’s dead, yes?”

Draco smirked knowingly, and Kirill’s gaze narrowed at the smug expression, “He likely wishes he was dead.” Draco admitted at last before his jaw tightened, “I suppose it’s time to see what game Strucker is really playing at.”

Draco left Kirill’s table with a brisk nod and the dragonhide folder tucked neatly under his arm. The St. Petersburg night air was sharp, biting through his tailored coat as he crossed the cobblestoned street to where Narcissa waited in a black town car.

She arched one perfect eyebrow as he slid into the seat beside her. “Well?”

He set the folder on her lap. “We leave for Berlin tomorrow. Strucker and Lukin aren’t expecting us for another few days, however, it might be a good idea to catch them unaware.”

Narcissa’s gloved fingers brushed the folder’s worn surface. “It’s always a good idea to arrive when they least want you there.”

“Exactly.” Draco allowed himself a thin smile. “Kirill confirmed what I’ve been suspecting for a while now. The serum, muggle super soldiers, leading to Statute violations. Yet I didn’t expect it to share a connection older than HYDRA itself. Grindelwald.”

Her eyes narrowed faintly. “Then tread carefully, Draco. Old blood leaves deep stains.”

Later that same night in London, Natasha Romanov slipped into a quiet side street where Steve Rogers stood under the dim glow of a streetlamp, his coat collar turned up against the rain.

“Did you get the intel?” Steve asked without preamble.

Natasha studied him for a moment before tossing a small flash drive into Steve’s outstretched palm. “Courtesy of someone who doesn’t want to be named. Apparently, HYDRA’s been busy in Europe. We might even find your ghost there.”

Steve eyed in the drive, and when they got into the car, he watched uneasily as Natasha pulled out a laptop and took the flash drive, plugged it in and a second later the screen immediately filled with images; surveillance shots of a tall, broad-shouldered man with a metal arm, moving like a predator through crowded streets.

It wasn’t the past staring back at him.

It was the weapon HYDRA had turned his best friend into.

Natasha’s expression was unreadable. “More than I was hoping for, actually. Looks like Strucker’s in Berlin. Lukin too. And if we’re lucky, your ghost.”

Steve’s jaw set. “Then we leave at first light.”

Two similar looking sedans drove along the lonely and deserted road, one bound for a private airstrip under the Malfoy name, the other headed for a SHIELD safehouse. Neither pair knew that their paths in Berlin would converge in a storm of steel, gunfire, and long-buried secrets.

Chapter Text

Berlin in winter gleamed cold and sharp under the lamplight. The marble façade of the museum hosting An Evening for Preservation stood pristine against the frost. Inside, Baron von Strucker’s gala was in full swing, a curated display of rare artifacts and cultural treasures and, beneath the surface, something far more calculated.

Draco Malfoy entered with unhurried grace, Narcissa at his side in deep green silk while Natasha Romanov remained a step behind, her eyes sweeping exits and security positions.

They hadn’t taken five steps before a familiar voice cut through the hum of conversation.

“Lord Malfoy. Lady Malfoy. How fortunate we are to meet again so soon.”

Olivia Shardlow approached in sapphire silk, her dark hair swept into a precise knot. Beside her stood Victor Krum, the Bulgarian Quidditch legend turned private investor, looking as if evening wear were a mild inconvenience.

Draco’s smile was polite, with just enough warmth to pass muster. “Miss Shardlow. Mister Krum. Berlin suits you both.”

“It serves its purpose,” Olivia replied, her gaze flicking briefly toward the far end of the room. “And when friends extend invitations, it would be rude to decline.”

Narcissa’s lips curved faintly. “We were just remarking on the Baron’s taste in guests.”

Krum’s accent cut cleanly through the refined air. “Better than last time. Fewer speeches. More business.”

“Business,” Draco echoed mildly, though his eyes were cool.

Baron von Strucker and Alexander Lukin joined them, smiles honed to perfection.

“Lord Malfoy. Lady Malfoy. Miss Shardlow. Mister Krum,” Strucker greeted smoothly. “Berlin is honored by your presence.”

“Your gala does the city credit,” Narcissa returned, matching his civility measure for measure.

“This evening is about safeguarding our shared history,” Strucker continued. “Preserving it for the generations to come.”

“Preservation is noble,” Draco said lightly, “provided it doesn’t come at the cost of inconvenient truths.”

Lukin’s eyes narrowed just enough to show he’d heard the undertone. “Sometimes survival matters more than truth.”

“And sometimes,” Narcissa countered, “survival isn’t enough.”

Olivia’s gaze flickered toward the east wing, just for a heartbeat, before she turned back to the conversation, but Natasha caught the look.

Strucker’s smile sharpened. “Enjoy the evening, my friends. There is more to see than meets the eye.”

For the next two hours, Draco and Narcissa moved easily among the Baron’s other guests, diplomats, collectors, industrial magnates, and the sort of old-money aristocracy that preferred their political influence subtle but absolute. Narcissa spoke of art and history with a precision that suggested genuine interest, while Draco’s charm was more calculated; each conversation probed for allegiances, for names worth remembering and ones best avoided.

Olivia Shardlow reappeared briefly, exchanging pleasantries with a tall man from the Swiss banking sector before moving on. Victor Krum lingered at the edge of a conversation between Draco and Lukin, silent but observant, his dark eyes following every word.

Draco accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, raising it in polite acknowledgment to a French countess he had no intention of speaking to again. Narcissa stood a pace away, trading compliments with a French antiquities dealer, her manner so effortlessly regal that Strucker’s younger guests leaned in just to bask in her attention.

Natasha stayed close enough to remain in their orbit, but not so close as to intrude. She listened, measured, weighed the patterns in the room and when she saw Olivia’s second, sharper glance toward the east wing, she knew exactly where she needed to be.

“Excuse me,” she murmured to Narcissa, with the sort of smile that held unspoken communication.

Narcissa inclined her head. “Of course.”

Natasha moved away, her trajectory casual to the casual eye but her focus already shifting toward the restricted wing. She passed through a narrow corridor lined with 18th-century armor, her heels silent on polished marble. Two HYDRA guards stood at a side junction up ahead, speaking in low German. Natasha slowed her pace, letting their words filter back to her:

“…shipment leaves tonight. Lukin wants it in secure transit before midnight.”

“…Strucker says not to move until the other piece arrives. No mistakes this time.”

Other piece? 

Were they talking something or someone?

