Chapter Text

Blood of the Aesir

Chapter 1: The Boy Named Icarus

September 1, 1991

Icarus gnawed on his bottom lip, tugging on one of his braids as he stared at the large cherry-red steam engine. He leaned against his brother with a frown. 

“Don’t fret so much, little brother,” Fenrir murmured over the drone of other families saying their goodbyes and friends greeting each other with enthusiasm. 

“Do I have to go? Can’t you teach me instead?” Icarus asked. His brother sighed and pulled him close, letting Icarus bury his head into his chest. 

“I am not skilled enough to teach you what you need to know. Besides, father had wanted and planned for you to go to this school for whatever reason. I think, in this, we should trust his judgement, yes?”

Icarus grumbled, not removing his face from his older brother’s sternum. Fenrir’s fingers ran through his hair, brushing back his dark curls, and Icarus pressed harder into him, hands clinging to his tunic. Icarus couldn’t be sure how much time passed, but his brother sighed heavily and nudged him. 

“This is a new, fun adventure, little brother. Come, let us settle you in for the journey.” His brother nudged him again. 

Icarus heaved a sigh and stooped down to pick up his backpack as his brother heaved the large steamer trunk up. 

Trailing behind the large frame of his brother, they wove through the maze of people and climbed onto the train. It was almost just as busy on the train as it was outside the train, but after a few minutes of walking, Fenrir perked up and sped up, caught on a scent. Clint was leaning out of a compartment, waving an arm to catch their attention. 

“Check it out! Found it just for you, man, all nice and quiet back here, like you like it.” Clint grinned, and Icarus couldn’t help but grin back. That was a nice way of saying, ‘hey, found you a spot that is right in the middle of everything, but people’ll probably leave you alone, maybe’. Fenrir lifted his trunk up onto the shelf above the seats. Clint took the time to throw an arm over Icarus's shoulder in a half-hug and ruffle his hair. 

“Remember to call, and I’ll see if we can bribe Dad or Hermes to play messenger for us if we want to send anything.”

“Kay.”

“I’ll miss you, man. Stay safe.”

“Make sure you nail cabin 5 for me.” Icarus grinned, and Clint mirrored. They did their little secret handshake before Clint ruffled his hair again and slipped from the cabin. 

Fenrir was checking Icarus's backpack, making sure the important things were still there. Icarus watched him quietly while gnawing on his lip and tugging on his braid. When Fenrir turned around, he smiled sadly and went down on one knee so he was closer to Icarus's height, and grabbed a hand. 

“I won’t be further than an Iris message away.” He looked at Icarus with his ice blue eyes. Icarus's lip wobbled. 

“Promise?” Icarus asked.

“I swear it. I will miss you every day until we are united again. Now, do you still have your weapons on you, just in case?” His brother asked, and Icarus nodded. Then he sighed and opened his arms. It didn’t take even a moment for Icarus to fall into his arms, hugging his neck tightly. 

The scent of winter pine, bitter ale, and iron was a comfort, one that made his heart clench. How long would it be until he could breathe in the comfort of his older brother? Since he found him, they had rarely been separated, and never for more than a few hours when Icarus would go on a trip to Olympus. 

This? 

This felt greater, more final. 

He could barely remember a time when there wasn’t someone there who he knew was close to him. First, it was Chiron. He had followed the centaur around camp, clinging to his hand or hiding under his legs. Then it was his best friend. The second he came to camp, they were inseparable. Where one of them went, the other did too. Lastly came his brother. He was safe when his brother was around. Loved even. 

Eventually, the time came for them to part, and his brother to leave.

“Be good?” His brother ordered quietly, and Icarus nodded into his neck. “Behave?”

Icarus leaned back with a watery grin. “Never.”

Fenrir barked a laugh and pressed a kiss to his forehead before stepping out of the compartment, leaving Icarus alone in the quiet. 

Not long after, the train jolted and slowly started moving. 

This was a new, fun adventure. 

All would be well. 

Icarus took a deep breath and settled down on one of the benches. 

Things were fine. 

He was fine. 

He grabbed his backpack and pulled out the book he had tucked away to keep him entertained. Icarus had already read “Hogwarts: A History” and most of his school books, but “ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century” caught his attention. So he stretched across the seat, legs crossed at the ankle, back leaning against the outer wall as he flipped open to his last marked page. 

Absent-mindedly, one hand found one of his beaded braids as the other scribbled notes in the margins of the pages. The chaos outside his compartment was like the familiar drone of camp, which he could easily tune out. 

He was used to the chaos. 

The last few weeks were more chaotic than usual. Normally, after the end of the summer session, all the summer campers left to do whatever it was they did while the full-time campers got ready for the shift to school. It was just a few weeks where they got to relax, and the schedule was not as busy as usual. Instead of getting that time, Icarus went through the ringer. A rushed meeting with a member of the faculty at his new school was nearly immediately followed by rounds of testing at the British Ministry to test out of some of the subjects he was already familiar with. Then came meetings at the main bank, where, surprisingly, Icarus not only had a trust fund but also family vaults. Then they had to shop for his schooling, which was a whole new experience, especially after arguing numerous times with Mr. D about what was considered proper clothing (no Hawaiian shirts were not appropriate for wizard school). 

Icarus barely had time to reconcile with the fact that he was what people would call a wizard, let alone that he was going to a school in a different country, or who everyone thought his parents were. So he had spent what little downtime he had reading about this new, interesting world he was about to be a part of. 

The drone of the hallway suddenly got loud as the door slid open, and an unfamiliar red-haired boy poked his head in. 

“Can I sit there? Everywhere else is full,” the boy said, staring hard at him. Icarus raised an eyebrow and frowned slightly. The boy was lying, but it didn’t make sense as to why he would. So, with a sigh, he loosely gestured with his hand to the opposite bench. 

“Yeah, go for it.”

“You’re a yank!” the boy startled, and Icarus frowned. 

“That a problem?” He asked.

“No! No, sorry.” The boy rushed, dragging a trunk behind him and letting the door slide shut. Icarus turned his attention back to his book, ignoring the prickling feeling that came with the staring the boy was doing. Carefully, he flipped the page and almost immediately scribbled a note in the top corner.

He who must not be named? Why not name him? Is it similar to speaking of the host of many? What is his name? 

As soon as he was done writing, the door slid open. He heaved a put-upon sigh and marked his book before looking up as two more red-haired boys peered in. Two identical teens with matching mischievous looks that would rival any member of Cabin 11. 

Well… at least some things would be the same. Looks like he found his rivals here, he’d just have to wait and observe until after the winter solstice. 

“Hey, Ron.” Twin one smiled, catching the younger boy’s attention, and oh, wasn’t that interesting. Looks like they were brothers, because that tone was one only siblings used with each other. 

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train. Lee Jordan’s got a giant tarantula down there.” Twin two grinned. 

“Right,” the younger boy, Ron, apparently, mumbled. Seemed like he didn’t like either spiders or whoever Lee Jordan was. Then the twins’ eyes turned to Icarus and went wide. 

“Blimey, are you?” Twin one started.

“He is . Aren’t you?” Twin two finished. Carefully, Icarus's hand inched towards where he kept one of his knives tucked away while he eyed the twins with suspicion. 

“Aren’t I what?” Icarus asked.

“Harry Potter?” Twin one asked in awe. 

“You’ve got the scar and everything,” twin two said, pointing to the rune carved on his forehead. Icarus's hand raised to touch the mark while he slowly started bristling. 

Harry Potter . 

That name was starting to annoy him. 

First were the insistent owls bearing letters to that strange name. Then the faculty member who refused to call him anything but Harry Potter . Even the book on his lap had mentions of Harry Potter. The name was a black hole, sucking in everything else. He was starting to hate it, just like he was starting to hate the scar on his brow. There had been theories growing up as to the meaning behind the mark. His older brother had some of the more sound theories of the bunch. While the Sowilo meant the sun, it also had meanings of victory and the soul. It was hope for him, just a little. But now? Now it was only attached to Harry Potter . The scar: a symbol for the name. 

Icarus scowled. “My name is Icarus,” He said in a clipped tone, lowering his raised hand back to his book. “And you are?”

“Didn’t we say?” said one twin. “Fred and George Weasley. And that’s our brother Ron.”

Icarus studied them. One had a slight bump on his nose and a more curved lip.

“Which one is which?” he asked. “I’d like to tell you apart.”

“Fred,” said the smooth-nosed one.

“George,” the other echoed.

Icarus nodded, committing the details to memory. Easier than the Peters twins at camp.

“I’m Icarus Nooneson… I believe you said something about a big ass spider?” Icarus ventured, a subtle nudge to get them to leave. 

“See you later!” they cried out as they left, the door to the compartment still open. Icarus waited a beat before he sighed, stood, and closed the door to block out the noise of the hallway. 

By Olympus, he missed the downtime. He missed his cabin, far from the hubbub of the camp. He loved his fellow campers, but sometimes, their hyperactiveness drained him considerably. Though normally, he had his brother there to help balance himself, he was a calm, steady presence. 

Icarus took his time settling back on the seat, though in a slightly different position, one foot grounded on the floor as the other was flat on the seat with his knee raised. The book was back in his hands and flipped open to the last chapter he was on, The Potters . He had seen more shit in the book than he had in the stables at camp. 

“Are you really not Harry Potter? You’ve got the scar?” Ron asked, still staring at him. 

“Are you here because you believe I’m Harry Potter?” He asked without looking up at the other boy. 

“No.” Lie.

“Hmm.” Icarus hummed, eyes scanning down the page for a moment before flicking up to look at Ron. “Is your whole family wizards?”

It was interesting, and a little familiar. 

“Er… Yes, I think so. I think mum’s got a second cousin who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him.” 

That was a strange bit of information. 

“So you must know a lot of wand magic then?”

“Well, magic is magic. When you live around it… Did you grow up with muggles?” Ron asked.

“Muggles?”

“Non-magic folk.”

“No? I don’t think you’d consider them non-magic. I was raised at a camp for special children. I’ve lived there for the past 6 years. Last year, one of my best friends’ younger brothers cursed another camper to only speak in rhyme. It took two weeks until someone managed to break it.” 

“What spell was it?” Ron asked, looking shocked.

“No spell, just a normal curse. Happens every so often. Bound to happen when you’ve got like a dozen siblings all going through puberty.” 

“A dozen? I’ve got six siblings and that’s already more than enough.”

“Did your siblings go to Hogwarts too?” Icarus asked, lowering his book. Most of the information the faculty member gave had gone over his head. He had still been too stunned to really comprehend anything at the time. 

“Yeah. Hogwarts is practically our family legacy. I’ve got five older brothers and one younger sister. Bill and Charlie already graduated—Bill was Head Boy, Charlie was Quidditch Captain. Percy’s a Prefect now. Fred and George are chaotic, but they’re brilliant and funny. Everyone expects me to live up to them, and even if I do, it’s not impressive because they did it first. I don’t even get new stuff—Bill’s old robes, Charlie’s old wand, Percy’s old rat…”

He pulled a plump gray rat from his coat. “Scabbers. He’s useless. Hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl for becoming a Prefect, but I got… this.”

His cheeks pinked as he looked away. Icarus stared at the rat curiously. It looked odd, but he didn’t know much about magical pets. 

Maybe it was something like Ratatoskr?

“I’m the youngest of seven children. Five brothers and a sister, but I’ve only met my eldest brother and my sister,” Icarus said softly, flipping the page of his book. Ron was staring at him again.

“Why haven’t you met your other siblings?” Ron asked. 

“It's… complicated,” Icarus said softly, fingers raising to twist around the braid that had a streak of snow white woven in. “Two of my brothers died before I was born, the twins. Our grandfather separated the rest of them, so the other two… we haven’t been able to get to them yet. My brother says our grandfather’s dangerous.”

“Sorry,” he heard Ron whisper, but he looked up and smiled.

“Anyways, what I was going to say was I’m used to hand-me-downs, too. Most of my clothes were given to me by older campers who had outgrown theirs. The toys I got to play with were either handed down to me from them, too, or were carved by hand by my brother. Nothing’s wrong with hand-me-downs. They’re just… little pieces of a story handed to us to continue it.”

Ron didn’t say anything, so Icarus turned back to his book, rolling one of the beads in his hair between his fingers. 

Around half past noon, a woman with a snack cart came by but was turned away by both Ron and Icarus as they grabbed their own food. Ron pulled out corned beef sandwiches, which he had grumbled about. Meanwhile, Icarus pulled out a slice of ambrosia to munch on as he read. Not long later, still engrossed in his book, a girl with wild hair swept in like a whirlwind, looking for a toad and left just as she arrived. 

Icarus blinked, speechless. 

“Whatever house I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” Ron said, staring at the door with the same dumbfounded expression. 

Icarus blinked and shook his head.

“What houses are your brothers in?” Icarus asked, grabbing at the new topic.

“Gryffindor. Mum and Dad were in it too. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin.”

“Oh? What's so bad about that house?” Icarus asked, unsure if there was something actually bad about it or if it was just a reputation thing like cabin 5.

“Well... You know.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“Well. You-Know-Who was in there. And there hasn’t been a witch or wizard who hasn’t gone bad who was in that house.” Ron said as if that was all the explanation Icarus needed… it wasn’t. So Icarus just hummed and turned back to his book. 

“What house do you think you’ll be in?” 

“Donno. I’d fit in any of them, I suppose. My brother doesn’t really care which house I’m in, so long as I try my hardest to keep good grades and try not to give him an aneurysm.” Icarus grinned. Joke’s on Fenrir, Icarus could give him an aneurysm just by breathing. His brother said Icarus is a lure for trouble, Clint said Icarus was probably cursed to ‘live an interesting life’. 

“What about your parents?” Ron asked. 

“It’s just my brother and me.” Icarus shrugged.

“And your sister?”

“She lives far away, but visits when she can.”

Silence fell over them as Icarus scowled at the stupid book in his lap. An hour or so later, and re-reading the same page for the 9th time, Icarus closed his book with a snap and pulled his backpack onto his lap. He shoved his book in the bag and pulled out a notebook. It was labeled ‘homework’, colorfully in runes in his brother’s handwriting. To his amusement and frustration, it was filled with different grievances that he had to work through as if he were a lord or prince. Leave it to his brother to work this thing together in the weeks leading up to his departure. Icarus wasn’t fooled, though; he knew his brother’s intentions. For a while now, Fenrir has made it clear that while he may be the eldest, he is not the heir. Icarus would be the rightful heir if, once their father claimed him. This wouldn’t even be the first time his brother gave him these sorts of scenarios. Though Icarus was only 11 and very much considered still a child, he was starting his rites of passage. Fenrir had made a list of tasks Icarus had to do while at school that would lead him closer and closer to adulthood, for whenever that would need to be. Grumbling under his breath in his native tongue, he started furiously scribbling into it with his thoughts and additional notes.

Some time later, the door burst open again . 

This time, a blonde boy and two goons who seemed eager to pick a fight were looking for Harry Potter . Icarus barely gave him any attention, focused with frustration on the notebook. It wasn’t until Ron and the blonde, Malfoy, nearly came to blows that Icarus responded. He snapped his book shut, sighed, and clapped his hands together. Letting his magic loose, he pulled his hands apart, and the two boys were forcefully pulled away from each other. Ron slid until the back of his knees hit the bench, and he collapsed into it while Malfoy slid into the hallway with his thugs. Once that was done, Icarus waved a hand, and the door slid and latched shut. It was a trick he had done more times than he could count to help break up any unofficial fights. It was such a second-nature action that he didn’t even give any notice to the gobsmacked look Ron was giving him as he looked at his watch. 

They should be at their stop soon. He grabbed his bag and pulled out the robes Fenrir packed for him. Then, as if his notice was a signal from the gods, a voice over the train informed them of their nearing approach and instructed the students to leave their luggage on the train as someone would take it to the school separately. 

A stone sank in Icarus's stomach. Perhaps he could just go back home? He tugged on a braid, breathing slowly and deeply. He wasn’t in the school yet, so maybe he could just send an iris message to Chiron and let him know that this whole magic school thing was a terrible idea and he’d prefer to stay at camp…

But Mr. D already agreed with Fenrir that this would be good for him. Getting out of camp. Meeting new people. 

He shakily dressed in his robes, a new foreign action he’d likely struggle with for some time.

Just as he finished dressing, the train came to a stop. With trepidation, he followed the masses pushing their way off the train into the dark outdoors, above the chatter of excited older students, a voice called for first years. Mutely, he followed the call, doing his best to blend in with the group of 11-year-olds. These would be his classmates for the coming years. 

He felt sick. 

Then a bird croaked loudly from a nearby tree, catching Icarus's attention, and he felt sick for a whole new reason. Ice gripped his heart as he stared at the silhouetted bird in a nearby tree. 

A raven.

Up to this point in his life, he had been able to avoid ravens. The spellwork around the camp had prevented the creatures from entering. He’d recognized it by the noise it made, and from pictures he’d seen. 

He knew.

He knew what this was.

It wasn’t just any old random raven. 

It was Hugin or Munin. One of Odin’s familiars. Whichever one it was, one thing was clear with its presence. Icarus had gained the attention of the King of Asgard.

From then on, everything passed in a daze. Instead of enjoying the experience of seeing the castle for the first time or traversing across a dark lake that reflected the stars, he focused solely on the raven, which followed him all the way until he crossed the threshold of the castle. Should he tell Fenrir about it? Did he dare to give his brother such a panic that they’d have to go into hiding? Did he dare not to? 

The faculty member who came to camp, McGonagall, as he was reminded, greeted all the new students. He didn’t give it much attention as she explained what would happen, and when she left, the quiet group seemed to buzz with excitement. An excitement Icarus couldn’t reflect. Couldn’t because he was too busy weighing his options, trying to figure out if he was in danger or not. 

He and his brother had speculated numerous times as to why their father had yet to claim him, and after finding out about the wizards and his supposed history, the theories grew. 

The first option was the simplest. Their father could just not know about Icarus's existence. Arguably, if his father had seven children, who’s to say he didn’t have more? If their father were like the Olympians, he could have ‘sown his seed’ wherever and whenever he could. Fenrir argued that father wasn’t like that. Specifically in the moment he had said ‘Father’s not a whore like these olympians’, but he got scolded for his language. Then there was the fact that Queen Hera liked Icarus, which would’ve been unlikely if he had been an illegitimate child. She didn’t hate the mortal-born children of Camp Half-Blood, per se, but she did hold a level of ambivalent disdain towards them. That being said, she doted on Icarus, often cooing at him and happily holding him in her lap anytime he visited Olympus.

The second option was that father was incapable of claiming him, either dead or unconscious. Fenrir was adamant that they’d know if Father was dead. He couldn’t explain in a way that made sense to Icarus, just that they’d know in their bones, just like they knew they were brothers. Icarus understood, but was still confused at the same time. He only hoped that one day, when he was older, it’d make sense.

The third option was one of the options Fenrir thought was most likely. The theory that it wasn’t safe for their father to claim him because it wasn’t safe because of the Allfather. After everything the king of Asgard had done to their family, to the children of Loki, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Even still, Icarus knew Fenrir worried about what would happen if the Allfather found out about Icarus. Worried about what needless punishment Icarus would be given. Worried about what prison Icarus would be given, one with the veneer of authority, or one that bound him in chains. It was the same thought that made Icarus sure that Fenrir would take him and run if he knew about the raven. 

The fourth option was in the same vein. The possibility that their father’s absence and silence were because of the Allfather keeping them apart intentionally. Perhaps it was another punishment for their father, or some twisted game. Neither was sure what the reason would be, but it was an option.

The fifth option Fenrir swore up and down wasn’t actually an option. The possibility that their father just didn’t want him. It was something that was suspected amongst all unclaimed campers at camp half-blood. Inferiority was something they all struggled with. Most of the time, claimings happened when a camper did some remarkable feat or proved themselves skilled in one way or another. Therefore, the logical next step for the unclaimed was that they just hadn’t proven themselves worthy of being claimed. Fenrir hated the theory that their father didn’t think he was worthy. Every time it was brought up, he’d be sat down for story time about how much their father loved his children. His children, being Icarus's siblings, not Icarus himself. Fenrir was certain he’d love Icarus just as much, but Icarus wasn’t. 

The sixth option was new once learning about Harry Potter and what happened when he was a baby. It was the possibility that father thought him dead, and therefore had no need to claim a child that was no longer amongst the living. Fenrir had nothing to say on the theory, just a quiet nod when Icarus asked if it was possible. 

The last option was one neither of them was certain of, after all, they weren’t absolutely positive who Icarus's mother was. But, it could be that their father blamed Icarus for the death of his mother. Because Hera loved him, it was clear that his parents were married, but neither of them was sure if it was just their mortal shells or if his mother was an immortal too. Fenrir told a few stories that included their father’s wife, Sigyn. Most of them were about how kind-hearted the woman was, accepting every child of Loki as if they were her own. She was more of a mother to the three eldest than their own biological mother was. Icarus had secretly hoped she was his mother, that someone so loving and kind was his , but she made no claim either, and if she was dead… Icarus didn’t know if he could bear it. But they were told that Lily Potter had died protecting Harry , so there was a chance that she was dead, and Father blamed him for it. 

With the theories in mind, did he need to be concerned? Was that why the raven was following him? Was the Allfather behind it all? Was there something he had done that would bring the Allfather’s anger? He didn’t want to think about all the horrors the Allfather could bring upon him, especially if he found out about Fenrir. Fenrir had told him stories growing up, honest stories, both the good and the bad. His brother wasn’t there for some things, but every child of their father had been punished for one thing or another to an extreme. Even now, they hadn’t been sure if he was safe from anything, if father’s absence was a punishment in itself, or if the safety of camp had just been an illusion. 

Icarus tugged harder on one of his beaded braids, trying desperately to ground himself. His anxiety was so high that he barely paid any mind to the ghosts, GHOSTS , that had come in amongst the first years. Some small, quiet part of his mind recognized that if this were any other situation, the presence of ghosts would have him on guard, probably with a knife out. However, it wasn’t any other situation. Instead, he numbly followed the crowd as they were led into a great room. 

The setup was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The students, much like at camp, were separated into specific groups. Here, there were only four tables instead of the usual 13, the 13th being his and Fenrir’s table. Granted, the tables here were far longer and actually fit everyone, even if there were only four tables. The other difference was that the adults sat at a table with the campers… of a sort. Mr. D sat at his table, and since he didn’t have any children at camp currently, it was no problem for Chiron, the satyrs, and the nymphs to sit with him. Here, the grown-ups sat separately at the front of the room, looking down at the students. Noticing how so many of the other first years were glancing up, Icarus peeked up at the ceiling. It looked like the night sky,  but wasn’t actually like it would have been at home. The stars were slightly different, and here he could still see the rafters of the ceiling. Everything was closed off here, encased in stone, none of the open air and nature he was so used to. 

Then, a hat that had been placed on a stool started singing. Actually singing. Every worry fled his mind in shock. He had to tell Clint of this. If word got out back at camp of a singing hat, cabin seven would be sure to make one of their own. That would be amazing. Truly something to be excited about. 

They were then called up, one by one, to sit on a stool with the hat on. It was then that the hat shouted what house they’d be in. He had expected to be called after the M’s, but when a named Nott went up, and Nooneson hadn’t been called, he had a sinking feeling. Some small part of him thought that maybe, just maybe, they were, in fact, wrong and he didn’t belong there. McGonagall had been told his name was Icarus, or Icarus Nooneson if he had to have a last name. It was the only proper name he had been called. Even the goblins at the bank had been accommodating. They had shown more respect than anyone else had, referring to him as Prince Icarus or Icarus of Asgard. They had even gone so far as to refer to him as Prince Icarus or Icarus of Asgard. He gnawed on his bottom lip and pulled on a braid, running his fingers over the latest bead. The stupid councilors voted on a stupid owl with an envelope as the most significant event of the summer. He liked the original idea better. Maddison had put a little too much energy into growing some of the strawberries and had to be rescued from the plants that grew so big so quickly that it took eight campers to pull her out. 

“Mr. Potter, that’s you,” McGonagall said, touching his shoulder. Icarus jumped, surprised. He hadn’t noticed her approaching. 

“Huh?”

“Mr. Potter, it’s time to be sorted.” She said. 

“It’s Icarus.” He mumbled as she guided him to the stool. “I haven’t gone by that name. It's just Icarus.”

“Enough of that, Mr. Potter.” She said in a sharp tone as the hat was plopped over his head, and it dropped down to nearly his nose and the world dimmed. 

Ahhh… now this is interesting, murmured a voice in his head, low and ancient, slithering like smoke in his mind. Very interesting indeed. A complicated little knot, aren’t you? Not just by name, but by blood.

Icarus tensed, his eyes narrowed in the darkness. You mean my father? Just say it. You know who he is, don’t you? Icarus thought, somehow knowing the hat would hear him.

It chuckled

Oh, yes. I know. A son of Loki, no doubt about that. Magic like his runs deep. I see traces of another, a white wolf. An older Lokison.

I already know that. Since you’re in my head you know I know. My brother is the one who raised me, and us children of loki know eachother on site. Will you tell me what it is I actually want to know? Who was she? My mother? You saw her didn’t you?

There was a long pause between the two of them. The hat assessing him, and Icarus standing firm in his conviction. In his mind he stood in a defensive stance. If the hat needed to see to sort him, then he’d get his answers first. The hat sighed, as though settling itself more snugly on his head. 

Well, you certainly are your father’s child in more ways than one. Stubborn. Suspicious. But clever. 

Icarus scowled. I am not interested in complements. Her name. Tell me

And what will you do with it? Hmmm? Would knowing a name make you feel whole? Or would it just make you more lost?

Don’t play with me. Everyone plays with me. No one ever answers. If you know, tell me. Else I won’t let you sort me. 

Every one must be sorted, Lokison.

Then her name. 

The Sorting Hat was quiet for a long moment. He could feel its attention rooting through him like old fingers turning the pages of a book.

She walked softly. Grieved deeply. Loved fiercely, the hat finally said, gentler now. Sigyn. That was her name. Sigyn of Asgard. And yes… she was your mother. Loyal to Loki to the bitter end, even when she followed him here. She tried to protect you from the path he set. But some things are written in fire and blood.

Icarus’s throat clenched. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath. Sigyn, he repeated silently. A name. A real name. He felt like something inside him had shifted—a piece that had been missing now fitting awkwardly into place. 

He had hoped it wasn’t true.

Thank you , he said at last. It came out broken, even in thought.

You’re welcome. Now, may I sort you?

Icarus lowered his defense, mentally stepping aside as if to say ‘fine, whatever’. The hat hummed in his ear. 

Now, where to put you? You are quite the conundrum, aren’t you? Loyal, yes, to your brother, the wolf, most of all. But not very hard working or patient. Hufflepuff? No, you’d cause too many explosions. Litterally, I do believe.

Icarus blinked. Once. Twice. 

He wanted to argue. He did. But…

In his defense, Clint was the one who had come up with the ideas in the first place. 

Ravenclaw maybe? You have quite the thirst for knowledge. Hmmm… no. I think not. You’d spend all your time arguing with the portraits. 

Icarus sighed. I’ll trust your judgement. You’re the expert I believe.

Gryffindor. You certainly are brave, willing to fight, but not unless you are forced. You never run towards danger unless you have no other choice, not because it is thrilling. Slytherin though, would help with that thirst to prove yourself. I could put you in Slytherin. They would help you on your road to greatness.

Unbidden, Icarus's mind flashed a dream he had once had, one that he tried to hide from all others. Before him stood the Allfather, just as his brother had described, and Zeus, both god-kings, were welcoming him to stand with them. Acknowledging him into their realms with open arms. 

A h, yes. I do believe that is what you want , the hat mused in his mind before shouting out loud for all to hear, 

“Slytherin!”

The hall fell deadly quiet, and Icarus had to push the hat up to peer at McGonagall, who looked to be in shock. Slowly, though, clapping came from the table of green and silver. He bid the hat goodbye before it was removed from his head, then slid from the bench and made his way to the end of the green and silver table. 

“You said your name wasn’t Harry Potter,” the blonde boy from the train hissed as he sat down. 

“I don’t remember confirming or denying anything when you barged in. But my name is Icarus. It has been for years. The name Harry Potter didn’t exist for me until a month ago. How would you respond to someone expecting you to go by a completely new name?” Icarus asked, letting his frustration show clearly. He turned his attention to the sorting, but noticed how most students were glancing between him and the sorting. It was annoying. Ron was glaring at him as if he had been personally wronged by Icarus being in Slytherin. He tried to shrug it off, after all, he only sat with him because he thought Icarus was Harry Potter. Finally, the last boy was sorted and sat down across from Icarus. As the headmaster of the school, Dumbledore, gave a very short speech, the boy reached out a hand.

“I’m Blaise Zabini, from the noble house of Zabini.” He greeted. Icarus smiled and took the boy’s hand firmly in his own. 

“Icarus Nooneson, nice to meet you. You can just call me Icarus.”

“Pleasure to meet you, too. Might I introduce you to Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott?” Blaise indicated to Malfoy and another taller, thin boy with wavy brown hair. 

“What did you mean when you told Malfoy the name Harry Potter didn’t exist until a month ago?” the brunette, Theodore Nott, asked just as food appeared on the table. Icarus looked at the foreign food with a crinkled nose. He wasn’t quite sure what most of them were. He slowly scooped some of the few veggies onto his plate, along with what looked to be chicken. 

“I think it’s quite simple. I’ve never heard the name Harry Potter until a month ago, until a very persistent owl kept insisting on giving me a letter. The stupid bird flew off as soon as I reluctantly took it. Mr. D had to beg his sister to allow him to use one of her owls to send a response. The whole place was confused about the whole ordeal. We would’ve thought the poor bird got lost if it wasn’t for the fact that it had details about where I slept. It took days for my brother to calm down and not grab me and make a run for it.” Icarus said with a shake of his head as he looked down the table. He frowned. The offering fire was nowhere in sight. McGonagall had assured everyone that he would be given what he needed for his rituals.  

“Excuse me a moment,” Icarus muttered as he stood from his seat. Ignoring the shocked looks of… well, everyone, he made his way up to the teacher, where she sat at the table for the adults. He felt pain flare through his rune scar, and it took everything he had not to flinch. She stopped eating and gave him a stern look when he stopped right in front of her. 

“What is it, Mr. Potter?”

“Sorry for interrupting, ma’am, but you had assured my guardians that I would have what I needed for my rituals. There's no fires for offerings here. I was just wondering if it was in another location for me?”

“You’ll have a small area where you can set up any altars next to your bed in your dorm.” She said softly.

“I am thankful for that. However, it is customary for me to offer the gods a portion of my dinner. I’d really prefer if none of them get upset about that.” Icarus grimaced. Last thing he wanted was for the Olympians to get angry. 

“Can’t you do that later?”

“Umm… no? It’s supposed to be the first portion of the meal. It's all about ego and stuff with them. Besides, Lord Dionysis is waiting for my offering to know I got here safely.”

“You worship the Greek gods?” One of the professors, a pretty black woman, asked.

“Sometimes, Ma’am.” Icarus bobbed his head. “I’m only allowed to give offerings to the Aesir for specific rituals, unless it’s Hela or Fenrir. My daily offerings go to at least one of the Olympians, if not them as a whole.”

McGonagall sighed as she pinched her nose. 

Wonderful start to the school year. 

From the corner of his eye, he could tell the one teacher, the dark, gloomy-looking one, was glaring at him. Icarus hoped it was only because he interrupted dinner, but that glare seemed… personal.

“What is it you need, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall asked. 

“Just a bowl with a fire in it.”

He watched the teacher conjure one and light it. He thanked her quickly and scurried away to his table. With the utmost care, he set the burning bowl down and arranged the food on his plate to designate a portion. Then he tilted the plate towards the flames, dumping the food offering into the flames. 

“Lord Dionysus, I’ve made it into Slytherin house,” Icarus spoke quietly as the flames consumed the food. The fire flared, and the smell of strawberries, campfire, and Diet Coke wafted from the fire. Just before he sat back to eat, he detoured, grabbing what looked to be a steak from one of the platters and tossed it into the fire. 

“Fenrir, stop worrying. I’m fine. I’ve made it into the house of the ambitious. The colors are green and silver. Do you think Father would be proud?” Icarus said in his native tongue. The flames flared the same ice blue as his brother’s eyes, and the smell of cold winter pine, bitter ale, and a bite of iron filled the air. His brother would be fine… Right? Probably, it was best that he hadn’t mentioned the raven.

Icarus settled back down, cut into his food, and ate cautiously. 

It was alright, nowhere near as good as the nymphs made. Perhaps it was the routine of the food that was throwing him off. After all, he couldn’t remember anything besides the usual BBQ, ambrosia, and nectar. He ate some before reaching into his pocket, pulled out a flask, and poured some nectar into his cup. Unlike the other demigods, his body not only could handle more of the godly food and drink, but it craved it. Fenrir had said it was because he wasn’t getting the proper nutrients from Midgardian food, and the Olympians had a good substitute for him, though it wouldn’t be as good as Asgardian mead straight from Heldrun would. That is, at least until he was able to consume an apple and ascend. Sipping at the nectar, he smiled at the warmth that flooded his body. Just then, a ghost appeared and sat next to Icarus. He was tall and gaunt, with a blank look in his eyes and blood staining his robes. He stared at Icarus with a suspicious look. 

“I was not aware that Hogwarts allowed Norsemen into Hogwarts,” the ghost said calmly. The Slytherin table went quiet, and Icarus could feel their eyes on him. He slowly lowered his cup and turned, staring at the ghost. 

“Is that a problem?”

“Hogwarts had to hold off attacks from the raiding Norsemen. They raided the town of Hogsmeade and gave offerings to their gods right there in the town square,” the ghost said. 

“I’m only 11, hardly old enough for any raiding expeditions.” Icarus raised an incredulous eyebrow at the ghost. Then he sighed and waved his hand dismissively, turning back towards his meal.  “It was the custom at the time. However, that was a long time ago. My brother said I don’t need to raid for my rites. Regardless, no one raids anymore. It’s against the law. Any raiding in the nine would be met with the armies of Asgard.”

The ghost stared at him as if he were assessing him, leaving no stone unturned. Finally, the ghost nodded.

“I am the Baron,” the ghost introduced.

“Icarus.”

He then turned back to his food and ate as much as he could stand. The food was heavy and greasy, and sat in his stomach like an iron ball. He listened to Dumbledore with veiled annoyance. Forest bad, magic between classes bad, the third-floor corridor on the right bad, and Quidditch tryouts in the second week. Then, much like singing at the campfire, the headmaster leads them in a sing-along. It was strange, but he did his best to sing along, unlike most of his housemates. 

Then, they were dismissed. A pretty teen called for all the first years to follow her. He followed her along with the small group of other first years. Gemma Farley was their prefect and was very nice as she gave them a brief tour on their way towards the dungeons. Once inside, there had been a small speech before they were sent off to bed. It was strange getting put in a room with others. It made him feel more homesick than before. However, he did his best to stay positive as he set up his altar next to his bed with the little idols he had carved before. And the last thought on his mind was that the next day couldn’t be as bad, right?

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Love of a Brother

September 2, 1991

Icarus stood at the edge of a cliff, staring down into the waters far below. The air shimmered faintly, not from heat, but from something more subtle, like the veil between worlds was too thin here. Across the fjord, distant and veiled in haze, another cliff rose in mirror. Beyond it, a forest loomed, dark-green and swaying gently, though no wind touched his skin.

The sea between them moved with a slow, tidal rhythm. Not chaotic, not wild. Breathing. The sound of it was soft and melodic, more like breath than water. It lulled rather than echoed.

He’d been here before. Long ago.

A dream of a dream.

Familiarity buzzed in his bones, a deep hum that felt more real than waking. The place was comforting, but in the way a lullaby is comforting, even when it sings of something long buried. The air was cool and fresh, kissed with pine and salt.

And for once, Icarus didn’t feel warm.

He was always hot, always on the verge of sweating, even when the winter wind whipped through camp. Fenrir would tease him, of course, always ready with icy Jotunn magic or cold cuddles to cool him down. But here… here was balance. The air itself embraced him. He could breathe.

He stepped forward and stopped.

Beneath his foot, the grass lit up, flashing green like a broken glowstick, even though the sun hung bright above. Each step left behind a trail of light, fading slowly into the earth.

He laughed—loud and joyful—his voice ringing across the cliffside. He danced on the glowing grass, light bursting beneath him with each bound. The magic of it made him feel younger. Freer.

Alive.

He found a stick in the grass and twirled it loosely, pretending it was one of the seax knives his brother had helped him learn to wield. He smiled. This wasn’t a battle. This was play.

But the joy faltered—subtly, at first.

Across the fjord, something moved.

Red. A flicker at the edge of the trees.

A figure, familiar but never close. He squinted, breath caught. Bright red hair streamed in the windless air. A pale blue dress hung weightless around her, the fabric too still. She moved just inside the shadows of the forest, slow and measured. Watching.

He waved the stick in the air and shouted, beaming with recognition. He had seen her before. Always in the distance. Always just out of reach.

She stopped.

And for the first time, she stepped closer.

Closer—but not clear. Her features remained indistinct, hard to distinguish from the distance between them. She lifted her arm and pointed—not at him, but toward the direction she had been moving.

He nodded and followed.

The cliff path stretched long and winding, though he could not remember taking steps. Still, he walked, and with time came a rhythm. He hummed.

"I am the biggest wolf. I will feast in the summer."

A song his brother had taught him when fear stirred in the dark. Sing it loud, Fenrir said, and nothing could touch you.

So he sang.

And sang.

And then, he talked.

Not to himself—but to her.

He told her about his brother—how he found him at seven years old, chained to a rock like a myth rewritten. How he learned to fight, to prank, to trust. How the world changed when he had someone to belong to. He talked, and though she never spoke, he swore he heard laughter now and then, light as the distant bell of wind chimes.

But the path darkened.

The sun dulled to a pale disc behind a veil of cloud.

The pine scent turned sharper. The tide below grew louder.

He stopped.

And then—

He was on the cliff again.

…

Something grabbed Icarus, and he was jolted awake. Blaise stood over him, hand on his shoulder. 