Natasha minutely shook her head and filed it away.

She turned down a service hall, the lighting colder here, the air smelling faintly of oil and old wood. A camera’s red light blinked in the corner, too new for a museum this old. She kept her face angled away, posture casual making sure to head towards the Ladies Room at the end of the hallway.

A single guard rounded the far corner, moving in her direction. Natasha ducked into a shallow alcove hidden behind a massive Flemish tapestry. The fabric smelled of dust and history. She waited until the guard passed, then slipped out, silent as smoke.

The east wing was just ahead, the keypad door gleaming under a single spotlight. She was three steps from it when movement in her peripheral vision made her pause.

Narcissa Malfoy emerged from the shadows, calm as if she’d been waiting for Natasha to arrive.

“You’re far from the main floor,” Narcissa observed.

“I could say the same for you,” Natasha replied evenly.

Narcissa’s gaze flicked toward the keypad door. “My son is interested in what’s behind that glass.”

Natasha was about to answer when movement caught her eye again, two HYDRA guards heading directly toward them.

She leaned in, her voice low. “You want what’s in that room? I’ll give you thirty seconds. Don’t waste it.”

Narcissa didn’t hesitate. While Natasha stepped into the guards’ path with a disarming smile: “Evening, gentlemen”—Narcissa glided to the door. Wards fell under her practiced touch, the lock yielded, and she slipped inside.

The air was cooler here, and when Narcissa walked further inside, she discovered four dragon eggs resting under triple-layer glass, their mottled shells faintly pulsing with life, and likely Romanian stock. She took out a runic charmed pin and held it to the glass case, nodding her head when she noted the warding layers intersecting. Placing the tip of her pin at the fulcrum, the spell instantly dissolved and she lifted each egg carefully into her enchanted handbag which had an undetectable extension charm embedded inside. Once all the eggs were safely put away, Narcissa tapped the silver Malfoy family brooch on her gown twice and murmured, Malfoy Manor—and she vanished, portkey carrying her straight back to Wiltshire.

Natasha managed to charm lackey #1 and #2 and was walking back towards the main hallway when she saw several of Strucker’s men now hurrying in her direction.

“What are you doing back here?” The largest of the three asked, “Looking for the Ladies Room?” Natasha’s practiced answer didn’t seem to entirely convince goon #3, but he aggressively gestured towards the far end of the corridor. 

She didn’t wait, heading down the hallway in a hurried step, and once she was inside the powder room and making sure no one was inside, whispered into her comm’s, “Draco, I’m coming out. HYDRA’s on the move.”

Right as she found Draco, Natasha heard Steve’s voice saying with a sense of urgency, “Strucker is on the move. He just left the building in a black sedan.”

Outside, Steve Rogers was waiting in a similar vehicle, its engine now running.

“They’re two blocks ahead,” he said as Natasha slid into the driver’s seat. Steve closed her door and ran around to the passenger side, while Draco slid into the back seat.

“What happened?” Natasha demanded, tires squealing on the pavement signaling their haste to give chase.

“I saw Strucker leaving with Lukin and they didn’t look too pleased.” Steve explained, “I did manage to put a tracking beacon on their car right before they exited the building.” He then glanced back at Draco, “And you?”

“My mother was able to get what I came here for.” Draco’s nervous gaze flittered out into the night as Natasha deftly wove around every car they came upon with unerring precision. He didn’t like Muggle transportation, but sometimes it was a necessary evil. 

“Do I want to know?” Steve asked, but the look on Draco’s face told Steve he wasn’t going to be graced with an answer. 

The chase continued to move through Berlin’s frozen streets, until the roof above Natasha dented inward with a metallic shriek. Metal fingers ripped through, and Natasha quickly slammed the brakes, causing the intruder to flip forward over the hood, landing in a crouched position as traffic swerved.

Steve’s voice was low. “Bucky?”

The Winter Soldier didn’t answer, just fired. The round slammed into Natasha’s shoulder, blood spreading dark through her dress. She gritted her teeth, managing to disengage her revolver from under her dress and firing back one-handed.

Steve met Bucky in the street, shield against metal arm, each blow ringing like a hammer on steel. Draco managed to get Natasha out of the car, wand angled low, no witnesses to magic tonight as he stemmed the flow of blood temporarily. 

Steve right then, hooked his shield under the Soldier’s mask and tore it away.

Bucky Barnes stared back: older, colder, eyes without recognition.

“Bucky…” Steve breathed.

A flicker crossed the Soldier’s face before he drove a fist into Steve’s ribs.

Then from a distance, a HYDRA van pulled up at the end of the road and suddenly, a sniper’s rifle cracked. Draco moved instinctively, stepping between the shot and Natasha and the bullet caught him high in the right side of his chest, driving him back into the car.

“Draco!” Natasha’s voice sharpened with urgency.

Steve quickly placed himself between Draco, Natasha and the sniper, shielding the sniper’s weapon. Unfortunately, Strucker and Lukin’s sedan had well vanished into the night. 

The Winter Soldier gave one last scowl and vaulted onto a passing truck, and he too, was gone only seconds later.

Natasha dropped beside Draco, pressing her hand to the wound. “Stay with me.”

“Not…leaving,” he rasped.

They heard the sound of sirens as they wailed closer. Steve was about to haul Draco into the back seat, but Natasha shook her head violently and reached into her dress, closing her fingers around the cool stone of the disillusioned necklace Loki had given her. It shimmered faintly under her touch, magic pulsing through it like a heartbeat.

With the cold wind cutting across her face, Natasha cried desperately out into the night: “Loki!”

Chapter Text

The golden light of Asgard’s healing rooms faded as Jane stepped out with Hermione. The mortal’s posture was straight, but her expression still carried traces of wary awe.

“Well,” Jane said, glancing back toward the ornate archway, “that was…enlightening. And mildly terrifying.”

“Eir can be both,” Hermione replied with a small smile. “She means well. Usually.”

Down the marble corridor, Thor and Loki followed—though “followed” was a generous term. Thor’s long stride carried him forward in bursts of irritation, while Loki’s languid pace and constant commentary caused Thor to halt his pace more than once.

“I still say dragging her here was unnecessary,” Thor grumbled.

“Oh yes,” Loki drawled, “because leaving her in Hela’s domain to be slowly dismantled by our darling sister’s curiosity would have been the far wiser option.”

“I could have handled it,” Thor shot back.