“Time to get up.

Icarus blinked, then bolted upright. Most of the boys were already out of the dorm. Last night, the prefect told them breakfast was 7:30-8:30. He hadn’t given it much thought because his brother had built in the habit of waking up at 5:30. Even when he was alone, he’d still wake up that early for self-training.

Icarus jumped from his bed and rushed through getting ready with less care than normal. Any normal day, he’d do what he could to get his hair braided back off his face and ears, but today he just threw loose braids into his wild mane so he could thread his beads in. He tried not to mind how Blaise watched him getting ready, even when he slipped his seax, daggers, and his wand into their respective sheaths. 

“Are you allowed to have those?” Blaise asked.

“Icarus shrugged as he pulled on the black robe and toed on his sneakers. He quickly made his bed and locked his large steamer trunk before heaving his backpack over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what classes he had, so he slipped each textbook into his bag, thankful that someone from cabin 6 found him an extra durable backpack. Once he was sure all was good, he followed Blaise out. 

“Thanks for waking me up, by the way. I don’t usually sleep in.” 

Blaise nodded, and the two of them left quickly. 

When they arrived at the Great Hall, Icarus carefully picked out his breakfast, sticking as closely as possible to what he would typically eat at camp. He chewed quietly, listening to the chatter around him. Blaise was the only one to sit near him, but even that wasn’t all that close. Discreetly, he took a sniff. He didn’t smell bad.  

Halfway through the meal, the gloomy-looking professor came to their table and started handing out class schedules. The man was stony-faced and seemed to be the serious type, but his whole face shifted when he approached Icarus. The teacher all but threw the schedule at him with a sneer and moved on as if nothing had happened. 

Icarus blinked. Then slowly turned to Blaise. 

“Ummm…. Did I do something offensive that I wasn’t aware of?” Icarus asked. The boys closest to him shrugged, but Malfoy seemed to be contemplating as he watched the professor walk off. 

“That’s Professor Snape,” Malfoy said after a moment, “He’s our head of house. He’s usually preferential towards our house. It’s probably because of your status.” 

Icarus sat for a moment, blank-faced, before rolling his eyes. 

“What’s so offensive about being an orphan?” He muttered as he opened his schedule. He nodded carefully as he looked at the order of his classes, then frowned. 

“Excuse me, sir,” Icarus said as Professor Snape made to pass him. “I believe there’s a mistake with my schedule.”

The professor froze and whipped around, glowering at him. 

“Oh? And what is that, Mr. Potter?” He spat Icarus's name. 

Wow , someone finally saying the name like he did mentally. He brushed past the moment, holding up the schedule. 

“Astronomy is on my schedule; I don’t have to take it.”

“Astronomy is a core class. Just because you are famous doesn’t mean you get to pick and choose what classes you take.”

RUDE.

Icarus bit back a sarcastic response and looked his professor in the eyes. He spoke with gods, he wouldn’t be afraid of some mortal teacher. 

‘I must not piss off my teachers’ Icarus thought fiercely, and took a deep breath. 

“I know it is a core class to take until completion with a passing grade in OWLs and NEWTs. I have NEWTs in two classes, including Exceeds Expectations in Astronomy. A copy of my results should have been sent here two weeks ago. Was it not received?”

“I don’t know who you had managed to convince to forge NEWTs results, but I cannot be convinced that an eleven-year-old was capable of passing third-year tests, let alone an OWL or NEWT.” The professor glared at him. 

“Your belief is not required, Sir.” Icarus snapped. “I took the test at the government office, the results were archived, and a copy was sent here to confirm that there were classes I need not take. Belief is not required when there is evidence.”

“Detention, Mr. Potter.”

“What for?” Icarus almost shouted incredulously, gaining the attention of many onlookers.

“For your tongue. And you’ve just made it two days of detention. Care to add more?”

Icarus narrowed his eyes before grabbing his backpack and opening it. He pulled out a folder and handed it to the professor. 

On reflex, the professor took it and opened it. Inside, neatly organized, were the documents from the Ministry of Magic with his results. On one side, his astronomy results, sitting proudly in the front, a large ‘E’ stamped on the top right corner next to the name Icarus Nooneson (AKA Harry Potter). Behind it held a copy of the completed test, the results of his practical, and the tester’s notes. The other side of the folder was the same documents for Ancient Runes, but with a large ‘O’. 

“My copy of the results. My brother also has a copy, and the ministry has the originals. I passed. It’s stupid to attend a class I’ve already completed. If it’s a matter of staying up late once a week, I’ll stay up and do independent studies.” Icarus then turned his back on the professor and continued eating even as he felt the professor’s glare on his head. 

Icarus rolled his eyes and tried his best to watch his mouth. 

This first day wasn’t living up to his expectations, but the rest of the week couldn’t be too bad…

September 6, 1991

Icarus attended his classes that week with growing frustration. 

Magic was something that had always come easily to him. While he wouldn’t dare call himself a prodigy, he would (and has) boast that there were few things he couldn’t do if he put his mind to it. A match into a needle should have, by far, been the easiest thing for him to do. He had turned Spencer’s sword into a goat 2 years ago. The son of Ares had to chase it around and catch it to make it turn back. It was a hilarious few days. Therefore, the transfiguration assignment should have been child’s play. Instead, the stupid thing refused to cooperate. It was like trying to move his brother when in true wolf form, when he refused to be moved. 

The history class, which, according to the history books, should have been interesting. Instead, it proved to be a good class for him to do his remedial classwork (Math, science, language arts, etc.) or other work. The ghost teacher was stuck in an echo. It was surprising that he was even allowed to stay on staff when he didn’t even realize he was dead. Part of him wondered if his sister would have a problem with it. 

Charms was an exciting class, and when Professor Flitwick didn’t squeak at the name “Harry Potter,” he was quite a good teacher. It was a familiar type of magic. A lot of the small things his friends did could have been considered charms.

Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout were the only ones to call him Icarus when requested. They were always surprised for some reason whenever he answered immediately to his name. It was normal, wasn’t it, to look up and answer when someone says your name, which was the opposite of what happened when he was in McGonagall’s class. She refused to call him anything but “Potter” and then got angry when he didn’t respond right away. 

Then there was Professor Quirrel. His class was a headache, in the metaphorical and literal sense. He had hoped that the class would be the best class, thinking it would be similar to what training was like. However, it was much, much, more boring than the excitement of learning how to fight with magic. Fenrir didn’t want to risk teaching him battle magic, focusing more on forms and physical strength, the things that were more socially acceptable in Asgard. Professor Quirrel focused more on theoretical things and the explanation behind the theories. But Icarus would always get a headache in the class, leaving his head throbbing and sore by the end of the day. That was annoying, but it was also weird the things he lied about. After all, who lies about why he wears a turban? It certainly wasn’t because it was a gift from an African prince. Much of what the man said seemed to be lies, yet another headache. 

Icarus called Clint later that day, telling him about the weird professor. Clint, obviously, was quick to caution him around the man. 

“Look, Icar, some adults can be creeps. It’s a dangerous world out there, and since you’re alone, you need to be on guard.” Clint cautioned. Icarus gave him a deadpan stare before slowly raising a brow. “I know you know. Just… Just try not to be alone with him if you can help it. Ask another adult to be with you if he tries to talk to you alone. Don’t you have an adult who supervises your house? Ask him to sit in with you. Trust your gut. As Chiron says, our instincts are our greatest asset.”

Icarus nodded, agreeing with him easily. Clint was five years older than Icarus and had been out ‘in the real world’ far longer than Icarus had. They then turned to talk about the latest news and the newest gossip. About 8 minutes into their chat, Laura jumped into the conversation when she nearly bowled Clint over to talk to Icarus. By the end of the call, he was several drachmas short and two hours closer to dinner. 

Then Friday came, a day he had been hesitantly looking forward to. Though the confrontation with his head of house left a coolness in the air, Blaise had assured him that Snape favored Slytherins, and the class seemed to be interesting. Icarus made sure to arrive early to the class and had his notebook out and ready to take notes. After all, safety was important, so there was bound to be some theory before diving into the making of potions. So, as soon as the man started speaking, Icarus quickly wrote down every word, even going so far as to not be tempted into a snide comment when the older man called him a celebrity, though it had taken a few seconds to realize that he was Potter.

“Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” the teacher suddenly asked. It took a moment for Icarus to realize he was being asked the question. He looked up from his notes, put his pen down, and thought hard. He could hear the whispering of his classmates around him, but he ignored them. Laura was the plant whisperer. When Clint was being an idiot, Icarus would sit with her and let her tell him all about them. 

“All plants have a meaning. It's a whole language all its own. When combined with other plants and stuff, it can have a secret message. Sometimes it’s a love letter in a bouquet, or a sign of how much you hate someone, or even to express sorrow in someone’s loss.”

“Like what?”

“Well… you know what flower is said to be in the fields of Elysium?”

“Ummm. Ash something, right?”

“Close, Asphodel. It’s like a type of lily. It symbolizes death.”

Asphodel symbolizes death. It popped into his head. 

“It would make a type of sleep potion, one that mimics death. Like in the story of Romeo and Juliet?” Icarus ventured. There was snickering from most of the Slytherins and some Gryffindors, and a noise of understanding from a handful of students. However, Snape’s lip curled into a sneer as his eyes narrowed into a glare. 

“And Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a Bezoar?”

Behind him, he noticed Hermione Granger, the girl from the train, waving her arm to try to answer. Snape had also ignored her, laying his full, harsh attention on her. 

“I would say your potion supplies, sir,” Icarus started with a bland look on his face. Well… he could probably convince Fenrir that he did his best to respect his teacher… maybe. But it was enjoyable to see the flash of rage cross the man’s face. “But I believe the answer you want is in the stomach of a goat.”

The whispering in the classroom was hushed. Most of the students talked about how Snape picked on one of his own, and others about how Icarus knew the answers. 

“What is the difference between Monkshood and Wolfbane?”

“Same thing, also called Aconite. Monkshood and the name Aconite are both used to describe the plant's appearance, where the name wolfbane is a descriptor of one of its uses. It’s a poison, but it could, in the right combination, be used in medicinal tonics. It’s also the plant Athena used to transform Arachne into a spider.”

“Did I ask for that information, Potter? A point will be taken for your cheek. The rest of you! Why aren’t you writing this down?” Snape snapped, turning his anger towards the class. As soon as the man’s attention shifted from him, Icarus wrote in the margins, Asphodel + Wormwood. 

Unfortunately for him, the rest of the class went just as swimmingly. The poor boy who lost his toad, Longbottom, got attacked by his potion and was covered in the stuff, leading to angry red boils to cover his arms and legs. The class as a whole was quick to jump onto their stools, saving their feet from the potion. However, while Snape yelled at Longbottom, Icarus jumped into action. He poured cool water over the boils while he forced magic through his hands as he held onto Longbottom’s arms. A soft golden glow emanated from his hands, causing the boils to lessen in size and color. He didn’t have the strength or skill to make the wounds disappear entirely, but it would lessen the pain. The class fell quiet, and a long, deathly silent minute later Snape snapped at one of the other Gryffindor boys to take Longbottom to the hospital wing. Once the two boys left, Icarus stood, brushed imagined dirt from his pants, and returned to his station. There was a burning feeling on his knees and on the bottom of his feet. He let his magic slowly cycle to the sore parts as he sipped from his flask of nectar. Not long later, the class was dismissed. Everyone but Icarus was quick to leave. 

“Are you deaf boy? Get out.” Snape snapped. 

It was a struggle to keep the shit eating grin from his face as he signed ‘would you be nicer to me if I was deaf’ . 

His head of house froze, clearly trying to figure out if his student had been deaf the entire time. Taking mercy on him, Icarus snorted and shook his head. 

“Sorry. My best friend is hard of hearing, so I’m quite good at American Sign Language. I was hoping I could speak with you. This was my last class of the day.”

“What do you want, Potter?” he spat the last name as he leaned against his desk at the front. 

“Can you please call me Icarus?”

“What?”

“I- I’m not used to the name Harry, or Potter. It takes a bit for me to realize I’m being called on. My name is Icarus , or even Nooneson or Varagian. I’ll answer to any of those names much quicker. And… I don’t think I like the name Harry Potter, or the meanings people attach to it. Everyone looks at me like I’m a bug or something. Even you called me a celebrity, and from what I’ve read… I don’t think it’s something I want to be known for.”

They sat in silence for a while, Icarus nervously gnawing on his lip and tugging on a beaded braid. The professor didn’t say anything, just narrowed his eyes at Icarus like glaring would make the child leave. Eventually, Icarus drew a deep breath. ‘I am the biggest wolf,’ he thought. He straightened his back and squared his shoulders like his brother taught him to, so he looked like he belonged amongst the nobility.

“What’s your problem?”

“How dare you-” He growled, his hand seemed to want to twitch towards his pocketed wand as his face turned red with anger.

“Obviously, I must have done something that offends you, but I can’t figure out what it is! You showed a clear dislike for me without even speaking to me. Is it because people keep looking at me? Cause that’ll stop eventually?! What did I do? I’ll apologize! I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is! Why do you hate me?” Icarus shouted. 

“I have no reason to hate you.” LIE .

Icarus froze like his teacher had slapped him, eyes gone wide. A flash of confusion blinked past the man’s eyes as Icarus reeled back. 

“You’re lying.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No. You’re lying. You do have a reason to hate me.” Icarus murmured. Every flower has meaning. “Is it because of Asphodel and wormwood? Did someone die ‘cause of me? Is that why you hate me?”

“Get out.”

“Who was it? I haven’t been blamed for any deaths I know of.” Icarus trailed off. He realized that was wrong. He read it in the books. Lily and James Potter were believed to have died protecting him. “Was it my parents?”

“OUT!”

“It was, wasn’t it? You hate me because my parents are dead.” The room fell dead silent. Icarus couldn’t bear to look anywhere but at the shoes of his teacher. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t want any of this.” His vision swam against his will, and his lip wobbled as he tried to take deep breaths. He just wanted his parents to be held, loved, and named. Icarus bent down and pulled his backpack over one shoulder as he stood. 

“Do you know why my name is Icarus? Because I didn’t have one before, at least not one that was fit for anyone to have. The ones who found me couldn’t bring themselves to call me Freak . You don’t know me, Professor Snape. You don’t know who I am, what I’ve done, what I can do. You don’t know me . So many people have opinions about me without knowing me. I’m going to prove them wrong, and I’m going to prove you wrong, too. I didn’t kill my parents.” Then Icarus fled the room.

The fifth-floor boy’s bathroom was empty except for one small first-year, Icarus. He had curled up against the wall, face buried in his knees, while the shimmer of an Iris call illuminated the tears staining his face. Fenrir watched his brother and listened as he talked about everything. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking, Fenrir throwing drachmas in to keep the discussion going until the tears had dried and the redness around his eyes cleared. 

Fenrir couldn’t stay still after his Iris message with his baby brother. His little Icar had always been such a happy child. Of course, like every little kid, he’d thrown fits and tantrums, had bad dreams, but he had never seen Icarus so upset. Red eyes that kept spilling tears. Icarus used to cry after nightmares, but they were quiet tears. He always kept himself so quiet, painfully quiet, but… he was sobbing today. It filled Fenrir with a rage he hadn’t felt in hundreds of years. He wanted to scream and break things, preferably the face of whoever it was that implied that sweet baby Icar killed his own parents. He had wanted to give up building for the day, set aside his ax, and drink himself into oblivion. Instead, he gripped the ax tighter and turned back to the trees he had been clearing before Icarus called. 

Since arriving, he had made a few appearances in the nearby town, making an introduction or two, letting the locals know of his presence and his intention to build a home for his family. He kept his sketches of the blueprints close to him, sealed in a secret pocket. The house wouldn’t compare to the beauty of Asgard. It wouldn’t be anything like the shining golden city he grew up in, but he wasn’t sure if he would want it to. Instead, he had it set up in the fashion of those who had used to worship them. It would be humble, not a palace or grand hall fit for a prince, but it would be home . A home just for Icarus and him. Three years had passed since Icarus found him in that forest. Since then, Fenrir had done his best to do right by him and raise him in a way that would make their father proud. Guide him in the practices of Aesir nobility and the traditions of the Midgardian Vikings to manhood. He could only hope that now that they were away from the direct influence of the Olympians, it would be smooth sailing. 

A large portion of trees had been marked, and a week in, he was nearly done with clearing them. If everything went well, he’d be done by the end of the school year, if not by Yule. It would be perfect; they would make it perfect together. Right now, at least, the location was ideal, set just at the edge of the forest, a short walk to the town with the castle his brother was being taught in within eyesight. From what he heard, his little brother would get to go on school outings to the village in two years; this way, he could visit. Maybe when Icar was popular and had many friends, they would come to the house and hang out there rather than go to the same stores and spots. 

Fenrir set the ax down by the small, rudimentary structure he had made to keep him dry and warm while he worked on the longhouse. In the firelight, he worked hard, his large, calloused hands pulling at the stumps he had left behind, pulling the tree roots up from the earth they had grown in. The hard work reminded him of the old days, back on Asgard; it was a nostalgic feeling, and he reveled in it.

It hadn’t been two hours when a loud roll of thunder caused him to pause. Hesitantly, he looked up to the sky that had, just moments ago, been clear and star-filled. Now the sky was dark with thunder clouds. He slowly straightened and, with measured movements, moved closer to where his ax rested. 

Some part of him was hoping that the thunder was his uncle. Thor was arrogant and prideful, but he had his limits. He would never hurt a child, not ever. And though he did not speak out against the banishments and exiles of Fenrir and his siblings, he clearly did not agree. Family meant much to him, even if he did not show it well. Fenrir could talk to his uncle, could reason with, or in the worst case, beg, and Thor would listen. Zeus… Zeus did not accept corrections or challenges. 

Then it happened. A large lightning bolt zagged across the darkened sky, striking the ground near the castle with a flash of bright blue. He had to blink away the blinding light, but he knew. He would know, even if the seidr could hide the truth from him. Fenrir grabbed his ax and ran. Blood pounded in his ears as his feet thundered against the grassy hilltop. The wards surrounding the school felt like a breath against his skin as he passed through with no thought but faster. He never trusted the Olympian king and never felt at ease when Icarus went with the other campers on the solstices to Olympus, fearing what the king would do. Fenrir had lost his family to one king before. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, lose his baby brother, not another brother, not again. 

His booted feet skidded on the solid capstones as he sprinted up a set of stairs, following the tug that connected him to Icarus. The large doors were already open, and he could see Zeus leaning down, snarling at someone much smaller than him. Fenrir’s heart skipped a beat. He saw his father standing there, shoulders back, arms relaxed at his sides, but clearly ready to pull a blade at a moment’s notice. Fenrir blinked. Then it registered. It wasn’t his father. The figure beneath Zeus’s imposing shadow had longer hair, dark and disheveled, with thin braids woven about. He wore a black robe over a white shirt with a striped piece of fabric hanging from his neck. Then there was the Sowilo rune that stood out on his pale skin. It wasn’t his father standing there, but his baby brother, Icarus. 

He looked so very small beneath the Olympian king’s thunderous presence.

“I will not. I was placed correctly.” Icarus said calmly.