“Of course you could,” Loki said silkily. “Just like you ‘handled’ that diplomatic dinner in Alfheim when—”

“Do not bring that up!”

Hermione’s lips twitched, and Jane caught it. “Are they always like this?”

“Only when they’re in the same realm,” Hermione murmured.

“Charming,” Jane muttered, though the corner of her mouth hinted at reluctant amusement.

They eventually passed beneath a large arched window and Jane could see how Asgard’s golden spires stretched out in the twilight. Thor surged ahead to hold open the door to the guest wing, managing to glare at both Jane and Loki in one sweeping glance.

Jane lifted her chin. “Thanks. Very medieval chivalry of you.”

Thor blinked, uncertain if that was a compliment or an insult. Loki smirked though, while Hermione pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

Inside, Hermione guided Jane toward a large chamber lined with silk hangings and lit by floating lanterns. “You’ll be comfortable here. If you need anything, just ask. But maybe not Thor.”

“That,” Jane said dryly, “was already my plan.”

Thor went to open his mouth, but Loki’s snort drowned out whatever he’d intended to say. Hermione quickly shooed both her brother’s back toward the hall.

“Go. Somewhere else. Anywhere.”

They’d barely stepped outside when Loki went still. His head tilted, eyes narrowing as though listening to something far away.

Hermione noticed immediately. “What is it?”

Loki didn’t answer at first. The distant echo of Natasha’s voice carried through the magic of the cool stone—urgent, calling his name. His jaw tightened.

“It’s Natasha,” he said finally.

Hermione’s eyes sharpened. “And?”

“She’s in trouble.”

Thor frowned. “On Midgard?”

“Yes,” Loki replied shortly. He reached for Thor’s arm. “Hold on.”

Without further warning, a surge of magic enveloped them, folding light and space in on itself causing the golden corridors of Asgard to vanish.

They instantly reappeared in the cold night of Berlin, the tang of exhaust and gunpowder fresh in the air. Just ahead, Natasha was kneeling beside Draco, blood staining her hands. Steve hovered over them, trying to keep pressure on the wound.

Loki took measure of the situation in a heartbeat and realized Hermione was going to be devastated. He then crouched beside Natasha, eyes scanning her quickly. His gaze snagged on the spreading crimson at her shoulder.

“You’re injured,” he observed, voice low but edged.

Natasha didn’t even glance at her shoulder. “Occupational hazard. You should see the other guy.”

Loki’s expression flattened. “You’re bleeding.”

“And you’re chatty,” she said, leaning harder on Draco’s wound. “Pick one to fix.”

Thor’s mouth twitched despite the tension, but his eyes stayed on the shadows of the street, Mjolnir in hand.

“Enough,” Loki said sharply. “We take them back to Asgard, now.”

Steve looked up from Draco. “You can move him?”

“I can do more than that,” Loki replied, already reaching for Draco’s arm and Natasha’s shoulder. Thor stepped in beside him, gripping his shoulder firmly.

Steve frowned. “You’re leaving me here?”

“You need to report to SHIELD… and Lord Malfoy’s Ministry,” Loki said. “This is no place for mortal politics to follow.”

Steve’s gaze hardened. “Watch yourself.”

Without further warning, Loki’s magic surged, bright and cold, folding the world around them until the Berlin street and its chaos vanished—leaving Steve alone with the wail of distant sirens and the weight of what he would have to explain.

They all landed in the heart of Asgard’s healing halls, the air warm and scented faintly of herbs. Gilded light reflected off polished floors as healers moved swiftly toward them.

“Draco!” Hermione cried, moving forward in the healing room with fear when she saw who Loki had brought back with him, taking note of all the blood and guiding Draco onto the nearest healing table. His pale skin stood out starkly against the green silk beneath him. She’d decided to come back here on the off-chance that Natasha was really hurt, but not expecting to see Draco with what was clearly a gunshot wound in his chest  

Natasha remained standing until Eir, the head healer, approached with a sharp look.

“You’ll be next,” Eir said firmly.

“I’m fine,” Natasha countered.

“You are not fine,” Loki said, stepping in front of her. “You are bleeding, my Lady.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “If I say I’ve had worse, will that make you feel better?”

Thor grunted. “She is impossible.”

“Which is why I like her,” Loki muttered, before turning away to bark an order to the healers.

Hermione remained fixated at Draco’s side, her hand gripping his, her face pale. “You’re going to be fine. You hear me? You have to be fine.” Her voice cracked on the last word, but her gaze never left him.

Eir murmured an incantation, runes flaring briefly over Draco’s chest before she began her work.

About twenty minutes later she finally straightened, and Eir addressed Hermione directly. “We have stabilized him, my Princess. His injuries are severe, but the magic sustaining him is strong. He will need to remain in a healing coma for some time.”

Hermione nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Eir.”

Eir’s sharp eyes softened. “He is in the best place he can be. Rest assured, Princess—we will not lose him.”

As Eir and her assistants moved away, Frigga (having been immediately notified by one of the assistant healers of the situation) stepped forward, her hand warm on Hermione’s arm. “Walk with me, my Hermione.”

They moved through an arched hall where the air was cooler and quieter; the bustle of healers left behind.

“I can see the depth of your care for him,” Frigga said softly. “You do so remind me of myself, long ago.”

Hermione managed a faint smile. “And did Father approve of your choices back then?”

Frigga’s lips curved knowingly. “He did not have to as I chose my own path.”

Hermione’s gaze fell to the mosaic floor. “Draco shouldn’t have been there tonight. He almost died because—” She stopped, her throat tight.

“Because the world is rarely safe for those we love,” Frigga finished. “That is not your fault, my Hermione.”

They paused near a tall balcony, the stars of Asgard bright above. Frigga’s expression softened, but her voice lowered. “There are many things you do not yet know about the paths that lie ahead and allies you may not expect.”

Hermione looked at her sharply. “Mother, what are you saying?”

Frigga did not answer directly. Instead, she rested her hand briefly against Hermione’s cheek. “I must speak with someone. For now, stay by Draco’s side. Your strength will matter more than you realize and just remember, your love is the light that binds all of Asgard. Whatever happens, just know that I am so proud of you.”

Frigga give her daughter a brief kiss on the forehead and left, her steps more purposeful now as her path winded toward a secluded wing few ever entered without invitation. She passed beneath a warded archway, the magic brushing her skin like cool water, and entered a small, dim chamber lit by a single silver lamp.