“You dare?” Zeus’ voice rumbled like a distant storm, low and heavy with ancient authority. 

“The name you gave me does not change who I am.”

“After all this time, you still dare to think you can be like us? Be welcome amongst us, Varangian ? Ambition and cunning will be your downfall.”

“Course I am. I’m ambitious because of you. I will prove you wrong. You, Olympus, Asgard, everyone who looks down on me. I’ll prove your opinion of me wrong. I am worthy. I will be wanted. And one day, people will worship me. I will be pivotal one day. And as for cunning… well, claimed or not, am I not my father’s son? ” Icarus smiled, not noticing how he had slipped from the language spoken in these lands to Zeus’ native tongue. Fenrir growled.

“Two steps back, my lord,” Fenrir said just loud enough to be heard. Silence filled the hall with tension that was the same as the halls of Asgard after the twins. His eyes met the bright electric blue of the king for a moment. Then, slowly, the god king compiled, taking two steps back from the child. He had seen Icarus's eyes flick towards him so briefly that he had thought it imagined, but he knew neither of them could dare to let their guard down. 

“Very well,” Zeus said, tone colder, retrained thunder behind each word. “If you insist on proving yourself, then you will have your chance. So long as you remain in that house of yours, you will face challenges worthy of your ambition. There will be no aid from Olympus. If you think you can survive, stay. In fact, if you live long enough to ascend fully, I will welcome you myself. ”

“I look forward to it, Your Majesty,” Icarus said, face still calm and blank. 

The god-king sneered and turned to leave. He paused when he saw the raised ax. 

Fenrir stood in the path, weapon still raised just enough to say: You may be a god, but I am a god and a monster.

Fenrir lowered it ever so slowly, permitting the king to pass, but making it clear that should he need to, he would use it. 

“Ah, yes, the eldest son,” The king leaned in close so that only Fenrir could hear his voice. “Do not forget, so long as that child remains my guest, and you by extension, he is under my protection. Xenia binds me, and you. But this is a narrow path we both walk, wolf . That child’s life remains in my hands. Should I choose to break my silence and inform the Aesir of the unclaimed child in my care, or the prisoner whose chains he broke? I don’t think the one-eyed king of Asgard would weep for the loss of an unclaimed child of his spare heir, nor for the one who had been chained and discarded.”

Fenrir bared his teeth in a silent snarl as lightning flickered at the edges of Zeus’s presence. 

Then-

“Your majesty?” Icarus’s small voice called over. “Am I still allowed on the winter solstice field trip?”

Zeus paused. Huffed. Then left without answering. 

The tension broke, and the lightning vanished from the air. Fenrir’s grip slackened, and his ax dropped to the floor with a heavy clang as he bolted towards his little brother.

“Hi, brother,” Icarus smiled as Fenrir dropped to his knees. He grabbed Icarus by his shoulders and looked him over. “I’m okay.” He tried to reassure him, but Fenrir refused to be shaken off. 

“ Let me look at you, ” he ordered quietly in their native tongue, holding his little brother in place as he inspected him carefully. Icarus's face was clear, aside from the bags under his eyes, claiming he was tired. Clothes were unrumpled, and there was no sign of having been manhandled aside from his own grip. 

But he couldn’t trust Zeus. 

Kings couldn’t be trusted. Could not be trusted with any of his siblings, most of all not one who had yet to fully ascend and was so vulnerable. 

Yet, nothing seemed wrong with his youngest brother but the reddening of his face. He pressed a hand to his brother’s cheek. 

“ He did not harm you? ”

“ No. He was just upset about my house placement. He wanted to try to scold me into changing. ” Icarus said quietly. 

“ Then you are fearless for standing your ground. I do not doubt that the lord of the sky knows that you will ascend to greatness with motivation .” Icarus's face turned a warm shade of scarlet as a small smile graced his lips. Then he looked up and turned even redder. 

“Sorry for the disruption,”  Icarus said in English, looking around. Everyone in the room was watching them. Many children’s eyes were looking on with wide-eyed curiosity, while the older students looked outright concerned, some with their conductors in their hands, ready to fight. The adults looked scared, a few angry, but all were gripping their conductors tightly, pointing them in their direction. 

Fenrir started to growl low in his throat, gently pulling at Icarus to put himself between his little brother and the new threat, but stopped when Icarus's small hand smacked his shoulder. He looked back at Icarus with relief. His brother was safe. Standing slowly, he draped an arm over his brother’s shoulder, urging the child to lean against him. It was then he spotted a familiar face amongst the adults, and the woman lowered her conductor just before he spoke. 

“Apologies for interrupting your late meal. I was overwhelmed with concern for Icarus's safety when I saw the lightning strike. I assure you, I mean no harm to the inhabitants of this school.”

“Of course,” McGonagall, the teacher who had come to their camp, said, already stowing the conductor away, “It is a relief to see Mr. Potter is so cherished that you would rush in without thought.” 

“There is nothing I would not do for the sake of my brother,” Fenrir said, hugging Icarus's small frame closer to him, thoughts of their conversation earlier in the day flashing through his head. Residual images of his baby brother’s tear-stained face still haunted him. “While I am here, may I request a meeting with the director of this establishment and the patron of the house he had been placed into?”

Icarus tugged on his tunic, and he glanced down at it. A moment later, he leaned down so his brother could whisper in his ear, correcting him hesitantly. 

“My apologies, I am unfamiliar with the terms used here. Might I speak with the headmaster and Icarus's head of house?”

“We can speak in my office, Mr…?” The elder adult who stood before the golden throne-like chair said, tapering off as if to ask for Fenrir’s name. A name he would not give freely. This mortal was the headmaster. The head of Icarus’s school and Fenrir was getting the sense that he didn’t like it. He was old, hair long gone white with age, his beard so long and proud that he actually had it tucked into his belt. Curiously enough, though his clothes were brightly colored with stars on them, they were deceptively whimsical. Fenrir eyed the still-full plates on the table. 

“Finish your meal. I will sit with my brother until the mealtime is over,” he offered with the undertone of an order. Icarus immediately perked up against him and grabbed his hand. Without another word, his little brother tugged him to a table of green and silver, both of them ignoring the conductors and eyes that followed them. 

“ Are you truly unharmed? ” Fenrir asked quietly as they moved to a seat at the end of the table that had a single full plate and a large space around it, as if no one wished to be near whoever was sitting there. 

“ You know I can’t lie to you. The king was just big mad that Slytherin is the house of the ambitious, but he wouldn’t harm me. He’s the god of Xenia. ” Icarus said as he started to sit down at that lone plate. Fenrir sighed, pressed a kiss to the top of his brother’s head, before sitting down next to him. 

“This is the Slytherin house table. I sit with the boys in my year, and the girls sit just over there. Oh! And that’s Gemma, I told you about her, she’s super nice. I think she’d fit into cabin 6 or 10.” Fenrir eyed the distance between the Icarus and the boys in his year. Say they were sitting together was… generous, but they were the nearest to him, at around 5 feet away. In fact, now Fenrir sat closer to the boys than Icarus did. But a teenage girl, around 15 or 16, smiled down the table at them and gave Fenrir a shy wave. He nodded at her and turned his attention promptly back to his brother. 

“What do you want to talk to the headmaster and Snape about?” Icarus asked, head cocked slightly. 

“Never you mind. I just have some things I want to discuss with them. Nothing for you to worry about.” 

“Why can’t I come too? It’s about me, isn’t it? I should be there.” Icarus scowled, looking so much like mother that it crushed his heart. 

“No. This is a discussion between adults. You need rest. I can see it on your face, clearly written in the bags under your eyes.”

“‘M not tired,” Icarus mumbled and winced as LIE rang clear between them. 

“Eat, and after dinner I will speak with the headmaster and this Snape, and you, my littlest brother, will go to bed, rest and wake in the morning, well rested and ready for the day.”

Icarus's lower lip stuck out momentarily before he sighed and nodded, shifting his attention from Fenrir’s order to the food on his plate. Fenrir watched as Icarus poked at the food, shifting it around on his plate. Icarus was avoiding eating, but trying to make it look like the food was being eaten by moving it about. He couldn’t blame the child entirely. The food here looked much greasier and heartier than the food found back at the camp, and with his brother being so young… Fenrir would be surprised if there were many foods that settled well in his brother’s stomach. He looked about the table and started gathering the foods that were likely to be the easiest for Icarus to handle, and plated them for his brother, just a small portion, and switched the plates around. 

“Here, eat.” 

Wide eyes were watching them both, and he smiled. Icarus didn’t seem to notice the looks, which explained his earlier complaints of everyone treating him like a celebrity (a term he would otherwise not be aware of had he not lived with a horde of teenagers for the past few years). 

“Are you eating your ambrosia and drinking your nectar?” Fenrir asked, watching his brother pick at the food with an unhappy expression. Icarus nodded and popped another piece of broccoli in his mouth. He shook his head at his brother and tried to find something to distract him, he always ate more if he was distracted during the meal. 

“So, which teachers are which?” He asked, looking back up to the head table. Icarus followed his gaze and perked up. 

“I don’t know all of them, but, umm, that’s Quirrel in the turban, he’s the defense professor… I’d say 5 or 11… I don’t know why, but… Anyways. Next to him is my head of house, Snape, he’s a  6. Ummm, I haven’t had her yet, but the one with the white hair is Hooch. She’s the flying teacher. The short one is Flitwick, 6 or 7. You recognize McGonagall. She’s a 6 or 11… she tricked one of the first-year classes into thinking she wasn’t there but was in the shape of a cat. That’s the headmaster, Dumbledore. I don’t know him, but I think he’s 12… don’t tell Mr. D I said that. Umm… that lady over there with the white cap is the healer, Pomfry. I don’t know her yet, so I’m reserving judgment, but probably 7, cause you know, healers. Sprout is next to her, she’s 4, no doubt.”

“Icarus, why are you rating our professors?” a tall, thin black boy sitting near Icarus asked, looking curious. 

“And what’s with that strange way to rate them?” a very blond boy asked with a sneer. 

“Where we lived, everyone was separated into one of 12 cabins. Icarus is telling me their skills or personality with what cabin number they’d be in, 6, for example, is the cabin most known for intelligence and strategy. By saying your head of house is in 6, he’s letting me know that he is extremely intelligent, has a tendency to get lost in his work, can come off a little rough around the edges, and has a way with words. Would you say that this is an accurate assumption?”

“Yeah, yeah, that sounds right,” the first boy said, looking at Icarus with a complicated look. 

“And who else should I know?” Fenrir asked, leaning on the table to watch his brother. Icarus smiled and pointed over to a different table. 

“Over there at Gryffindor are the Weasley twins. One’s Fred, and the other is George. They’re 11, the pranksters here. I haven’t seen much yet, but I think they’ll be my rivals here.” Icarus pointed over to the table of red and gold on the other side of the room. 

He looked over, peering over the heads of children, and scanned the table. Then his heart stopped in his chest. Two redheads bent close to each other. Mischievous grins played on their lips. Their cheeks were still rounded with youth, dimples shining on their cheeks. He wanted to call out to them, run over, and hold them as closely as he does with Icarus. Weasley twins. That was what Icarus had called them, but all he could think of were his younger brothers who had been killed.

“Brother?” Icarus asked.

Fenrir blinked the haze of tears away and turned to his youngest brother with a smile. 

“Your rivals, you say? Are you planning to challenge their position here?”

“Hmm…” Icarus hummed in thought before smiling a far too innocent smile. “Not yet. I made a deal with Mr. D and Chiron. If I behave til Yule, they’ll let me go out with the older kids in the summer. After that, the school’s free game.”

“Mercy on the school then; you’ll have to tell me how it goes since I can’t witness the chaos you decide to unleash.” He sighed, shaking his head. Icarus and Clint were menaces at camp, especially with the more magic Icarus seemed to get as he grew older. “Now, who else?”

“Hmm… Toad-boy, Neville Longbottom, he’s over there at Gryffindor. He’s 4 .”

“Icar, English,” Fenrir said casually when he noticed Icarus switching languages halfway through the introduction. Icar nodded and kept going. 

“Whirlwind-girl, Hermione Granger, is also Gryffindor, she’s 6.” He pointed out two other children at the red and gold table before looking at the nearby boys. “This is Draco Malfoy. His father is very rich and influential. He’d be in cabin 12, maybe 10. Vincent Crabbe and  Gregory Goyle both snore very loudly; they’d be in cabin 5. Blaise Zabini, his mother’s been married s even times. He’d be in cabin 10… maybe 6… to be determined. Pansy Parkinson -” Icarus started listing off some of the nearby boys.

“Icarus,” He interrupted. “You keep changing languages. Keep to the native language here.” Icarus's face went red, and he ducked his head down. He sighed and patted Icarus's head. It happened often, but when most campers, whether knowingly or not, thought in the tongue of Olympus and could naturally respond to it. But whenever new campers came, Icarus often switched between languages, sometimes in the same sentence. “It’s okay, just be mindful.”

Icarus nodded, head still bowed. 

“Not to be rude, but who are you?” the blonde boy asked, looking between him and Icarus.

“Oh, this is my big brother. He’s awesome and super strong and really nice.” Icarus smiled brightly, making sure not to mention Fenrir’s name. 

“You can’t have a brother! Especially not him! He looks like he’s in his twenties!” the blonde squawked.

“While it is complicated, I assure you we tell the truth, Icarus is my brother. Should you look close enough, I’m sure you’d see the resemblance.” Fenrir knew that on a quick glance, they looked nothing alike. While Icarus's hair was as black as obsidian, his was white as ivory. They wore their curly hair similarly, though Fenrir’s curls were more manageable than Icarus's, who had gotten the wildness that his mother’s hair had. He was also far bulkier and muscular from the centuries of training, while his brother held the small, lean stature of a willowy child. However, they had the same nose, and their lips curled the same way when they smiled. Their jaw and cheekbones. Small things. They had different mothers, so it was natural that they differed in some areas. But he saw recognition light up behind the blonde’s icy gray eyes. He then looked at his brother, who had tugged on one of his braids. The braid had three beads on it, one with the same rune that marred his brother’s forehead, another with a yellow bow and arrow and a target that had four arrows in the bullseye, and the last, a large rock with a wolf chained in golden lines. It was the same braid that had a lock of white.

“So, boys, which classes do you favor thus far?” Fenrir asked. 

He listened with a smile as the boys opened up, chatting about the different classes they had so far, which teachers they liked, and how they didn’t like Binns, the ghostly professor. He felt Icarus lean against him heavily as the children around him spoke happily. Near half an hour passed when the children were dismissed from their meal, and he looked down to see Icarus asleep against him.

“ Brother ,” he said gently in their native language. His baby brother grunted and burrowed deeper against him. “ Come, Icarus. It's time to open your eyes .”

Slowly, Icarus blinked his eyes open and stared at him blearily. Then he pulled himself into a standing position and leaned back against Fenrir. He smiled softly and hugged Icarus, pressing a kiss to his brow. Icarus grumbled and stared up at him.

“ I wanna come too .”

“ Go to bed; you look dead on your feet. ”

“But-”

“Bed.” He ordered gently, nudging Icarus to follow one of his classmates. 

“Love you, Brother.” He mumbled before turning to follow the rest of the house to the dungeons. 

“Love you too, my littlest brother,” Fenrir whispered, watching his baby brother disappear out the door and down the stairs. Once the children had all cleared out, he turned to the table of adults, where three remained. One was the familiar, stern-looking woman who had come to their camp when there was confusion about the dreaded letter. Then, there was the old man with his long white beard. The last was a stranger to him, a tall, sallow man with greasy black hair that looked like it should be dripping.

“My boy, come, let's speak in my office,” the one Icarus called Dumbledore called. Fenrir turned a cold eye towards the adults and firmed his back. He was gentle only around his younger brothers and the children from the camp. That was the extent, though.

 He, Fenrir Lokison, was the eldest grandchild of the Allfather, the strongest warrior of Asgard, and the protector of the current third in line for the throne, his baby brother, and there were quite a few things that needed to be made clear with the teachers of this school. After all, Icarus was only attending because it seemed their father had wanted him to come here for whatever reason, but it didn’t mean he had to stay.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Unexpected Guests

September 7, 1991

He was there again, standing at the cliff’s edge above the fjord, though the world around him trembled like a half-formed thought. Gone was the bright sunlight from before. Now the sky stretched low and bruised, swirling with a storm that hadn’t yet broken, as though the horizon held its breath. The wind keened across the stones—not wild, but rhythmic, almost ritualistic. He was alone, but not unaccompanied.

Something watched. Something waited.

The unease in his limbs was more than restlessness—it was an echo. A compulsion that rose from the marrow outward. He moved without choosing to. So he walked.

He walked and kept walking.

The ground underfoot twisted subtly with each step, came a bright flash of green, and grass turned to frost, then to ash, then back again. Trees leaned in like listeners. Stones rearranged behind him with no sound. The world reformed as he moved, dreamlike but deliberate, as though it existed only in response to him.

Time collapsed in on itself. He was walking. He was already at the cliff again. The fjord below boiled with unnatural movement.

The sea stirred not with tide, but with will.

Below the surface, something turned. Vast. Coiled. Infinite. It moved in slow spirals, carving patterns into the ocean that throbbed in his bones. He stared, and the water stared back. The wind carried whispers now—fragments of words, layered voices from places beyond sleep. They tangled together like threads on a loom. Thunder rolled, and when he looked up, lightning burned across the sky, lighting like an ancient, large tree. One rune burned in the clouds.

ᚷ

Gift. Sacrifice. Opening.

The whispers grew louder until one called louder amongst them all. A name. Not Icarus, not Harry, but the one that thrummed in his blood like thunder. The one that had never been spoken aloud, but had always been true.

And then, he felt her.

To his right: red.

A flash of color in the greyscale world. Red hair, wild and alive in the wind. The woman again. But this time, she wasn’t simply there. She hovered. Translucent, untethered. Her feet didn’t touch the earth. She didn’t breathe. The wind passed through her as if she were smoke shaped into memory.

Her face remained hidden, blurred like something forgotten—but not painful to remember. Her presence ached in his chest, like a home that no longer stood.

She raised her arm and pointed, slow and solemn.

To the sea.

He moved forward, drawn not by her command, but by a gravity inside himself. The sea surged beneath him, not angry, not calm. Waiting.

He leaned over the edge. The water pulled away its surface like a veil. Beneath it, coils shifted. Something turned, massive and ageless, unseen but undeniable. The pressure of it settled on his chest, his heart, his spine.

The wind died. 

The sea coiled tighter.

He gasped. And the sea exhaled.

…

Icarus's eyes shot open as he heaved for breath. He was covered in a layer of cold sweat, standing barefoot in the common room in his pjs in front of the windows, looking out into the lake. It was silent in the common room, save for the sound of his own beating heart and heavy breath. He didn’t remember coming to the common room at all. In fact, he distinctly remembered going to the first-year boys’ dorm room because Malfoy was teasing him for falling asleep against his brother during dinner. Blaise was kind enough to let Icarus lean against him, only asking a few questions, like “how much older than you is your brother” (a lot older) or “why’s his hair white” (genetics). He barely wanted to put on his pjs, but Malfoy gave him an earful that “only savages go to bed in their day clothes”. The only reason he could think of for him being in the common room was that he naturally sought out the cool temperature since Malfoy was a diva who liked to sleep in a sauna. 