A shimmer moved in the air before her, then coalesced into a tall figure clad in black and green, her pale eyes sharp as moonlight.

“Hela,” Frigga said quietly.

“Mother,” Hela replied, her voice both edged and curious. “I did so wonder when you would call.”

“I would not disturb your exile without cause,” Frigga said, stepping closer. “But the Convergence is beginning. The Aether stirs, and so does Malekith.”

Hela tilted her head, the faintest flicker of interest in her gaze. “The Dark Elf who thinks the Nine Realms should drown in shadow? I had heard whispers.”

“He will not act alone,” Frigga continued. “I believe he courts allies beyond Svartálfheim. Laufey still stirs in Jotunheim, and his ambitions match Malekith’s thirst for destruction.”

Hela’s mouth curved in something between amusement and disdain. “Laufey. That old frost relic still thinks he can best Asgard?”

“Even relics can be dangerous when given opportunity,” Frigga warned. “And should the Aether fall into Malekith’s grasp, even Odin’s spear may not be enough.”

“And you think I would fight for Father after being sent here?” Hela asked, the sharp edge of her smile revealing nothing.

“I think,” Frigga said, her tone steady, “that Asgard will need all of her children before this ends.”

For a long moment, silence hung between them, the air taut with the unspoken weight of history. 

Finally, Hela inclined her head. “Very well,” she said softly. “If the Dark Elf comes, I will be ready. But tell Father nothing of this conversation. I will not be summoned like his pet hound.”

Frigga allowed the faintest smile. “You are no one’s hound, my dearest daughter.”

Hela bowed her head briefly, but her bright blue eyes were filled with an emotion Frigga had thought long lost when it came to her eldest. 

“Be careful, my daughter.” Frigga warned, “Do not let your thirst for war cloud what is really important.”

As the shimmer between them began to fade, and Hela’s form began to dissolve into mist, her voice lingered in the air like a whisper over steel, “We will see who hunts whom, Mother.”

Frigga stood alone in the dim chamber, the silver lamp flickering against the stone. War was coming and her pieces were already moving into place. She could only hope when all was said and done, her children would be the heroes Asgard needed them to be. 

Anything less than such, would see the rise and fall of Ragnarok.

Chapter Text

The scent of burning herbs lingered in the air as Natasha swung her legs over the edge of the healing bed. The bandage at her shoulder was clean and tight, but she still tested the joint with a small roll, wincing only slightly.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Eir, the head healer, said without looking up from the rune scroll she was recording.

“I am,” Natasha replied, sliding off the bed. “I’m resting in a vertical position.”

Thor chuckled from his seat near the wall. “I like her. She’s stubborn.”

“Not stubborn,” Natasha corrected, pulling on her jacket. “Efficient.”

Loki stood beside her, arms folded, gaze cool but attentive. “You should stay. Eir’s methods may not be what you’re used to, but they work.”

Natasha smirked. “I’ll take that as Asgardian for ‘I was worried.’”

“Interpret however you like,” Loki said, but there was the faintest quirk to his mouth.

Before their conversation could deepen, Thor clapped his hands. “Enough brooding. We are going to the Golden Horn. Mead, music, and perhaps a tavern brawl if Volstagg drinks too quickly.”

As they left the Healing Rooms, they nearly collided with Hermione in the corridor. She looked tired but alert, her hair loose around her shoulders.

“Brár,” Loki greeted, his voice softening. “We’re going to the Golden Horn. Come with us?”

Hermione shook her head at once. “No. I’m staying with Draco. I promised I wouldn’t leave him.”

“You can’t sit by his bed forever,” Loki said, though without judgment.

“I can tonight,” she replied simply. “Go. Have your mead. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Loki inclined his head, understanding, before following Thor, Natasha, and Jane toward the tavern.

The tavern was warm and loud, the air heavy with the scent of roasted boar, honeyed mead, and woodsmoke from the great hearth. The Warriors Three were already gathered around an oak table piled with tankards and platters.

“Thor!” Volstagg boomed, standing to clasp him in a crushing hug. “And you’ve brought guests!”

Fandral’s eyes slid past Natasha, landing on Jane with a charming grin. “And this is…?”

Before Thor could speak, Loki answered smoothly, “Jane Foster. A mortal scholar of the stars… and my guest.”

Jane glanced at him. “At least someone’s willing to say I was invited.”

Thor folded his arms, glaring at Loki. “You brought her here without telling anyone. Without telling me.”

Jane’s chin lifted. “Well, I didn’t exactly get a chance to send out a press release about it either.”

“Perhaps because you were in Hel when he found you,” Thor shot back. “What sane person wanders into Hela’s domain?”

Jane’s glare sharpened. “What sane person blames the victim for where they end up?”

Volstagg roared with laughter. “She has spirit! I like her already.”

“Spirit is one word,” Loki murmured, sliding into a seat beside Natasha with a satisfied smile.

Hogun regarded Jane with calm curiosity. “You came through the Bifrost?”

“Yes,” Jane admitted, the scientist in her momentarily overriding her annoyance. “And yes, it matches Einstein-Rosen bridge theory almost perfectly—wormhole physics, visible. Although the color spectrum—”

“—is shaped by the will of the Norns,” Thor interrupted, his tone edged.

Jane arched a brow. “Or multi-dimensional light refraction. But sure, magic.”

“It is magic,” Thor said flatly, “though perhaps you prefer to reduce it to numbers you can control.”

“Numbers explain things,” Jane retorted. “Magic just tells you to stop asking questions.”

Loki leaned back, clearly enjoying himself. “Do carry on. This is far more entertaining than Volstagg’s hunting stories.”

The mead flowed freely. Volstagg eventually launched into a tale about wrestling a frost boar, which Natasha listened to with mild amusement. Fandral flirted with her unsuccessfully, and Loki, between smirks, poked holes in Volstagg’s story until the man was swearing on his beard that every word was true.

Jane, though seated across from Thor, traded just enough sharp comments with him to make it clear neither intended to yield ground.

When they finally stepped into the cool night air, Natasha said to Loki, “Your family dinners must be exhausting.”

“You have no idea,” Loki replied.

It was later in the night and the corridors of the palace were much quieter now, the golden light had softened to a gentle glow. Loki slipped inside the healing chamber, the faint creak of leather marking his steps. Hermione was still there, seated beside Draco’s bed, her hand resting lightly over his. She didn’t look up when she spoke.

“You’re late, bróðir.”