Now, thoroughly awake as he was, he crept back to the dorm room to his bed to gather some of his belongings. His yearmates were fast asleep still, so he stayed as quiet as he could and crept to the bathroom. Once he completed his morning ablutions and was dressed in his casual green linen tunic and gray linen pants, he stood in front of the mirror and tried to brush through his curls. 

It was a struggle trying to tame his own hair on his own. It was hard to plait braids into his hair and weave his beads into them. For the past three years, his brother was the one to manage his hair for him, calling it a family bonding ritual. Apparently, Father had done this for him when he was Icarus's age, and for all of their siblings. Fenrir had helped, too, when he was older. They used to line up, all braiding hair at the same time, while father told them stories. Before his brother came, plenty of the campers were more than happy to braid his hair for him, especially cabin 10, who took any opportunity to play with his hair that he allowed. So Icarus struggled for a few minutes before sighing and resigning himself, good enough. It was as good as it was going to get as far as he was concerned. 

When he slipped back into the dorm room, he was slightly surprised to see that everyone was still fast asleep. He shook his head and grabbed the soft leather shoes his brother had made for him and tied them on. To his surprise, they felt tighter than usual. He wiggled his toes. They still fit… barely. He was going to need to tell Fenrir that he’d need a new pair soon. With one last disapproving glance at his still sleeping year-mates, he walked out of the room and out of the dungeons. 

Icarus wove through the maze of corridors to the main doors to the castle that led to the great outdoors. The entire walk was silent and uninterrupted. Apparently, no one woke early on weekends. He pushed on the large, heavy doors, opening them just enough to slip through. It was still early, the sun not quite yet peeking over the horizon, but only starting to lighten the sky. Everything was still. The air, the ground, the sky, and all the creatures that belonged in the three held in quiet suspense, as all were waiting for a signal to breathe again. 

Icarus exhaled slowly, extending his hand, and began his walk along the outer walls of the castle. 

This was to be his new morning ritual, an echo of the one he and his brother had followed for years, but larger now, and far lonelier. Back home, it had begun the same way: once they were both up and moving, they would circle their cabin together. 

It was Fenrir who had taught him how to walk the perimeter of their small home with purpose. Taught how to look for loose hinges, warped boards, or places where the wards had gone thin. The Olympians may have built the cabin, but they would never maintain it. Maintenance was on them, the brothers in exile, Lokisons. Once Fenrir had trusted him enough to control his magic, he passed on what little arcane knowledge he had. Fenrir’s skill in spellwork was not complex, it was raw and instinctual, but the quiet craft of infusing a place with presence, of binding protection into wood and stone so that the structure would recognize them and welcome them was easy. It made it so that it would feel like home. 

Each morning, they’d reinforce their wards and magic with steady, careful hands. When they finished with the cabin, they would expand their patrol to the camp’s edges, checking for signs of monsters slipping through the Olympians’ weakened boundaries. Side by side, they went about sealing cracks and whispering power into invisible threads. 

Those walks had been more than a practical exercise of defense. They were filled with wonderful stories. Fenrir regaled Icarus with tales from his youth, wild adventures of their father and uncle, and hushed, reverent mentions of siblings Icarus had never met. It was on those walks that he learn he was their father’s seventh child. Learned that two of his siblings, the twins, died, and the rest of them bore punishments he couldn’t yet understand. Even when the stories were dark, Icarus clung to them. They were his heritage, a fragile map of a family shattered by fate and the fear of one old man. 

But this morning, for the first time, he walked alone. 

He should have started days ago, when he first arrived at the castle, but guilt wouldn’t turn back time. So he moved carefully, letting his fingers graze the castle walls whenever possible. Old stone thrummed under his touch. He had to press his magic out, rather than restrain it as he usually had to. It pressed outward, seeking connection, and to his surprise, the castle responded. 

Its magic met his like a sleepy animal that was just waking, wary at first, but then curious. Welcoming. It tickled and tugged, rippling beneath the surface as if laughing. When he paused at cracks or missing stones, his fingers would hover and press gently, willing the flaws to knit themselves whole. The castle obliged, its wounds mending with a shimmer of old magic, as if grateful for his attention. 

In place of Fenrir’s steady voice, Icarus filled the silence the only way he knew how. He began to recite the Hávamál, the verses he had memorized steady on his tongue. His brother had been insistent: the wisdom of their grandfather, questionable though it may be, must live in him, not just as knowledge, but as memory. He had to ingrain it so deeply that it sang in his blood. So he walked, as he spoke, the castle listened.

Icarus was halfway through his walk when he heard it, a sharp croak, loud and unmistakable.  Instinctively, he froze in his step, muscles tensing, eyes shooting up to look at the closest tree. 

There, perched on a low branch just ahead, its glossy feathers catching the rising sun like black fire, a raven. It stared down at him with dark, knowing eyes. Too knowing. His mouth went dry. The quiet tension of the moment pressed against his chest, thick and ancient. Icarus stepped carefully away from the old stone path near the castle and gave the bird a respectful bow.

“H-hello,” he said, the word cracking into a high-pitched squeak.

The raven croaked again. It almost sounded like laughter. Icarus felt himself flush under its gaze.

“Are you Huginn or Muninn?” he asked, voice steadier this time.

Does it matter? the raven asked, not aloud, but in the deep place where words sometimes echoed without sound. Icarus shivered despite not feeling cold. He knew the answer before he spoke it. 

“I suppose not,” he admitted. “Were you sent here to watch me?”

You were reciting Hávamál.

“I was.” He paused, nervous. “It’s part of my coming-of-age. I have to memorize it.”

How old are you? 

“Eleven,” he answered, standing straighter under the raven’s gaze.

It tilted its head, assessing him with slow, surgical precision. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of old myth pressing down on his young shoulders. He didn’t need to ask to know what it was thinking. He knew what he looked like when he was in Olympus, smaller, younger. Fenrir had said he felt of magic and wagered that their father cast spells on him so that he could maybe live a normal life. 

“I don’t want trouble,” he whispered. “I just want to live peacefully.”

Why are you here?

“I’m learning magic. This school teaches Midgardian magic.”

Tell me.
There was no warmth in the words. It was not a request.

Obediently, Icarus sat down beneath the tree. He pulled a small snack bag from his pocket and placed it between them—a modest offering of dried fruit and honeyed nuts for the servant of the Allfather.

“I have several classes,” he began. “Some are simple, like charms and herbology. Others not so much, like defense and potions. My wandwork’s decent, but…” He faltered, then continued.

He talked. And talked.

He told the raven about Hogwarts, about the castle’s moving staircases and hidden passageways he was starting to find. How the house he was placed in didn’t really seem to welcome him, but he was starting to make friends, like Blaise. He spoke of the professor who clearly hated him, blaming him for the death of his own parents. He mentioned the strange defense professor with the turban and the way he would lie about the strangest things. He never said his brother’s name, only calling him my guardian , fearful that the truth would escape, that someone might realize the eldest son of Loki had slipped his chains.

The raven listened. Silently. Patiently. Pecking now and then at the nuts without interrupting.

When Icarus finally stopped, breathless and spent, the raven studied him for a long moment.

I was not sent.
The words settled over him like a balm.

His lungs loosened, and the grip on his heart eased. For a moment, he could truly breathe again. 

I will not tell of what I have seen and heard. We will speak again.

Then the raven stretched its wings and rose, cutting a black arc through the blue sky until it vanished beyond the trees.

Icarus sat back in the grass and sighed, his body suddenly heavy. For a few precious minutes, he let himself rest, eyes closed.

The sun had climbed high above the towers. The bell for lunch had rung a while ago.

He groaned and pushed himself up. “Guess I’ll finish the route later.”

He dusted off his robes and trudged toward the Great Hall, wondering idly how much his brother would murder him if he found out he had spoken to this particular myth.

He slid into the Great Hall silently. The dining space buzzed with noise, students chattering, laughing, and occasionally shouting came from three of the tables. Most of the students wore casual clothes, caught up in the relaxed feel of the weekend. Gryffindor, unsurprisingly, was the loudest of the bunch, with some of the lot even tossing food at each other in a way that reminded Icarus of camp. 

The fourth table, Icarus's house table, sat strangely empty, which was just fine. He didn’t really feel like chit-chatting. His stomach was growling far too loudly, and his own thoughts of his time with the Allfather’s raven distracted him. He slid into ‘his spot’ at the table and quietly filled his plate, happily biting into a sandwich while watching the chaos of teenage life unfold. He watched a Ravenclaw Hufflepuff pair arguing… was that a break-up already?

The hall grew louder as more students streamed in. 

“Potter!” Someone shouted, sounding furious. Icarus blinked and looked for whoever the poor soul was that was in trouble. Then he realized the voice was coming towards him, Higgs, the fifth-year boy’s prefect, red-faced and angry. Blaise trailed after him, looking relieved as the rest of the boys in his year looked… exasperated. Higg’s steps were sharp and with purpose as he stopped in front of Icarus, arms crossed and jaw tight. 

“Potter, where were you? How did you get here?”

Icarus blinked. Then blinked again. Saying he walked was the wrong answer, he just knew it.

“I… I went for a morning walk. Around the castle. Then I came here to eat before starting physical training.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Slytherins stick together. Always.”

“I’m... confused,” Icarus said honestly, plucking a strawberry from his plate and taking a slow bite.

With a groan, Higgs dropped onto the bench across from him. Blaise, without hesitation, slid in beside Icarus.

“Didn’t you hear the welcome speech in the dorms?” Higgs said, voice low. “It’s not safe for us. None of the other houses like Slytherins—some of the older students will even target first-years, or anyone dumb enough to wander around alone. You worried half the dorm with your disappearing act.”

Icarus leaned back and met the prefect’s eyes. “As far as I’m aware, the only Slytherins who’ve actually welcomed me into this great house are Blaise Zabini, Farley, and the Bloody Baron. And as for physical training, wizards don’t seem very interested in exercise. There was no reason to wake anyone else. I can protect myself.”

“You’re a first-year,” Higgs snapped. “You’ve been at Hogwarts for a week!”

Icarus opened his mouth to reply, but then a sharp whistle cut through the great hall. Icarus's head snapped up instantly, knowing the sound so instinctively. Standing in the doorway, cool as ever, was his brother, quarterstaff resting on his shoulder. 

Icarus sprang to his feet. 

Fenrir smirked and tossed the staff as Icarus neared. “Don’t think you get to slack off just because you’re at some super special magic school.”

Icarus caught the staff midair, grinning widely. Fenrir threw an arm over his shoulders and led him out of the hall. 

“Come, little brother. My job’s to fix your form now, before I have to break all your bad habits later.” 

Fenrir raised an incredulous eyebrow as his little brother collapsed into the grass, limbs splayed like a fallen starfish. He was coated in a layer of sweat, breath coming in ragged gasps. A flicker of unease twisted in Fenrir’s gut. He wanted to believe that this was just the start of another growth spurt, but the truth whispered otherwise. Something was off, and he didn’t have the power or ability to tell what. 

Just last night, Icarus had dozed off against him before dinner had ended.

Wordlessly, Fenrir drove both staffs into the soft earth, then sank down beside his brother.

“Talk,” he said gently. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing,” Icarus muttered, not even opening his eyes. LIE . 

Fenrir gave a short snort. “I am a child of the god of lies, too. Try again.”

“I’m just… tired.” One green eye cracked open, studying him. 

“I noticed. It’s unlike you.”

He reached out, took Icarus's arm, and pulled him into his lap. With a whispered spell, his chest cooled to the touch like snow. Icarus let out a soft sigh and relaxed against him. Fenrir began running his fingers through tangled black curls, slowly braiding them with practiced care.

“I don’t know,” Icarus admitted after a long silence. The simplicity of it made Fenrir’s heart ache, because he didn’t know either. He held him tightly. 

Once upon a time, he would’ve taken his brother straight to their father. He remembered the way he had carried another brother in his arms, with wide eyes, desperate and pleading for help. Their father had healed him without hesitation, magic precise and gentle. He had kissed both of his sons on the foreheads afterward like they were the greatest treasures in all the nine.

That feeling, love, safety, it was so far away now, and so far past, it was like a dream. 

It should have been their father here, holding Icarus, making it all better.

Instead, Fenrir held him tighter and pressed a kiss to his brother’s crown. 

“I may not be here every day like before,” he murmured, “but I’m still here. Always.”

Icarus tilted his head back to look at him. Fenrir smiled gently.

“I’ve got an agreement with the headmaster. I’ll be here one day a month for your weapons training. You’ll need to train daily on your own, but I’ll make sure you’re progressing and not picking up any bad habits. And see that path?” He pointed beyond the castle grounds.

Icarus followed his gaze, curious. He nodded. 

“That leads to Hogsmeade. Just beyond the magical border, near the forest—I’m building us a longhouse.”

“You’re building us a house?” Icarus sat up, wide-eyed, and he sat upright. 

“Yes. A home. One away from the Olympians. Close enough to Hogwarts that if anything happens, I’ll be there. We don’t have to go back to camp if you don’t want to. We can spend Yule here.”

“But what about Clint and Laura?”

“There’ll be room for whoever you want. In fact, if your magical school gets too boring, why not help me design it?”

A grin lit up Icarus's face. It was so bright, so full of hope, it made Fenrir’s chest ache. It wasn’t their father he saw in that smile. It was the twins. The way they used to smile before… Before everything.

He kissed his brother’s head once more and stood.

“Come on, little brother. We’re not done yet. Let’s fix your footing.”

Icarus groaned and pushed himself upright. He stared at his boots, then up at Fenrir with big green eyes and a comically exaggerated pout.

“Hey, brother.”

“Yes, little brother?”

“I think I’m gonna need new boots soon.”

Fenrir barked a laugh, loud and warm. New boots. His baby brother was growing.

He could do that. He’d make him new boots.

September 12, 1991

This was a terrible idea.

A horrible, terrible, unspeakably bad idea. It was such a foolish idea, so cosmically doomed, that Icarus couldn’t be half certain that it hadn’t been whispered into his brain by the fates themselves just to watch him suffer. 

Someone definitely cursed him to ‘live an interesting life’, though that was certain to end soon.

Because Icarus was going to die. 

It felt certain. His death wouldn’t be from falling, or crashing, or getting tangled in a rogue broom charm. No. His death would be a result of divine retribution. His death would be at the hands of Zeus , King of the skies, lord of lightning, and smiter of godlings who trespassed where they were not welcome. 

Icarus spent the entire week praying to the volatile Olympian, pleading, bargaining, offering up food at every meal like a true worshiper, or like a desperate man casting gifts into a stormy sea. He had barely touched his meals, muttering invocations and pleas, giving the best foods he could find. He had even started offering snacks and treats at the altar next to his bed at night and first thing in the morning. 

Zeus remained quiet. He might have just been watching. He was most definitely judging, the jerk. 

All of it came to this day, flying practice. 

“You’re looking a little gray, Icarus,” Blaise observed casually as they crossed the courtyard. Unfortunately, it was a deceptively beautiful day, sky a soft blue, not a cloud in sight. Icarus couldn’t argue. His skin had lost all warmth overnight, and the cool undertones of his skin made him look like a marble statue come to life. He almost wished he was one too, a cold, heavy one, incapable of flying or vomiting, which was what he was on the verge of doing. 

“I’m gonna die.” He said flatly.

“You nervous too?” a nervous voice breathed next to his side. The whirlwind girl, Hermione, frizzy hair and all, hand snuck up beside him, nervously tugging at the sleeves of her robe. Behind her, a few paces followed toad boy, Neville, who looked just as filled with dread as the two of them did. 

“Terrified,” Icarus grimaced, “You?”

She quickly nodded. “I read Quidditch Through the Ages twice last night. But everyone says flying isn’t something you can study your way through. It’s instinct. It’s in the blood. Neville’s worried too.”

“I’m so clumsy,” Neville moaned. “I just know I’m going to break something.”

Icarus winced. With their luck, the two of them were bound to spiral into a spectacular midair collision. A broken arm at best.

“Well,” Icarus said with theatrical resignation, “if it makes you feel better, I’ll probably be struck down by Zeus for daring to enter his domain.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Why would Zeus care?” Nevil asked.

“Because last time he spoke to me, yelled more like, he was big mad about me being placed in Slytherin,” Icarus sighed, eyes glancing to the path his brother had pointed down a few days earlier. “And also because my big brother threatened him with an ax.”

There was a still pause.

“ The Zeus?” Nevil asked, voice pitched higher than ever. “As in lightning bolts and eagle motifs, Zeus?”

Icarus nodded. “Crowned king of pettiness and sky. That one.”

Blaise let out a low whistle. “Well… Sucks to be you.”

Hermione, however, narrowed her eyes. “You don’t actually believe that man was the Zeus, do you? He’s probably just a wizard trying to scare muggles. Muggle-baiting is illegal, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Icarus said wearily, raising his hands in a half-hearted gesture of reverence. “Praise be, and all that jazz. I’m aware. He’s real. Unfortunately.”

As if in response, a sudden gust of wind stirred the courtyard. Clouds shifted over the sun, briefly darkening the sky. The air crackled for a moment, faint but undeniable.

The others looked up, startled, and Icarus, for a brief moment, seriously contemplated vomiting. 

“...Okay,” Blaise said slowly. “That wasn’t ominous at all.”

Icarus offered a thin smile. “Well, if I wasn’t sure he heard me before, I’m sure now.”

Blaise clapped him on the shoulder, mock-solemn. “It was nice knowing you. I’ll make sure Malfoy stands next to you. If we’re lucky, Zeus will miss and take him out first.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They reached the field, a line of brooms already laid out on the grass awaiting them, ominous.

The brooms glinted under the noonday sun like polished bones, neatly arranged across the grass as if Hogwarts had decided to give its first-years a shot at dying in alphabetical order. Icarus tried to linger near the end of the line, beaten only by Neville, who was looking just as green as he was. He eyed each boom suspiciously, like they all might bite him, or worse, launch itself straight into the atmosphere with him dangling from the end like a sad balloon. 

He was going to be sick. 

Madam Hooch barked out instructions, her whistle shrill enough to make him wince as it rang in his ear. 

“Stick out your hand and say Up !” She ordered. 

“Up!” the class chorused. 

Hermione’s broom wobbled before leaping an inch, making her gasp in sudden delight. Neville’s just rolled lazily on the ground and refused to move, lucky bastard. Blaise’s lept obediently into his hand. 

Icarus had barely mumbled the words, hoping that the broom wouldn’t hear him, or his magic wouldn’t react, but the damn thing shot into his palm like it had been waiting to betray him the whole time. 

“Traitor,” he hissed to the wood.

The broom hummed.

He glared.

Beside him, Neville was pale, his broom still twitching at his feet like a disobedient dog.

“Alright!” Madam Hooch barked. “Mount your brooms! Kick off hard, rise a few feet, hover, then come back down. No tricks . I was a clean lift, no stunts, and absolutely no one is to leave the ground until I blow the whistle. Is that understood?”