“I was…persuaded to socialize,” Loki said, leaning against the wall. “Thor seems to think camaraderie is a cure-all.”

Hermione’s lips curved faintly. “And did it work?”

“Perhaps.” He crossed the room, his gaze dropping to Draco’s still form. “How is he?”

“Stable,” she said softly. “Eir thinks he’ll wake in a few days. But it’s hard, not knowing.”

Loki’s eyes lingered on her face. “That is not the only thing weighing on you.”

She hesitated, her fingers curling slightly over Draco’s. “I’ve…been reluctant to forgive him. For what he did at Hogwarts. For the war. For standing by while terrible things happened.”

“And yet,” Loki said lightly, “here you sit, unwilling to leave his side.”

Hermione’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Because somewhere along the way, I forgot this wasn’t just about me anymore. We’re soulmates, Loki. I spent seven seasons running from that truth and telling myself I needed to find who I was without him, to heal on my own. But maybe I was just avoiding him…avoiding us. And now…” Her throat tightened. “Now he’s lying here, and I’m realizing just how much time I’ve wasted.”

“You think you were shortsighted,” Loki said, his tone gentler than she expected.

“I was,” she admitted. “I am. I thought I could define my life without acknowledging the bond between us, as though it were an inconvenience. But the truth is, it’s not just my story anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

Her hand trembled slightly as she smoothed the blanket over Draco’s arm. “And what if he can’t forgive me for that? What if he wakes up and decides he wants Astoria and a life on Midgard, away from all of this?” She looked at Loki, fear naked in her eyes. “Where does that leave me?”

Loki studied her for a long moment before answering. “Then you will survive. You are not defined solely by who stands beside you. Soulmate bonds are not shackles, brár. They are threads—strong, but not unbreakable. If he chooses another path, it will hurt, yes…but it will not end you.”

“It would feel like it,” Hermione whispered.

“Perhaps for a time,” Loki allowed. “But you are not one to wither in someone else’s absence. And if he does choose you, then every season you spent apart will only make the story richer.”

Hermione’s lips curved faintly. “You always know what to say.”

“Of course,” Loki replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’m your brother. It’s my business to know.”

They stayed there in silence for a while longer, two siblings bound by magic and choice, the shadows of what was coming pressing at the edges of the quiet.

“Do you ever wonder what we’d be doing if Father hadn’t sent me to Midgard?” Hermione inquired softly, “If I’d never helped Harry, met Draco? You might have never met Natasha?”

Loki shrugged, “I don’t know about that,” he replied easily, “I’d like to entertain the idea that I would have met Natasha regardless of circumstance. Perhaps not in the way in which we’ve now become acquainted, but who knows what chosen path might have made itself known.”

“Mother did share with me the consequence of my thread.”

“Oh?” Hermione nodded, “And?”

“Draco has always been at the other end of my string, but I suspect our path would be fraught with challenges, some too insurmountable to overcome.”

“I know enough of Mother’s gift to understand that once you were sent to Midgard as Hermione Granger, there would very likely exist a reality in which you were born of the same.”

“Mother said as much.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Glancing at Draco, Hermione sighed, “I know enough of the expectations placed on Draco Malfoy, Pureblood Wizard and Heir to the Sacred 28, that if I’d been born a true muggleborn witch, he’d never have given me any consideration.”

“Even after what happened in the war?”

“Even then.” She admitted lowly at Loki’s displeased scowl, “We both know as children of the Royal House of Odin, under normal circumstances, Father would likely never have allowed us to bind ourselves to mortals.”

“And yet, he defers to Mother’s wisdom in all things.”

Hermione carefully ran her hand through Draco’s silky locks, brushing a few loose strands from his face, “Draco has always deferred to his parents, his mother in particular. I think he’d likely marry whomever Narcissa wanted him to.”

“Strange, is it not?” Loki postulated, “The similarities of expectation which make their demand upon each of you.”

Hermione glanced up at her brother to already find him watching her closely, “Do you think I could be happy with him?”

“I think, my dearest sister, you already know the answer to that question and that’s not truly the question which plagues you.”

“Oh?” She inquired sharply, “Then what is?”

“Whether or not Father will allow Draco to partake of the Apple of Idunn, and whether or not Draco would wish to spend an eternity here on Asgard with you.”

Hermione didn’t comment on Loki’s wisdom, because she knew he was correct. It was a huge sacrifice to ask Draco to watch as everyone he’d ever known, die a mortal death, while he lived on for thousands of years. 

By the Norns, if Voldemort ever suspected the apples were real, who knew what he might have done to try and procure one for his very own. 

“You should get some sleep, Loki.”

“As should you.”

“I will eventually.” Hermione promised, “As soon as I know he’s going to make a full recovery and wake up.” Her eyes then widened with horror, “Did anyone think of telling his mother?”

“Mother had Muninn send a missive, much to Father’s displeasure.”

That caused Hermione to smile in relief, “Good.” She said, “Draco wouldn’t want his mother to worry.”

“An admirable trait we all share.”

Chapter Text

The Himinbjorg thrummed with the low, eternal hum of the Bifrost’s power. Heimdall stood at his post like a living blade, eyes fixed upon the skein of the cosmos. Stars burned and died across distances that meant nothing to him; he felt the ripples long before they reached any other sight.

A seam in space…a quiet wound.

His gaze narrowed. Far beyond the rim, reality pinched inward and the void swallowed starlight. A vast T-shape slid against the dark, not reflecting brilliance but devouring it. Cloaked. Calculated. The great Harrow ship prowled the edge of perception, its singular red aperture dimmed to a predator’s pupil.

“Malekith,” Heimdall murmured, his voice iron.

The Harrow did not fire. It glided. Waited. Drew eyes outward.

And in the breath stolen by that distraction, another trespass crossed the palace threshold.

Heimdall turned his head, just so. “Alert the Einherjar,” he said to no one and to everything. “The shadow wears two faces.”

The warning horns began to sound.

On Vanaheim, the moonlight is silver, and the rivers sing to the shore. It was there, in a coven older than the first Asgardian vault, that Frigga was born. She was the daughter of a High Seeress, trained in the old ways—runes and scrying, weaving charms into the wind, bending light to illusion. Her childhood was filled with the scent of juniper and ash, the hum of spells on the air, and the laughter of women who shaped destiny as easily as they shaped thread.