Icarus was contemplating whether a few feet counted as Zeus’s domain when there was a sudden commotion. Neville didn’t wait for the whistle and had unwillingly shot fifteen feet up, wobbling and yelling. Icarus barely had time to whisper a prayer to the god of the sky for the sake of his classmate before the boy was tumbling down and crashing with a sickening thud. 

Icarus couldn’t move.

He was rooted to his spot, if by fear or shock, he wasn’t sure. Moments later, though, the professor was walking a mostly okay-looking Neville away to the hospital wing. 

“Well,” Malfoy said loudly. “That was pathetic.”

Icarus stiffened. His eyes shot up and towards his housemate with restrained fury. Almost everyone was clutching their brooms nervously, including Icarus, when Malfoy’s smile turned sly. 

You lot look like you’re trying to flirt with your brooms.”

“You’d know what flirting with a stick looks like,” Icarus muttered softly to himself with a roll of his eyes. 

Blaise started coughing. He had heard it too and was choking on a laugh. 

“What was that, Feathers? ” Malfoy asked, stalking over, Crabbe and Goyle in tow. “Planning to fly with wings instead of brains?

“I’m not sure you’ve got either to compare,” Icarus spoke before he could stop himself. 

Shit

He regretted it almost immediately. Not because it wasn’t satisfying, because gods it was, but because Malfoy’s eyes narrowed in a way that stiffened Icarus’s spine. Still, he had been impressed because obviously, Malfoy took the time to actually read some mythology, which was good for him.

“Oh, you’ll regret that,” Malfoy stepped closer. “I bet you’ll fall off before we even get ten feet up. What’s wrong? Afraid of heights? Think we haven’t noticed how you’ve been praying to the Greek god of the sky? Or maybe it’s because the air up there is too thin for your little half-blood brain?”

Icarus’s hand twitched. ‘ Blood status’ is this what he had meant? An antiquated belief that wizards needed to be born from wizards? Joke’s on him, Icarus was raised in Camp Half-Blood , but the way he said it. It was enough to make something crackle just behind the eyes. 

“No,” He said in a voice far too even, “I’m afraid you’ll be the one to fall. And I won’t catch you.”

That got a reaction. Malfoy’s face twisted, furious and pale. And, like something someone from cabin five would do, he did something profoundly stupid. 

He kicked off. 

Ten.

Twenty.

Thirty feet up. 

“Come on, Icarus, ” he called, voice laced in venomous humor. “Let’s see if your wings will melt when you get too close to the sun.”

Icarus’s hand flexed on his broomstick, but Blaise grabbed his shoulder. 

“Don’t, rise to it,” he warned. 

“You ever wonder what it’s like to hit the ground?” Malfoy mocked, tossing something in the air as he spoke.  “Or maybe we can fly over the lake, maybe you’ll have better luck with water than your namesake had.”

“It’s not worth it,” Blaise said.

It was starting to feel like he had an angel and a devil on his shoulder. One, Blaise, reasonably urging him not to get into a fight. The other, which sounded like Malfoy but felt older and darker, was hissing at him to let the self-righteous brat see what it must have felt like for the original Icarus.

Then something tugged on his sleeve. Hermione was there, eyes wide, worried.

“Icarus, he has Neville’s Remembrall. His gran just gave it to him,” she whispered.

“Give that back, it doesn’t belong to you,” Icarus shouted, loud and clear, echoing across the field.

“Come and get it then.” Malfoy sneered, and something snapped.

Icarus moved before Blaise could stop him and tell him not to be stupid. His broom rose under him like he wanted this to happen, like it liked danger. All thoughts of the angry god-king had fled him entirely as he kicked off, sharp and high. Wind howled past his ears, and his robes snapped like wings unfurling. 

He lunged. Malfoy shrieked something that sounded far too high-pitched to be dignified. It was like a game of cat and mouse. They turned, looping, diving, and weaving over the field in a frenzy. Icarus was a man possessed, but it came to a sudden end when Malfoy dropped the Remembrall. 

Icarus dived . He didn’t even notice how high up they were. 

Wind roared in his ears. The earth rushed towards him, and somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked. 

Then his fingers closed around solid glass. 

He yanked up, sharp and breathless, the broom pulling hard to resist the pull of gravity. His toes barely brushed the top of the grass. 

Somewhere above him, Malfoy floated, probably scowling. But Icarus was seeing stars. He was still breathing heavily. The pitch was still dead silent.

Then 

“Malfoy! Potter!”

Snape’s voice sliced through the air like an executioner’s ax. Heads snapped in the direction it came from. He strode towards them, robes rippling with every furious step. Malfoy quickly landed, looking suddenly very interested in his shoes. Icarus followed, hand still gripping the Remembrall. 

“I suppose,” Snape said silkily, “you thought that was clever.”

“He stole it,” Icarus said. “I was just getting it back.”

“By flinging yourself at the earth like a meteor? Yes, that’s very rational,” Snape sneered. “Ten points from Slytherin.”

“What?”

“For sheer idiocy.”

Malfoy smirked.

“And from you, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape added without turning. “For theft and taunting.”

Malfoy’s smirk died.

Snape waited a minute in uncomfortable silence for the rest of the students to turn their attention to a returning Madam Hooch, who had been fetched by Professor McGonagall. 

“Icarus,” Snape said, tone deceptively soft.

Icarus, still catching his breath, turned to face him with the wary posture of someone being approached by a predator who hadn’t decided whether to maim or lecture.

“Yes, sir?” 

“You're to be at the Quidditch pitch this Saturday at six a.m.,” Snape said, voice like silk over a knife’s edge. 

Icarus froze.

Blinked.

“I… I… What?”

“I don’t repeat myself,” Snape snapped. “You’ll be there. Broom in hand. Do try not to vomit.”

“But-”

“You demonstrated,” Snape continued, ignoring the protest entirely, “an instinctual grasp of airborne balance, reflexive broom control under duress, and a startling lack of survival instinct. All traits, regrettably, wasted on misbehavior.”

Icarus blinked, true growing horror blossomed on his face. “Wait, wait. Are you—no. No. Please don’t.”

Snape’s gaze sharpened.

“You will be joining the Slytherin Quidditch team,” he declared.

Icarus stared, dumbstruck. “...As what? Ballast?”

Snape didn’t blink. “As Seeker.”

There was an audible snort behind him. Blaise, failing miserably to smother his laughter, again. Icarus, however, was scrambling to find any way to reason with the man who seemed set on making his life miserable.

“Sir, with all due respect, I am actively trying not to draw attention from divine sky-beings with thunderbolt collections. I cannot play Seeker. It’s like painting a bullseye on my spine.”

“Then you will learn to fly faster,” Snape said coolly. “Perhaps it will build character. Or at the very least, agility.”

“Isn’t there some kind of form I have to fill out? Don’t I need parental consent? Or at least, someone’s consent? Mine, maybe?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“Icarus,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice, “if you would like me to contact your guardian, I’m certain your brother would be most interested to hear that you’ve declined a position of honor in front of the entire house, and risked your life for no good reason.”

Icarus turned visibly pale.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

There was a beat. A long one. Icarus groaned, dragging his hands down his face.

“This is extortion.”

“This is Hogwarts,” Snape corrected, a cruel grin on his lips. “And you’ll find the consequences for disobedience here are rarely divine, but often much more personal.”

With that, he swept away, his robes flaring behind him like storm clouds at twilight.

Icarus turned to Blaise, who looked far too pleased with himself.

“Icarus Nooneson, Seeker of Slytherin,” Blaise said with a grin. “Catchy. Sort of mythic. Has a nice ring to it.”

“I’m going to die,” Icarus muttered, rubbing at his face again. “Zeus is going to strike me down in the middle of the game, and Snape’s going to mark me absent.”

“Nah,” Blaise said. “Snape’ll mark you present, then dock twenty points for bleeding on the pitch.”

“Cool. Awesome. That’s fine. I’ll just… fake my death. Run off into the Forbidden Forest. Join the centaurs.”

“You’d last ten minutes.”

“I’d last eleven if I brought snacks.”

They both looked toward the brooms still scattered across the field like sleeping snakes. The class had mostly gone back to practice, save for Malfoy, who was sulking in the grass and probably already writing a letter home to his father.

Icarus sighed. “So this is my life now?”

“Apparently,” Blaise said brightly. “Hope you like speed, heights, and trauma.”

“Fantastic.” He squinted up at the sky, uncomfortably clear and far too quiet. No lightning. Yet.

“Please don’t smite me during my first match,” he murmured to no one in particular. “I promise to dedicate every win to your glory, O mighty Zeus. Please just let me live long enough to beat Gryffindor.”

There was a low rumble in the distance.

Blaise glanced up. “...That better have been a stomach.”

“Let’s pretend it was.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: The calling
September 20, 1991
Lunch in the great hall was unusually subdued. Blaise watched as Icarus slumped into his seat like a puppet with its strings cut, face drained of what little color he had. His classmate didn’t mother touching a single morsel of food, and chose to, instead, lie with his forehead pressed against the cool surface of the Slytherin table.
This hadn’t been the first strange behavior Blaise noticed this week, but it had been the most alarming.
It was just over a week ago that his new friend (maybe?) had been convinced that the Greek god Zeus would strike him down mid-air for daring to fly on a broom. He had been pale then too, but more in the drank too much coffee, ate too much sugar kind of way. Now? Now he looked like bleached marble, with veins of cool blue running through it.
It was a little surprising. Not only had Icarus survived flying practice, he was brilliant at it, and managed to blunder his way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team (much to Malfoy’s ongoing outrage).
Blaise shifted and glanced down the table at Marcus Flint, the Quidditch captain. Said captain was currently shoveling food into his mouth like a starved beast, completely unconcerned with anything around him.
“Hey, Icarus? You alright, mate?” Blaise nudged him gently, knowing that the smaller boy didn’t like being touched much.
Malfoy, seated across from them, sneered. “He’s probably just regretting his life choices. Leave him to his sulking.”
Blaise ignored him, eyes narrowing. Icarus wasn’t just pale; he was sweating. His hair clung damply to his forehead. Blaise risked Icarus's ire and reached out to press his hand against Icarus's forehead, and pulled it back quickly in surprise. It was cold. Too cold. He frowned.
“You should eat something.” Blaise pushed a plate toward him, but Icarus only made a low, unintelligible noise, barely lifting his head before letting it thump back down again.
“What’s wrong with him?” Gemma Farley asked, leaning over from further down the table. Her prefect badge gleamed in the candlelight, her brows drawn into a tight frown.
“I don’t know,” Blaise admitted. “He’s been off since yesterday. Worse today.”
“He might just be exhausted,” Gemma offered. “We found him sleepwalking again last night.”
“Again?” Blaise echoed, alarm flaring in his gut. “He’s been doing that all week.”
Before they could continue, the doors to the Great Hall creaked open.
A man strode in, tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in tight-fitting Muggle clothes that clashed absurdly with the wizarding aesthetic. His curly black hair framed a stern, handsome face and piercing blue eyes that cut across the room like lightning. Professors stood, wands subtly at the ready, but he ignored them. His focus was singular.

He was heading for Icarus. As he moved closer, his strange clothes morphed, shifting from the tight clothes to a loose knee-length toga, and a strange helmet with wings appeared on his head.
The man moved with increasing urgency. As he reached the table, he climbed onto the bench without hesitation and crouched beside Icarus, pressing two fingers against the boy’s neck.
“Icarus?” he said softly.
Icarus stirred, groaning faintly. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.
The man’s fingers moved to his forehead, jaw tightening as he felt the clammy skin. “Come on, son. Open your eyes for me. What’s wrong?”
Icarus murmured something in a language Blaise couldn’t understand, smooth, musical, and old. Whatever it was, the man seemed to comprehend. He paled.
“Alright. We’re doing this here. Lay back. Feet up.” With incredible gentleness, the man eased Icarus onto the floor and retrieved a firm-looking pillow from an impossibly small pocket. Blaise had seen charmed items before, but this was different, deliberate, and practiced. The movements of someone who had done this too many times before.
“You.” The man pointed at Blaise. “Stay with him. Keep him awake.”
Blaise didn’t argue. He was already scrambling around the table, kneeling beside Icarus. His friend's skin was cold as stone, now thoroughly covered in a sheen of sweat like he had been in a bad storm.
“You, too, come here.” He ordered, pointing at Gemma, who had also approached nervously. “Keep his airway open, if he starts to vomit, turn his head, but he must stay awake.”
Blaise looked down and noticed Icarus's eyes had drifted shut, and shook his shoulder gently. “Hey, come on, mate. Open your eyes.”
Icarus blinked, his lips moving sluggishly. Another phrase in that ancient language. The man nodded, this time with grim determination.
“I’ll get the others. Keep him talking.” With a gust of wind and a flicker of motion too fast to track, the man was gone.
There was no crack of Apparition. Just... wind.
If he didn’t know better, he’d think the strange man ran, which was impossible… right? No one could move that fast.
Blaise looked around helplessly. He shook his head, doing his best to push it aside to focus on his friend, whose eyes were already drooping.
“Hey, come on, open your eyes, mate.” He shook Icarus, who blinked and looked up at him. Icarus mumbled something in a different language that just left Blaise confused.
“What's going on?” Professor Snape asked, sweeping over like a bat.
“I’m not sure, sir. I think Icarus is sick?” Blaise looked back down at his friend, who looked even paler. Professor Snape scoffed, but when he reached out to press the back of his hand to Icarus's forehead, he pulled back with a hiss. There was a whoosh sound, and the strange man was back.
“I have it covered, professor. Just give us space.”
“Us?”
“My brother will be here shortly, and his too.”