When the time came for her to leave the safety of the coven, it was not for love but for war. The Nine Realms teetered on the brink, and Odin All-Father, (young still in his reign but already a conqueror), sought an alliance that could root his victories in something lasting. Vanaheim’s loyalty could not be bought with gold or steel; it had to be bound by blood.

The marriage was arranged in the Hall of Banners under a sky raked with firelight. Frigga remembered her first sight of Odin: tall, grave, both eyes still bright with the clear light of youth, and how that gaze weighed her like she was a treaty, not a bride.

Their first six centuries together were a study in collision. Odin, all iron and thunder, looked upon magic as a tool to be used sparingly, while Frigga saw it as the heartbeat of life itself. He built walls; she opened doors. Arguments sparked over council tables and in shadowed corridors, their voices sharp enough to send servants scattering.

But there were other moments—small, unguarded ones—where respect began to take root. A council session where he let her speak first. A battlefield where her illusions saved his life. Nights under the same roof without war to plan, where silence was companionable rather than cold.

Hela was born in those years, fierce and bright-eyed from the moment she could stand, as comfortable with a blade as she was with her father’s approving smile. Odin raised her to be his general, his executioner, and together they carved Asgard’s empire into the bones of the Nine Realms. Frigga loved her daughter with the unshakable bond of blood, but feared what Odin’s ambitions were shaping her into.

That fear proved prophetic. 

When Hela’s hunger for conquest outstripped Odin’s own, the father who had taught her to take without asking became the king who caged her. Her banishment to Helheim was a decision Odin claimed as necessity, but it left a rift between husband and wife that no peaceful accord could heal. For centuries, they spoke of Hela only in private, their grief for her absence bound up in anger and unspoken blame.

Time did soften some wounds, but not all. 

After Thor’s birth, a season of hard-won joy, they thought their family complete. 

Not long after Thor was born, Odin returned from a bloody campaign against the Frost Giants, one eye lost to the battle, a swaddled child in his arms. He told Frigga the boy was an orphan of war, a political decision, a hostage for peace. 

She saw through that explanation in an instant. 

In the tiny infant’s pale skin and wary eyes, she saw not a bargaining piece but a soul untethered, and she loved him before she even knew his name.

From the moment she held Loki, she claimed him as her own. She taught him the runes, the old illusions, the quiet magic that did not require brute strength to be deadly. They read together late into the night, plotted harmless mischiefs, and built a bond that not even Odin’s stern disapproval could touch. 

Loki was her son in every way that mattered, and he knew it.

When Hermione arrived centuries later, that bond only deepened. Loki, so often restless and mistrustful of others, became fiercely protective of his younger sister. Frigga often found them together in the library with Loki reading aloud in his dry, theatrical way, Hermione sprawled beside him with parchment and ink, scribbling notes as if she could catch every story before it escaped. The three of them were bound by the same threads of cleverness, curiosity, and a love for what lay beyond the obvious.

Frigga had known loss. The brutal deaths of her coven-sisters in the Rebellion of the Third Moon, followed by the slow fading of Vanaheim’s courtly influence, but she had built her life on Asgard brick by brick, oath by oath. 

Thor, Loki, Hermione, and Hela—whether at her side or exiled—were her own in truth, if not always in peace.

And it was for them, for the fragile thread of unity she had fought to weave across three millennia, that she would draw her sword without hesitation and even now, she could feel what was to come.

Ancient magic sighed as the doors sealed behind him. 

Laufey, the King of Jotenheim, moved like a cold thought through golden light, frost whispering to life beneath each step. Relics slept on their pedestals—the Eternal Flame, the Tablet of Life and Time—and at the far end, in a cradle of enchantments that had endured longer than empires, rested the Casket of Ancient Winters.

He reached for it, reverent as a pilgrim, hunger banked behind red eyes.

“Step away from it,” came a calm, cutting voice.

Loki stood in the doorway, posture loose, eyes sharp. Beside him, Natasha Romanov walked forward with both knives drawn, gaze flicking from Laufey to the Casket and back again.

“Amusing,” Laufey rumbled. “Asgard sends a silver-tongued princeling and a mortal blade to guard what it stole.”

“You’re trespassing,” Natasha said, weight settling into her stance. “Move.”

Laufey ignored her, studying Loki with something like recognition. “Tell me, boy…have you ever wondered why the cold does not bite you as it does others of your kind?”

Loki’s mouth curved, disdainful. “Save your riddles for your frost-bitten court.”

Loki sauntered forward, walking down the golden steps to just an arms reach of the Casket, and in a quick move, shoved the Casket’s lid shut before Laufey’s palm could fully settle.

The instant his fingers brushed that iron-blue surface, power flooded him—glacial, ancient, searing in its purity. His skin blued, intricate frost-markings blooming like runes across his hands and over the lines of his face. Breath plumed in the air, a visible shiver of the truth.

Natasha’s eyes widened—surprise, not fear. 

Laufey’s smile however, was all teeth. “There,” the Frost King murmured. “Now you see yourself as you truly are…my son.”

Loki staggered back a half-step, shock punching through him hard enough to steal thought. “No.”

“Yes,” Laufey said, stepping forward, voice a low, cruel pride. “Loki Laufeyson. Born of ice. Abandoned to the enemy. Raised in their gilded cage.”

“My name,” Loki ground out, forcing the blue to recede beneath sheer furious will, “is Loki Odinson.”

Laufey’s gaze flicked to the Casket, then back to him. “Names will not warm you, boy.”

“Then try me,” Natasha taunted, knives lifting a hair. “Last chance.”

The vault doors suddenly thundered open and Odin strode in, Gungnir alive with golden light, his single eye burning.

“Step away from my son,” the All-Father commanded.

The spear-strike was pure light and judgment. Gungnir’s beam pierced Laufey’s chest; frost spidered out from the wound, racing across his armor and skin. The Frost King fell to pieces, shattering into ice that cracked against the marble and vanished as mist.

Natasha turned to Loki, breath coming faster now. “That wasn’t their only play,” she warned sharply.

The horns outside grew louder. 

Closer…

Jane Foster heard the bellows as she stood near the great arched window, the sunlight a halo engulfing her slight frame. She looked tense, uncertain—but alive.

Frigga stood between her and the door, hands loose at her sides, expression calm and still as water. Her gaze slid briefly to the tapestry-lined walls, already calculating every inch of the space should she need to move.

Then the chamber door burst inward and Malekith strode through.

Malekith’s pale face twisted in satisfaction at the sight of Jane. “The Aether,” he breathed, stepping forward. “Finally—”

“You’ll find no mortal prize here,” Frigga said, drawing her sword with one smooth motion. “Only your end.”

Malekith’s blade sang free, dark and serrated. He lunged; Frigga met him in a clash of steel that rang off the chamber walls. He was fast, his strikes heavy with the kind of precision that came from centuries of killing. Frigga was faster, her movements sharp and fluid, her sword an extension of her will.

Steel kissed steel, and with a twist of her wrist she locked his weapon and drove him back a pace. Malekith bared his teeth, feinting low before slashing high, but she slipped under it, answering with a cut that scored deep into his side.

“Your magic will not save you,” he hissed.

“It is not magic that wields this blade,” Frigga replied, stepping in, “but a mother’s hand.”

She drove him back again with a blistering backhand to the face, simultaneously catching his shoulder with the point of her sword, spinning him toward the wall. Malekith faltered, just enough that Frigga saw her opening. She swept low, disarming him, her sword’s tip lifting to his throat.

Then the doorframe exploded inward.

Kurse barreled in, the force of his arrival shaking the floor. He crossed the chamber in two strides, his massive hand closing around Frigga’s arm and hurling her away from Malekith. She hit the far wall hard, rolling to her feet just as Kurse advanced.

She slashed at him, but her blade glanced off the black, impenetrable armor. Spells slid uselessly from her tongue; her magic curled against him and died.

Malekith advanced on Jane, and his hand closed on her arm…and passed straight through.

The illusion rippled, then shattered into a cascade of golden light. 

Jane was gone.

“Witch!” Malekith snarled, whirling on Frigga even as blood darkened the fabric over his ribs. “Kill her.”

Kurse seized her, lifting her from the ground with one arm. Frigga twisted, her free hand reaching for the hidden dagger at her belt. But before she could strike...she heard her daughter screaming her name and then a frenetic burst of magic pulsating and diminishing just as quickly.

Then there was a sickening sound and a resounding thud, and Frigga felt her heart plummet as she desperately tried to get a clear view of her youngest daughter, whose body was now splayed on the floor, dazed and unmoving. 

A split second later, Thor stormed in, Mjolnir already in flight. The hammer struck Malekith square in the chest, hurling him into the stone wall—the crack of impact echoing like thunder. Lightning flared, searing one side of his pale face black. Malekith screamed, retreating under the cover of smoke.

“Kurse!” he barked. The giant obeyed, throwing Frigga aside and leaping to Malekith’s side. In a rush of shadow and the stink of scorched air, they lunged off the balcony balustrade and vanished.

Thor was already at his mother’s side. She lay completely still, her blade fallen, her lifeblood pooling crimson against the marble.

“Mother,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Footsteps thundered in—Odin, Gungnir in hand; Loki, eyes wide and wild; Natasha Romanov just behind. Odin froze. Loki stopped dead, his breath shattering in his chest as he took in the sight of Frigga’s still form and his beloved sister, now crawling across the floor towards their mother. 

“No…” The word fell from his lips as though torn out. He reached for Hermione and pulled her with him, both falling to their knees beside Thor. Three sets of hands hovered over the Queen of Asgard, afraid to touch, as if by doing so they would make the truth real.

“Mother,” they all whispered again, the word fractured. Loki’s gaze darted up to Odin, accusation and grief warring on his face, but Odin’s sole eye was fixed on his dead wife, his jaw set in stone.

Natasha stood back silently, her expression unreadable but her voice was low and despondent: “The vault wasn’t the only play.”

The chamber was quiet save for the sound of Thor’s ragged breathing, Hermione’s sobs, and Natasha muttering the same sentence, over and over again.

Far in the shadowed depths of Helheim, Hela lifted her head from the obsidian throne. Something deep, cold, and sharp twisting in her chest—a thread of magic snapping. 

Her lips thinned. 

“Mother…” she whispered into the darkness. 

The dead did not answer.

Elsewhere on Asgard, the Healing Rooms were surprisingly quiet. Draco lay motionless in the center bed, his skin pale, his breathing slow but steady under the web of enchantments keeping him alive.

Then, without warning, his hand twitched.

A breath hitched in his throat, his eyes snapping open. Silver-grey irises darted around the room, confusion giving way to the memory of pain.

“Granger?” he rasped into the empty air, his voice hoarse.

Far above, the bells of Asgard began to toll.

Chapter Text

The tolling began in the small hours, deep and resonant, a sound that seemed to vibrate the very stone of the Healing Rooms.

Draco stirred, blinking against the muted light filtering through the lattice windows. He had been in and out of fever for days, his body still mending from the shot that had nearly ended him, but the sound—low, slow, unyielding—pulled him fully to waking.

Eir, the head healer, entered with her customary grace, her white-gold hair bound in a high braid, the hem of her pale robes whispering across the polished floor. In her hands, she carried a small tray: a vial of luminous draught, a clean bandage, and a bowl of water that shimmered faintly with runic light.

Draco’s voice was rough. “Those bells…”

Eir paused at his side, setting the tray down. “They toll for the Queen,” she said softly, unwrapping his chest wound. “Frigga has fallen.”

For a moment, Draco said nothing. His grey eyes fixed on the far wall, his breath drawing in as if through a knife’s edge. “When?”

“Nary hours ago,” Eir answered, binding him anew with deft, efficient movements. “The whole realm mourns. The funeral will be held at the next turning of the sun.”

Draco’s gaze fell to the blanket, his jaw tightening. “She was…remarkable,” he said at last, the words reluctant but sincere. “I’ve met royalty before—most of them carry their crowns like a weapon. She carried hers like a gift. Even to a man like me.”

Eir inclined her head, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. “Her kindness was rarely wasted.”

“She was kind to me,” Draco said, almost to himself. “No reason to be, no advantage in it. But she was.” His eyes dropped. “I didn’t think I’d…miss her.”

Eir rested a hand lightly on his uninjured arm—a healer’s comfort, brief but genuine—then gathered her things. “Rest now. The Princess will be told you are awake.”

When she left, Draco leaned back against the pillows, listening to the bells. Each strike felt like the closing of a chapter he had not expected to care about. He closed his eyes, and for the first time since coming to Asgard, he let himself grieve.

Thankfully, it was not long before Hermione came.

She swept into the chamber with the energy of someone holding herself together by force of will, her braid loose at one temple, eyes rimmed in red.