“Lord Fenrir!” someone called out. Fenrir dropped the tree stump he had just pulled out of the ground and turned. A few feet away stood Hermes in his running suit with a pinched look.
“Something is wrong with Icarus.”
The words felt like iron in his gut. Once more, he scooped up his axe and ran. Hermes flew off, zooming upwards towards the midday sun. Good. Apollo was a healer. So he ran. His feet thudded across the ground. He saw the flash of Hermes as the messenger god of Olympus, sped past him through the doors to the castle. He charged into the dining hall of the castle with the same urgency as he had before, but this time his eyes immediately looked to the green table. Hermes was already kneeling on the floor by the window and waved him over. Setting his axe down by the door, he rushed over to the far side of the long table. There on the ground was his baby brother, looking increasingly pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. He knelt down next to his brother, brushing his fingers against his skin. His brother was cold, colder than usual at least. There was a sickly blue undertone that unnerved him.
“Brother, I don’t feel good. Am I Mjölnir?” Icarus asked in their native tongue, and Fenrir frowned.
“No, little brother, you’re not Mjölnir, you're a son of Loki, remember? What ails you, my brother?” He asked in kind. Icarus turned his green eyes to him and blinked slowly.
“Not Mjölnir?”
“No, not Mjölnir.”
“Did Uncle leave it on me?” Icarus asked, then frowned. “It's hot.”
Fenrir brushed his fingers against Icarus's forehead, letting cooling magic spread across his brother. The child pressed against him more, mumbling about how Mjölnir was too heavy as the sound of a revving engine echoed. Apollo was here. His sharp ears picked up the sound of running footsteps, but it was two sets. He looked up as the door opened and, with surprise, saw Clint standing in the entranceway with his father just behind him.
“Icarus!” Clint shouted and ran over to where he saw Fenrir. Icarus's head lifted, and unfocused green eyes immediately sought out Clint.
“Yur here?” Icarus asked, sounding small and hopeful.
“Ya man, I’m here.” He said, grabbing Icarus's hand. “Dad lost the bet. He was teaching me to drive when Hermes came to get him. What’s happened?”
“I’m Mjölnir,” Icarus mumbled. Clint looked up at Fenrir with confusion. Fenrir looked around at the crowd watching them, then signed
He feels heavy.
Clint nodded, then looked up at his father, who knelt down and frowned. Fenrir looked back at the gathering crowd.
“Master Snape, is there somewhere more private?” Fenrir hedged, looking at Icarus's house head and then pointedly at the gathering students, some of which were standing on benches to try to see what was happening. Snape nodded and indicated for them to follow him. Fenrir scooped up his baby brother in his arms. Icarus instinctively turned his face into Fenrir’s chest, mumbling about being hot. A short walk and they were in the healing chambers where Icarus was placed on the bed. Reluctantly, he stepped aside to let Apollo check over him. The god was quiet as his hands moved over Icarus with precision. There was a frown on his lips, which was making the stone in Fenrir’s stomach sink deeper.
“What is it?”
“He’s depleted. Severely.” Apollo murmured, his voice catching low in his throat. “His lifeforce is draining itself as it tries to fuel more magic, like a house breaking apart to keep the hearth burning.” His golden hands trembled as he brushed damp curls from Icarus’s brows. He closed his eyes and squeezed Icarus’s hand.
A low, broken keening sound choked out of Fenrir’s throat. Another brother. He couldn’t lose another brother. He clutched Icarus’s hand tightly, grounding himself in the steady thrum beneath delicate skin. The boy was still breathing. Still fighting. Hope hadn’t been extinguished, yet.
“Fenrir,” Apollo said quietly, not looking up. “I’ve gone as far as I can. Zeus has forbidden divine interference. Just being here skirts the edges of that decree.”
At that, Clint shoved past him, stepping in front of Apollo with unusual ferocity. “The decree doesn’t apply to me,” he snapped, dropping to sit cross-legged near Icarus’s hip, back to the adults. “I’m not divine.”
Apollo rose slowly, frowning as he turned his son around by the shoulder. He made sharp gestures with his hands as he spoke, firm and precise, emphasizing every word in ASL as he spoke so there would be no misunderstanding. “You’re not a healer, Clint. You’ve never even set foot in the infirmary.”
“Icarus doesn’t need just a healer,” Clint countered coldly. “He needs someone who knows him.”
With that, he sharply turned his back on his father, making clear he would hear no more from him. His hands hovered over Icarus’s chest, which still rose and fell with breath. Clint’s fingers moved slowly, carefully, tracing imaginary lines in the air, more intent than trained.
Snape scoffed from the corner, arms crossed. “You’re telling me some untrained brat knows more than his brother?”
“Clint and Icarus are,” Fenrir’s voice was low, rough. “They’re cut from the same cloth. Clint came to camp just after Icarus did. They don’t open up much to others, but the things they’ve been through… they attached to each other like two halves of the same blade. Been inseparable ever since.”
Clint looked up at that, meeting Fenrir’s gaze with a strange expression. It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t pleading. It was ancient, like something older than a boy his age should carry. Then he asked:
“You can share magic, right? Like- ” he waved his hands vaguely, “whoosh? Power from you to him?”
Fenrir blinked. He could, yes. He had before, pulling magic from Icarus when it surged too hot, like draining a fire before it turned into an inferno. But this… this would be the reverse.
He nodded once, then wrapped his hand more firmly around Icarus’s, letting his own magic stir and pour slowly into his brother’s core. He felt it immediately, like water vanishing into dry earth. The drain was immense. Fenrir gritted his teeth, guiding the flow carefully, afraid to flood the boy.
Before, it was like taking a tankard from Icarus. Now it felt like pouring into a bottomless well.
“That's good,” Clint said after a moment, his voice lighter.
Fenrir opened his eyes. Icarus was blinking, green eyes glassy and unfocused, a little too wide. Power drunk.
Then Clint looked to both Fenrir and Snape. “Has Icarus told you about the dreams?”
Fenrir stiffened. “What dreams?”
“He’s been sleepwalking,” Snape answered, his voice clipped. “It’s not uncommon for first-years to have disturbed sleep, especially those with unstable magic. But Dreamless Sleep hasn't helped. He keeps getting up. Wandering.”
“He’s doing it again?” Clint asked, already turning back to Icarus.
“Again?!” Fenrir barked. “He’s never, he’s never sleepwalked. Not once. Not since,”
“He did. Once.” Clint cut in. “Just over three years ago. Before he found you.”
Fenrir stared. “What are you talking about?”
Clint leaned back on his hands, eyes distant. “Back when we were still sleeping in the Big House at camp. I kept finding him at the window in the middle of the night, just standing there. Eyes open, but vacant. Like he was listening to something no one else could hear.”
He swallowed. “I locked the door one night. He tried to climb out of the window. So the next time, I stayed up. When he got up, I opened the door instead. I followed him. All the way to the forest’s edge.”
Fenrir's heartbeat stuttered.
“He stood there for a while. Just… staring into the trees. I didn’t understand it, not then. But it was a few days later that you came out with him. He found you.”
Fenrir remembered. How the children at camp always avoided him, like something invisible kept them back. And then, one day, a tiny child with oversized green eyes stood just within reach.
“So you’re saying, what? That something’s calling to him again?”
“I think it never stopped,” Clint said simply. “Something’s tugging at him. The way it did back then. It’s pulling, and he’s resisting, and that’s what’s ripping him apart. His magic’s trying to obey something his body can’t follow.”
“He’s leaking magic like a sieve,” Clint added, more quietly. “He’s not going to stop until he finishes whatever this is. Wherever he’s being called… he needs to go. Open doors for him if you have to, clear the path if you must. It won’t stop until this is over.” He directed the last parts to Master Snape, who was frowning deeply.
There was silence.
Then Apollo stepped forward, resting a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “You’ve done well. We need to leave now, before someone notices the son hasn’t moved for a while.”
“Thank you for your help, Clint.”
“Glad to help, anytime. Feel better, Icar. Iris message me later, kay? Let me know you're cool.” Clint reached out, and Icarus did too, doing their ‘secret handshake’.
“Don’t crash the sun.” Icarus grinned dopey, and his friend laughed, ruffled his hair, and then followed his father out of the room.
“I’ll pass my message to you then, since little Icarus is out of it.” Hermes finally spoke up, snagging Fenrir’s attention. The god spoke in his native language, making sure that Icarus's head of house couldn’t understand them.
“Is that why you were here?” Fenrir asked in kind. Icarus pulled on his hand, tugging it up to rest on his face, nuzzling into it. He smiled softly. Icarus tended to do this more in the summer, but knowing his brother still needed him was some relief, even if it was for his more jotun powers. Once Icarus settled again, he turned his attention back to Hermes.
“Her majesty is upset with her husband’s actions. Very tense at home and all that.” Hermes grinned. “She sent this letter for him, and this gift, don’t worry, I didn’t peek. She did express to me however, that she is willing to recognize Icarus as her child, which is bound to piss father off quite a bit, especially if the kid ascends.”
“Oh?” Fenrir asked, leaning closer to the god.
“He said he’d welcome Icarus fully himself. With her willing to recognize him… he’d be an adoptive son of both of them. And between their sons… ” Hermes trailed off with a smile far too reminiscent of Fenrir’s own father. He huffed a laugh and leaned back. Well, norns damn it all, Icarus's luck was the best and the worst thing out there, never doing anything by half. If his hair wasn’t naturally white, the brat would have turned his hair gray by now. Perhaps that was why the allfather was all gray and old-looking.
“Can’t say I envy you. I have yet to meet anyone whose luck seems just as dangerous as it is divine. You’ve got your hands full with this one, and that’s coming from me.” Hermes joked.
“Norns, I’m glad I don’t have that many troublemakers on my hands. Have you ever thought about just not?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Never meet my father.”
Hermes just laughed, ruffled Icarus's already ruffled hair, and left the room with naught but a wave. Fenrir rolled his eyes. He was starting to wonder if the reason the Allfather banned travel to Midgard was to prevent the creation of so many demigods, because the Olympians had no self-control.
Master Snape was frowning at him, though it seemed more in disgust than displeasure.
“So the recommended solution from a child is to just let Potter wander off aimlessly in his sleep? He is a student. Not a free agent. And whatever nonsense you’re speaking of-”
“Is older than Hogwarts,” Fenrir cut in, standing again. “You forget, Professor. We are older than your Order. Older than your wards. If my brother dies here, it will not be quietly. Icarus is being summoned by something. He must answer before it drains him entirely. He’s recovered for now, but it’s a threadbare edge he walks. Let Icarus follow his natural instincts to where it is leading him, under watch, and see if that solves things.”
“So you suggest we do what? Allow a child to roam the night at the beck and call of unknown forces?” Snape crossed his arms, bristling.
“I suggest you stop treating him like a child. He is far more powerful than you can comprehend. You would not dare attempt to shackle a thunderstorm, don’t shackle him. Clint just said that even he didn’t let Icarus go off alone, and he was nearly thirteen. Was I misinformed about the teachers and certain students patrolling at night?”
“You expect us to just cater to Potter?” Snape sneered, and Fenrir had to bite back the snarl that was fighting its way to the surface.
“A student under your care is in danger. Do you have no honor? If the thought of watching my brother as he answers the call, then I will. I will stay with him. From now on. During the night, during the day. I’ll walk with him. If something calls, I’ll ensure he survives the answer.”
Snape’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Perhaps he understood the truth of it.
This was not a battle Hogwarts’ rules could win.
Apollo stood, brushing imaginary dust from his hands. “He’ll be alright for now. But don’t mistake this as the end. It’s the beginning.”
September 21, 1991
The path he had known changed.
The places where he steps fell on soft ground had turned into sharp stones jutting from the earth like broken teeth. The ground around him had fractured. The forest was in no better state, splintered trees blocked the way denying him passage like large felled giants. The world was wounded, and the once distant storm had arrived. He didn’t want to walk anymore. His body ached for stillness. All he wanted to do was to root himself, curl up, refuse the journey, and pray for the joyful dream to come back. For the storm to leave and the pain to evaporate. But across the fjord, she stood again.
She was distant, wreathed in rain and shadow, but unmistakable.
The red-haired woman, clad in her pale blue dress. It clung to her in the storm winds, her red hair whipped around her like flames. Her arm lifted once more, unwavering, pointing forward, as she always had, into the heart of the storm. Towards the only direction he was ever allowed to walk. Towards the cliff.
“NO!” He cried. “Stop! Please! Stop this!” His scream was raw, wild, and desperate. But the wind devoured his voice, leaving him unheard and unanswered. Only the sky howled louder in response. Cold rain lashed at his skin like blades, and the storm seemed to curl around him like it knew what it was doing. Like it was testing him. The ground beneath him no longer glowed the same bright flash of green with each step, but a murky, sullen green, like the flicker of dying embers.
He could still see her moving, too. Glowing faintly in the storm.
Leading him.
She moved like this place was hers, unbidden, unimpeded. Nothing could touch her, not even the storm.
He moved like an unwanted trespasser.
Every step HURT.
The ache in his chest was tighter and hotter. His breath was ragged in his throat. It seemed that every movement was a battle, and he was losing.
But he couldn’t stop.
He knew in his bones that if he stopped, he would die.
Her silence burned.
Lightning forked across the sky, flaring like a great ash tree, fingering across like branches. The thunder followed, echoing so loudly it reverberated in his ribs. He was soaked through.
He wanted to stop.
But his soul was pulled forward like an unraveling thread.
He couldn’t be sure when the walk stopped being a path he was taking, but a penance that had to be paid.
There was nothing to be done but press on.
Until the edge
The cliff.
The wind battered against him, pushing and pulling at him like it wanted to carry him off. Rain blurred everything, smearing the world into gray shadows and silhouettes. He looked across the gap, and she was still there, distant, glowing, flickering red and blue haloed in the storm.
She raised her arm once more.
Pointing down to the waters below.
He stepped forward, feet sinking slightly into the muddy earth. He peered over the ledge.
Beneath him, the sea churned, no longer looking like water, but like ink spilled into oblivion. Black.
Bottomless.
Waiting.
It was waiting for him. Hungry for him.
It surged against the rocks. Not just alive, but aware, and angry. It had a will. And it was reaching out for him.
“I don’t understand!” He shouted.
She lifted her arms, making a motion. One hand, passing over the other. Not a shape, a gesture. A key.
The storm howled louder before all went silent at once.
It was not an absence of sound. It was a hollow ringing that seemed to come from inside him. Vibrating like a bell. Ringing deep in his soul.
He felt calm.
Behind him, there was warmth, and what felt like a steady presence.
I am the biggest world. Me to the wolf. Others to the sheep.
The words resonated in him. Protection, security, and confidence.
The presence could not be heard, or seen, or touched, but it was there.
A weight lifted from his chest.
Breathing became easier.
The world sharper.
The storm stilled.
He copied her. One hand over the other.
A sharp, stinging pain bloomed in his palm. Fire and ice released from his veins. Blood welled where his skin had parted, his hand turned palm up, cradling the liquid like a gift. He reached out over the cliff, over the churning, hungry sea.
Rain pelted against his hand.
He waited.
The buzzing returned, no, not buzzing. Humming. A low vibration from the ground into his bones, rising up through his spine, through his arm, into his bleeding hand. The blood pulsed. Not outward, but downward, as if something below was calling it home.
He waited.
Thunder cracked.
He waited.
And then he poured.
The blood fell in rivulets, mixing with the rain, dripping into the ocean below. The effect was immediate. The water turned. First red. Then boiling. Foam frothed upward, churning, furious, alive.
Then something rose.
Not a form, not yet. But a shape. A presence. A mass too large to measure, too old to name. The sea recoiled, yet made way, as though it, too, remembered.
The sky above opened wide.
And he knew.
Chains had broken again.

The weight of responsibility had never been kind. It sank into Fenrir’s shoulders the way ice creeps into a still lake. It was a slow, slow, inevitable, and absolute thing. He had known its chill since before he had words to name it.
Born a prince of Asgard, a title he wore like a scar rather than a crown, Fenrir was a creature shaped by inheritance and expectation. Not once did he believe he’d ever sit the throne, but still, he bore the lineage. He was the eldest, a brother before he could hold memories of what it was like to be an only child. He had to become the example. The anchor for those who followed. And yet, none of them had been meant for the world that bore them. Not truly.
Seiðr-users like their father could learn to shift their form with careful study, but for Fenrir and his siblings, shifting was as simple as a breath. It came with no effort, no resistance. Their bodies were as fluid as thought. A gift. A curse. A proof of their otherness. It felt more comfortable for them to be in their other form than slipping into the most comfortable clothes, it was when they felt the most right.
Their sister had been born with death in her first breath. Hela had taken her first steps as their mother took her last. She emerged half-rotted, half-divine, and fully beautiful in the eyes of their family. But Asgard recoiled. They saw nothing of her grace, only her deformity, whispering of cures and omens. Yet to them, she was radiant. Their beloved sister.
Loki, their father, was not perfect. He was often stretched thin, often burdened by secrets, politics, and the suffocating expectations of court, but he had loved them. Truly loved them. His affection had been as bright and unrestrained as firelight, crackling in laughter and wild bedtime stories and soft embraces. He had a way of making them feel like the most important thing in all the Nine Realms, even if it was just for the space of a quiet moment before dawn.
He would let Hela braid his hair, even when she was still small and clumsy, with fingers often covered in something messy and sticky. He would shift forms for Sleipnir’s amusement, becoming a horse, a falcon, a shadow, a storm. He would lie on the floor beside Jormungandr and draw constellations in chalk across the stone tiles, calling each one by names no one else remembered. And for Fenrir, his eldes, he offered something quieter, something harder to define.
There was always pride in Father’s eyes when Fenrir wrestled with new forms, pride when he landed his first trike with a wooden blade. His touch had always been warm on his shoulder, in his hair, on the crown of his head as he whispered old stories with meanings buried like treasure.
Their father held his children close and told them they were more than the world would call them. More than beasts. More than burdens.
Father had tried to shield them. With wit and will, and all the cunning he possessed, he did everything he could to protect them from the scorn of the court and the harsh gaze of their grandfather. But even he could not be everywhere. Not when duty called him away. Not when secrets demanded silence. Not when the storm finally came.
And so Fenrin had learned to live between the warmth of his father’s love and the coldness of Asgard’s rejection.
He sought guidance where he could. Tyr, the war god, was nothing like his father. Stern and silent, where his father was soft and playful, but his discipline was clear and his rules easy to follow. Fenrir had thought he understood the weight of an ax. Understood the solid truth of steel and bone. Tyr didn’t ask him to be gentle. He didn’t ask him to pretend. He expected Fenrir to give his all, so Fenrir did.
By day, Fenrir sparred, and by night, he slept in the barracks, carving a shape for himself that was made of duty and silence. It was a quiet life. Not a kind one, but one he thought he could live with.
His siblings had filled other spaces. Jörmungandr with his questions. Hela with her solemn silences. Sleipnir with his restless energy and soft eyes. The twins with their chaotic glory and cheer. They were a strange, unmatched set, but they had been his.
And he had never had to lead them, not really. The weight was always there. But it wasn’t heavy. Not yet.
Then came Odin’s decree, violent as a thunderclap. A vicious beast that shredded their world.
Their father was taken, bound in agony beneath the venom-drip of serpents. Sigyn followed, her love too strong to let him suffer alone. Their grandmother, ancient and powerful, tried to intervene, but was silenced, sealed in her quarters like a ghost. The Allfather’s apathy was cruelty in its most refined form. And it was expected. Their family were monsters in his eyes. Pests to be quarantined.
And suddenly the weight shifted.
Fenrir was the eldest son. The only one left standing with hands unbound and blood still warm. It fell on him to gather what was left of Narfi. For the first time, he was the head of their family. They had all been there together, then. They had still been a family then, but he had been in a role he had never had to be before.
It became his responsibility to hold back Jörmungandr as they were jeered and spat on at the docks. To keep Hela upright as she shook with sobs. To steady Sleipnir’s hand when it trembled too much to light the pyre. His siblings had strength, yes, but the burden settled on him like a mountain, and he bore it in silence.
It never left.
Not when Váli took his own life, and Fenrir lit a second pyre with shaking hands. Not when they were scattered, stolen from each other. He was consumed by rage, eaten hollow by grief. Yet still, he endured. Through exile. Through chains. Through centuries.
He howled, cursed, and wept until the days bled into decades. Until nothing mattered anymore.
He let it go at last.
And let it scatter into the wind like ashes.
No siblings. No father. No war. Just survival. Sleep when tired. Hunt when hungry. He was a ghost of a god. A myth that never wanted to be remembered.
Until one day, under the lazy warmth of the noonday sun, a voice changed everything.
“Puppy. Good puppy.”
His eyes opened. A child. A real, breathing child. Half-hidden behind an oak, peering at him with bright green eyes too wide and too knowing. A small hand reached out, brushing against his thick fur.
He knew.
The shade of hair. The slope of the brow. The shape of Loki reborn in miniature.
It reverberated in his bones that this was the truth.
The weight came back. Heavier than ever.
But this time, it came with fear.
He had known loss. But his siblings had not been children, practically babies like this one. He knew the weight of responsibility. He was scared. He could face down the Olympians with all the determination of any Aesir nobility, but parenting? Nurturing? That was new. Icarus, that was what they called him, flinched at touches, hid from adults, trembled at loud voices. He required gentleness, caution, and patience. Fenrir learned it all, day by day, driven not by instinct, but by terror.
He had lost two brothers. He could not lose a third.
He would not lose another.
He lived by it.
It drove him forward day by day.
The need to protect Icarus became a law in his bones. It was the only reason he was tolerated at Hogwarts at all. Though Snape had tried to bar him from the grounds, the other Heads relented. It was Fenrir’s right to remain as Icarus received treatment, however unorthodox as it was. It really had only taken that sentiment to sway the rest. This was no ordinary visit. He was not merely a sibling. He was a guardian.
So he waited that night, seated at the castle’s threshold, moonlight silvering his fur. His tail swept softly across the stones. Ears pricked. Eyes scanning.
One ear was turned, listening for movement behind him as he waited. He trusted Clint in this. If all Icarus needed was someone to open the doors and to keep an eye on him, that’s what he’d get. Master Snape had relented, agreeing to wait in the Slytherin common room to keep an eye out. McGonagall had agreed to keep an eye out, mostly to make sure that Master Snape had followed through.
Hours passed, and midnight along with it. And then-
Soft footsteps.
Icarus, sweat-slick and glassy-eyed, walked barefoot in his night clothes with eerie precision. A seax glinted in one hand. Snape followed, silent and brooding. McGonagall lingered just inside the door, watching.
No words were spoken.
Fenrir stood and followed.
Magic spilled from Icarus like a breached dam, uncontrolled, unrelenting. He was not wandering. He had purpose. The cliff overlooking the Black Lake loomed ahead, and there, he screamed. Not in pain or fear, but in sheer, furious frustration. A scream of a child without words.
He didn’t hesitate. Fenrir took his more human form and stood behind him, unmoving. A wall. A shield.
He placed a hand on Icarus's back, pushing warmth and magic into him. Feelings of protection, safety, and belonging. Stars sparked in his vision from the sheer effort.
Then Icarus sliced open his palm.
A blood offering. Held high. Waiting.
The lake answered.
A geyser erupted, and with it, a figure emerged. Pale green eyes glared from a massive serpentine face.
“Who are you?” Jörmungandr asked.
Before Fenrir could respond, Icarus collapsed. He caught him, snarling instinctively. “Jörmungandr, come down here!”
Icarus trembled in his arms, lips tinged blue. Fenrir rubbed warmth into his skin, whispering encouragements as he stared down the World Serpent.
“Why should I not eat you?” Jörmungandr asked, head lowering with a flick of his tongue.
“Do your eyes deceive you? Look again, you fool.” Fenrir growled, eyes flashing. He briefly contemplated smacking his brother. “Do you not see what we are? Do you not remember who I am?”
Bright green eyes fluttered open. Icarus blinked up blearily and whispered, “Found you.”
He reached for Jörmungandr’s nose. The serpent leaned into the touch.
Then shifted.
A tall man stood in his place, hand in Icarus's, peering down with wonder.
“Who are you, little one?”
“Don’... know…” Icarus murmured and curled deeper into Fenrir’s arms. “Tire’…”
“Sleep. I have you.” Fenrir whispered, shifting him gently. “Meet our youngest. The Olympians called him Icarus. We do not know the name Father and Sigyn gave him.”
“Sigyn?” Jörmungandr asked softly. “They had another child? He’s so... small.”
“It’s complicated. Sigyn is gone. Father is absent. He hasn’t claimed him.” Fenrir paused. “But yes. He is ours.”
“Is he really?” Jörmungandr’s voice held doubt and awe. “He’s such a small thing.”
Fenrir laughed, hoarse with exhaustion. “Just last week, this ‘small thing’ faced Zeus and lived. When he moves, I see our father. And the seiðr, he overflows with it.”
“This place teaches seiðr now?” Jörmungandr asked.
“Yes. Hogwarts, a school of seiðr. It taught our father and Sigyn. They paid for Icarus to attend the moment he was born. Given time... he’ll surpass even Grandmother.”
Jörmungandr looked skeptical. “He doesn’t feel powerful.”
“Perhaps,” Fenrir said. “But he freed you. Broke your bindings. Summoned you. And he’s been bleeding magic ever since.”
Jörmungandr reached out to prod Icarus's cheek. Fenrir smacked his hand away.
“Let him sleep. He’s earned it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Halloween 1991

Hogwarts

The castle was bursting with restless energy as the growing excitement for the Halloween feast came nearer. Older students had whispered to the first years about the magic of the Halloween feast. Now, at midday, students darted between classrooms and the great hall. Their laughter echoed through the corridors like bell chimes. But, above it all, high above the warmth of crowded tables and clattering cutlery, the astronomy tower stood still. 