“You’re awake,” she said, the relief in her voice at odds with the tightness in her expression.

“So it would seem,” Draco replied, shifting to sit a little straighter. “Eir tells me the bells are for...”

Hermione nodded, biting her lip. “I was too late.” The words caught, and she looked away, blinking hard.

Draco watched her for a moment before speaking. “She loved and adored you, even when she was…clearly worried.”

Hermione’s laugh was brittle. “Worried? About what I might become, you mean?”

“No,” Draco said firmly. “About what you might lose.” He drew in a slow breath. “I didn’t know her long but she treated me like I was worth the trouble. You and I both know that’s rare.”

Hermione looked at him, eyes shining. “She had that way about her. Making people believe they were better than what they thought they were.”

“She did.” Draco’s voice dropped. “Even me.”

Hermione reached for his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, he let her take it. They sat in silence, the bells still echoing faintly through the city beyond.

When she finally rose, promising to return later, Draco let his hand linger in hers a moment longer before letting go.

She came back and visited throughout the day, and each time, Draco could see the weight of grief cloying over Hermione like a dementors kiss.

The next day, the funeral procession moved throughout the heart of Asgard like a slow tide. Thor and Loki walked at either side of the bier, their faces carved in stone, Hermione just behind them, her hand gripping Loki’s, while Hela, recently returned from her banishment, headed the procession.

Frigga lay upon the golden bier, draped in white, gold, and silver, her hair loose and gleaming, her sword resting at her breast. The river ahead shimmered in the last light of day, its surface calm as glass.

Odin, at the fore, spoke no words because none were needed. At the river’s edge, the bier was set upon a small ship. Flowers were placed at Frigga’s feet, and Odin tapped Gungnir, allowing the ship to sail. In the background the hymn of Asgard began to be sung.

The ship drifted into the current. As it moved towards the abyss, Odin watched as his grief threatened to consume him whole. He could feel the eyes of his children’s watching him, waiting for the signal that would alight their mother’s welcome into the halls of Valhalla. He eventually bowed his chin and watched as a singular arrow of light arced into the air from the warriors lining the banks, striking true, and the flames rose high against the darkening sky. Golden petals—magic born of the Queen’s own enchantments—lifted from the pyre and scattered across the river, and when Odin tapped Gungnir into the breach, Frigga’s soul lifted like stars returning to the heavens.

Later that same night, Hermione returned to the Healing Rooms. The light in Draco’s chamber had dimmed to a soft amber glow and the stars hung close and heavy beyond the windows.

“You’re not resting,” she said.

“Neither are you,” Draco replied.

She crossed to the chair beside him, taking her seat with heavy guilt. “I thought I was doing the right thing—stepping back, letting us both breathe—but really, I was just hiding. From you. From what we are.”

“I know,” Draco said simply. “I wasn’t exactly chasing you down, either. We’re both guilty of letting too much time slip through our fingers.”

“It’s been hard, letting the past go.” She admitted softly, “Allowing myself to see you as something other than my childhood tormentor.”

Draco swallowed uneasily, “It’s taken much for me to see myself as something better than whom I used to be.”

“And have you?”

“There are days the shadows of my past weigh down upon me,” he offered sincerely, “Where I am reminded of my youthful arrogance and propensity towards prejudice.”

“How do you reconcile it?”

“I just remind myself everyday, to be and to do better. To not let myself get caught up in the mistakes of my past. It’s not always easy,” Draco pointed out at Hermione’s questioning look, “because I’m constantly warring with my own father.”

“He’s still the same bigot?”

Draco’s mouth twisted into something akin to aggrieved indulgence, “I have tried my best to light a fire and remind him the consequences of his poor choices, but my father is stubborn and set in his ways.”

Shaking her head, Hermione didn’t know what to say about that.  

Not that she expected Lucius Malfoy to change, but it was disappointing to hear that he hadn’t experienced the same growth his son had. 

“I think it’s one of the things which has plagued me,” Hermione hesitated. “What if I can’t forgive him? What if you decide Astoria—and a life on Midgard—is what you want because it would be easier? And where does that leave me?”

“I could choose that,” Draco admitted. “But I don’t want to. Astoria will always have a place in my life, because she matters. But you—” He gave a small, rueful smile. “You’re the one I couldn’t stop thinking about, even when it was easier to be angry with you. I don’t want to spend what’s left of my life holding grudges or debating what if’s. I’ve done enough of that for ten lifetimes.”

“You’d really forgive me?”

“I already have,” Draco said quietly. “The only question is whether we’re both brave enough to figure out what comes next.”

“I want to try,” Hermione said firmly, “I know it won’t be easy, but nothing great worth having ever is.”

“Good,” he replied, smirking faintly. “Because I’m not letting you vanish for another seven seasons. Not unless you want me dragging you back myself.”

Hermione laughed, the sound breaking through her tears. “You’d enjoy that far too much.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said, and for the first time in years, they both smiled without reserve.

Elsewhere in the palace, Loki stood on one of the high balconies, the wind snapping the dark green folds of his cloak. Natasha leaned against the rail beside him, arms crossed.

“You haven’t said much since the vault,” she said.

“There’s nothing to say,” Loki replied, though his voice was tight. “The man I fought for, for centuries, is not my father. The man I called father never told me the truth and the only person who could make sense of it—” He broke off, swallowing. “—is gone.”

Natasha glanced at him, her tone flat but not unkind. “Sounds like you’ve got two choices: drown in it, or learn to swim.”

Before he could answer, a voice came from behind them.

“Reality,” Hela said, stepping into the torchlight, “is a cruel mistress. I told you that once, brother. You didn’t believe me.”

Loki turned to face her, eyes narrowing—not in hostility, but in dawning comprehension. “I believe you now.”

Hela’s mouth curved, the barest hint of a smile. “Good. You’ll need that clarity. Malekith is moving faster than Father thinks. Mother had been watching him, even from her own chambers. She knew this day would come.”

Natasha’s brow arched. “And you know this how?”

“Because,” Hela said, stepping closer until the torchlight caught the glint of her crown, “I’ve been watching him for far longer than any of you.” She looked between them, her gaze sharp. “If you want to survive what’s coming, we’ll need to work together. All of us.”

Loki’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t turn away. Natasha glanced at him and saw the shift: the slow, reluctant acceptance that his world had just grown far more complicated.

Somewhere in the far distance the bells rang again, but not in mourning this time: in warning.