Icarus had slipped out during lunch, a whispered word to his friend Blaise as his only notice. He moved like a shadow up the winding steps, his fingers grazing the stone banister to keep his balance. He took the quiet moment to let his magic mingle with that of the castle’s, once more, infusing his presence into the stone. It greeted him like a friendly animal, now tamed and happy to see him each time. 

The breeze met him as he stepped onto the sunlit platform, cool and sharp. The autumn light bathed the world in a warm golden glow, and though the sun was high, it was clear that winter was finally on its way in. Icarus crossed to the railing and leaned against it with a contented sigh, his eyes sweeping across the distant trees. He hadn’t realized how stifling the castle had felt until now. Until he could breathe again, he had discovered several days ago that he liked it up in the astronomy tower. Part of him was now almost disappointed he wasn’t in Gryffindor, he heard talk that their common room was in one of the towers. Here, high up, where the wind was strong and the sky felt close, but far from the danger of a stormcloud shaped like Zeus’s continued grumpiness. When he was in a tower like this, it felt like the sky was untouched by Olympus or Asgard. 

A sharp caw cracked the silence.

Icarus flinched.

He jinxed himself.

Turning, his breath caught in his throat. There, not even six feet away, perched on the same railing was a raven, acting as if it had been there the whole time, and it was Icarus who interrupted it. Its feathers shimmered in the noonday sun, catching the light like black fire. Any hope that it was just any bird disappeared when it blinked at him slowly, its gaze bottomless, ancient. Too ancient to be just a bird. 

Icarus took a measured step back from the railing, every motion deliberate, respectful. The bird was watching. However, he didn’t bow this time, but he did dip his head to it in quiet deference. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come back,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you did.”

The raven blinked once. Then twice.

Silence followed, but not the cold kind. It was listening. Expectant. 

Icarus gave a small smile and unwrapped his hidden lunch of a sandwich, wedge of cheese, and a handful of pecans folded into a cloth napkin. He knelt and laid them out on the stone floor between them. Not quite an offering, he didn’t dare, not when his stomach growled, but a quiet gesture of sharing. 

“I suppose you want to know what’s happened since your last visit?” Icarus asked, voice casual but soft.

Yes.

The answer rippled through him, not in words but in that deep marrow-place, where gods speak and children listen. The raven then hopped down from the railing, landing lightly on the stone floor, and pecked at a pecan without breaking its gaze.

Icarus shifted. He moved to sit cross-legged, balancing his sandwich on his knee. 

“I’ve been okay,” he said lightly, as if he were talking to an old friend, not a possible envoy of a god, and a god he was quite scared of at that. “Classes are easier. My magic doesn’t feel like it’s trying to kill me anymore.”

The raven stilled, its head tilted. Was that confusion? Worry? Or perhaps a quiet way to demand he explain. 

“I was having trouble with my magic. New environment and all that, my healer says it’s cleared up, and things have been much better now. They were teaching us the levitation spell today. Most of the class was having a hard time, but there's a girl in my class who’s really good at picking up new spells. She was the only other one who got it on the first try. A Gryffindor boy actually managed to get his feather, that’s what we were practicing on, to burst into flames. I don’t know how he managed. My head of house, the one who hates me, has been… weirdly nicer. Not like nice nice, but better than earlier. I think my guardian said something to him. Neither of them will tell me what, though.” 

He took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully.

“Oh!” he added, mouth half full, “I was put on my house’s Quidditch team. Not asked, put. No choice. I think this is how my head of house is getting his revenge. I tried to get out of it, but he was adamant, basically blackmailed me into doing it. I think I’m terrified of flying, but apparently that’s irrelevant to him.” 

Why are you afraid of flying? The raven asked, its voice cool and sudden, cutting the air like a blade. 

Icarus’s hands stilled. He looked up, eyes shadowed. 

“Because when you’re flying, it’s easier to be noticed,” he said, voice taut. “And I don’t want the wrong gods noticing me.” 

The raven said nothing. It didn’t need to. This time, the silence was heavy. Waiting. 

Icarus sighed, free hand reached up and tugged on a beaded braid. Then he answered, his voice quiet. 

“I don’t know whose sky I’m flying in, and I don’t want to be struck down for trespassing in it. Also, I’m scared I’ll fall. We play Quidditch, like, really high up. Marcus Flint, he’s on the team, he told me that people have died playing.”

They sat in silence again for a few moments, the sound only broken by the wind. 

“Are you Huginn or Muninn?” Icarus asked gently.

It still does not matter.

The voice rang deep, deeper than before, with a resonance in his bones. He nodded, expecting that answer. 

“Can I ask you a question?” He asked again, quieter now.

Ask.

He hesitated, gaze dropping to the sandwich in his hands. He knew he probably shouldn’t ask. Knew that it could be dangerous to put this servant even more on his trail. But his curiosity was winning out, and if anyone knew, it would be one of the Allfather’s ravens. He just had to be careful. Icarus took a deep breath, then looked up.

“When I was younger,” he began, voice fragile, “I used to hear stories. Not bedtime stories, older ones. Sacred ones. Ones people thought I was too young to really understand. They might have been right, but there was always one. It was a story about a man, a god, punished with venom, chained beneath the earth. And a woman, his wife, who stayed with him, catching every drop in a bowl so it wouldn’t burn him.”

The raven didn’t blink. Didn’t even move.

Icarus swallowed. 

“What happened to them? Are they still there? Is she still by his side, catching the venom?”

The wind stopped. The world seemed to narrow around the question.

Then

Loki is no longer bound. The venom does not touch him. He was freed many years ago, but was later sent into a brief exile. When he returned, in time, he was welcomed back into his father’s halls.

Icarus’s breath hitched, but he forced his voice steady. Forced to sound nonchalant.

“And his wife? She… She must have gone with him, right? They’re still together?”

There was a pause. 

No. Sigyn followed Loki into exile. But when he returned, he returned alone. She did not survive their exile. 

He mourns her death still.

The world stopped . The wind held its breath. 

Icarus sat frozen. His body still, but his inside cracking. 

“She’s dead?” He asked, even though he already knew. 

The raven did not blink.

The silence an answer in itself. 

Icarus looked away. The sun was too bright now. Too cruel. 

His mother was dead.

He stared out over the vast, sunlit landscape, blinking rapidly against the sting in his eyes. His lips trembled, but he spoke anyway.

“I had hoped… It was such a beautiful story. To be loved like that. For someone to stay, even in suffering.” Icarus swallowed. “I had wanted it to still be true.

The raven stepped forward, pecked gently at a pecan, then paused.

Grief is not the end. Memory remains. She lives in him still.

Icarus closed his eyes.

The raven dipped its head slowly. Not a farewell, not quite. But a promise. 

We will speak again.

Then it stretched its wings, massive, gleaming, and launched into the air with a rustle and rush of wind. It vanished before he could blink.

The tower was still once more.

Icarus still sat there, unmoving, eyes still closed. His lunch lay beside him, half-eaten and forgotten. 

The world had not changed. But he had. His heart ached in a way he never knew it could. Not from the loss of a woman he’d never met, but the loss of the hope that she’d been there. The loss of the hope she meant for his siblings. Fenrir had told him that Sigyn was more of a mother to them than their own mother had been. That she was the kindest woman to ever breathe, and now she was gone. 

Somewhere, though, behind all the hurt, was the deeper fear he didn’t even want to think about. If she were gone, and he still remained Loki’s son, what did that actually make him?

A godling with only half a story. 

A child half orphaned, left with not even the safe half still living. 

He looked down at the forest below. Lunch was nearly over.

But for now, he sat with the silence.

And let himself grieve.

But only for a minute. 

Varagian Longhouse

Jormungandr could scarcely believe he’d let Fenrir talk him into staying. However, talk was a generous term. It had been more of a threat, laced with guilt, wrapped in a brotherly demand that he couldn’t quite refuse. And yet, despite his protests, staying had proven… useful… for Fenrir at least.

His elder brother, the brute that he was, put Jormungandr to manual labor. It was thanks to his help that the longhouse had come together far faster than Fenrir had originally projected it would. The framing was completed, exterior wood paneling up, and the roof in place all before Halloween, rather than Yule. The structure’s rough-hewn timber, earthen floors, and drafty corners were nothing at all like the home they had been raised in. But it stood, surprisingly, solid and strong, at the edge of a forest not far from a seiðr town. 

Fenrir said that the town was one that Icarus, their so-called brother, would be able to go to in a few years during the school year. Not far away sat the beginnings of the wards of the grounds for Hogwarts, where Icarus was going to school. Fenrir had made mentions of another house, one far away in another country, under the protection of Olympus, where he and Icarus lived up until now. Apparently, Icarus still wanted to visit there. Made it sound like Icarus still wanted to be there in the summer. 

So Jormungander worked, grumbling at the time, like he had to. He poured over Midgard’s magical currents with care. Several days of research and manipulation passed before he found what he was looking for. A focal point. An intersection of energy just wide enough for what they had planned, with a stable enough energy for the transference. 

With careful work of spells and the placement of the doorway, travel between the two places would be simple, as he had to explain to Fenrir, who had needed it in his usual blunt way, “A door here, a door there. Walk through one, end up at the other. Like how doors normally work.” That he understood, or perhaps it was the eyeroll. 

The moment Jormungandr confirmed the coordinates, Fenrir altered the longhouse’s layout without hesitation and threw himself back into the build with renewed energy.

The roof had been finished just a week prior, adorned with a winding wooden serpent along the ridge beam, a stylized tribute that Jormungandr both appreciated and found mildly egotistical. 

Their newest littlest brother had insisted they all be included in the home’s design, that their family be literally carved into its foundation. It was… sweet, perhaps, but strange. 

Somehow, Jormungandr was cast as the one holding the roof in his massive snake form, symbolic, perhaps, of his usual burden-bearing role, or perhaps his great glory in their family. The twins were immortalized as playful sentinels on either side of the front door, their laughter somehow etched into the very grain. The sly smiles that welcomed visitors in warned of mischief. Sleipnir had been placed near the entrance, hooves ready to defend. Hel and Fenrir were assigned to the rear, facing the dense forest like silent watchers, the quiet guardians. When Fenrir had asked where Icarus would go, the boy had merely shaken his head. He had insisted that he wasn’t an official Lokison and was undeserving of a place. 

Fenrir hadn’t argued, but his silence had been sharp and lingering. Still, every piece of the house, every detail, was made with Icarus in mind. Jormungandr noticed. Fenrir didn’t say it, but he noticed. Jormungandr had seen the original blueprint, and much had changed in favor of what Icarus had asked for. 

The structure was still unfinished, but livable. They had yet to actually put in the door, a pelt currently served until Fenrir could fashion one on. They had yet to craft actually comfortable seating or bedding. The empty barrels that Fenrir had procured served as their chairs. At night, the chill crept through the beams, and the wind howled like an angry spirit, yet they could sleep beneath the roof. What unsettled Jormungandr most wasn’t the wind or the creaking walls. 

No, it was his brother. 

Fenrir was... softer now. He had always been the most affectionate of them, but this was different. Quiet gestures. A fur pelt was tucked over him in the middle of the night. The meat was cleaned and preserved with care. Fewer outbursts. Slower anger. It was unfamiliar. And deeply unnerving.

The pelt flap covering the doorway rustled, and Fenrir stepped in, hefting a large barrel of something, sloshing and amber.

“Are you ready?” he asked, setting it down with a heavy thud.

Jormungandr looked up from his bed, where he sat hunched over a bone carving, and shook his head. “Almost. Just a few runes left.” His eyes flicked toward Fenrir. “You said the little one was threatened by the Olympian king?”

“Not exactly threatened,” Fenrir muttered. “He said Icarus would be tested to the brink. Given a chance to prove himself.”

Jormungandr paused, brows lifting. “That sounds suspiciously like a curse.”

Jormungandr returned to his work. Silence stretched in the room as he sat hunched over his small arrangement of bones, each one etched with runes and worn smooth from centuries of use. They weren’t random. No. Each piece had been chosen deliberately, kept over time for a purpose such as this. A raven’s wing bone, a wolf’s fang, the toe of a giant, a sliver of Fenrir’s own discarded fang from his childhood, even a shard of obsidian touched by Hela’s flames. 

Each one. Ancient, charged, dangerous. 

Together they served as pieces of his seeing set, his personal method of divination, cobbled from the scraps of gods and monsters. After all, who better to use such a thing than one who straddled both categories, monster and god? 

It was a dangerous thing.

He didn’t always cast them. The casting was a more dangerous form of divination than their grandmother’s. It was not the calm, gentle method of letting the norns communicate and pass on information, or let the Yigrasill whisper the fates of man. No, this was calling the norns' attention to oneself by grabbing the information from them, whether they wanted to release it or not. Then, praying the interpretation was right. Oftentimes it was not, which is why it was treacherous. These readings were often tangles, like seaweed caught in the undertow, rarely worth the effort of unraveling, lest it hold you down and drown you while you try. But tonight… tonight felt different. Tonight, the air itself held tension, like a bowstring pulled taut and trembling. And it all led back to Icarus.

Fenrir stared into his mug like the answers might be swirling in the depths. 

“Do you remember,” Fenrir said at last, his voice lighter, almost mischievous, “when everything in Father’s chambers was painted red? And when he came storming in, he walked right into the enchantment and turned bright crimson?”

Jormungandr snorted. “Yes. He was livid. Chased Uncle through the palace while Mother laughed herself breathless. Uncle insisted he was innocent.”

“It was the twins,” Fenrir said, grinning widely.

“What?” Jormungandr’s head snapped up to stare at him. “No. How did I not know that? How do you know that?”

“I created the distraction,” Fenrir said smugly.

“Unbelievable. Father was suspicious for weeks.”

“It was quite amusing.”

Jormungandr rolled his eyes as he stood, and they both fell silent again. He set the bowl gently over the fire, allowing the bones to be warmed by the flame before casting. Fire awakened the runes. Fire whispered truth into them. He didn’t use incense or chants like the seers of Odin’s court. He didn’t trust that kind of drama. It often was no more than smoke and mirrors anyway. Instead, he closed his eyes and only thought of the boy. Their littlest brother. The tiny child who had Sigyn’s bright green eyes, who had called to him and freed him. 

He breathed slowly. Let the fire crackle. Let the silence draw tight.

The norns were kind this night. He could feel them whispering in the bones. 

Then he took the bowl and tipped it out. 

The bones scattered over the cloth he had laid down, each one thudding with subtle finality. He opened his eyes, and the breath left his lungs.

There was a pattern—jagged, spiraling, wrong.

The raven bone landed inverted, beak down: silence from those who watch.

The fang landed cracked, rune glowing faintly: pain, not death, but close.

The frost giant’s toe was shattered.

The obsidian shard rested on the edge of the cloth, halfway out: between worlds.

And at the center, Fenrir’s fang… pointing directly at him.

Jormungandr didn’t speak at first. He stared. Then, slowly, he leaned in, tracing the lines between each piece, connecting the runes in a sequence. Past. Present. Possibility.

The omens were unmistakable.

Isolation. Betrayal. Trial. Transformation. Sacrifice.

Icarus would be broken and rebuilt. Tested to his limits, not just physically, but metaphysically. His soul would be weighed and tried on scales the boy couldn’t yet comprehend. There were forces watching him, some curious, others cruel. And the worst part?

He saw no protection in the pattern. No shield. No divine hand outstretched to steady him. Only the possibility that Icarus might survive. Might.

His fingers hovered over the wolf fang rune, heart thrumming.

“Brother?”

Fenrir’s voice came from beyond the fire, sharp with worry. Jormungandr didn’t answer immediately. He leaned back and closed his eyes, his features more tired than before.

“Brother, say something.”

Jormungandr exhaled through his nose, long and slow. He gathered the bones carefully, reverently, and tipped them back into the bowl.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he dumped them into the fire.

The flames hissed in protest, swallowing them whole.

“It’s not good,” he said finally, voice hollowed with certainty.

Fenrir stiffened. The mead in his hand sloshed as his grip tightened.

“Tell me.”

Jormungandr didn’t look at him. “Icarus will be tested. Broken, even. What the Olympian king spoke of… it wasn’t a trial. It was a crucible. He’ll come out changed. Or he won’t come out at all.”

Silence stretched between them.

“But,” he added, softer now, “there’s still choice in it. And if Olympus won't protect him... then we will. We look after each other, as we always have. We, children of Loki, protect each other when no one else will defend us. To the end.”

Fenrir looked into the fire as though trying to retrieve the bones himself, to divine something different.

“But the gods,” he said at last, “they won't stand aside if we interfere.”

“Let them try,” Jormungandr growled, reaching for the mead. “They forget. We’re not just gods. We’re monsters.”

And for their brother, their Icarus, they’d tear Olympus down stone by stone if they had to. And if the Allfather tried to stop them from protecting one of their own again , well, Ragnarok was always an option. 

Hogwarts

Icarus was laughing, freely, fully, trying his best to pretend that the earlier conversation with the Allfather’s raven hadn’t left his skin feeling thin and his spine hollowed out. The Great Hall shimmered under a hundred floating jack-o’-lanterns, each one carved with grinning faces and glowing with charmed candlelight. Overhead, the enchanted ceiling showed a storm-tossed sky, moonlight glancing between clouds, thunder rumbling high above the illusion of distance. Icarus wished he could take a picture to send back to camp, but had resigned himself to learning the spell so he could reenact the atmosphere back home for his friends. 

It was beautiful. Strange and warm and strange again. Magic wrapped around every corner, settling like frost across the feast: shoofly pie, roasted nuts, pumpkin fudge, licorice snakes that coiled and hissed on the plate if you got too close. Every table gleamed with stacked candy bowls, some filled with wizarding treats he didn’t even recognize, and it felt like the whole of New York could be fed and sugared on what Hogwarts had conjured in a single night.

A paper bat had flitted down from the ceiling and gotten tangled in his hair, and Icarus had simply left it there, amused. He sipped from a goblet of spiced cider, cheeks warm, smile easy. 

A voice curled like smoke into his ear from across the Slytherin table.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” drawled Marcus Mulciber.

The older boy had a smirk that looked carved rather than earned, all angles and practiced sharpness. His green-and-silver scarf was draped just so over his shoulders, a calculated kind of casual that screamed for attention. Icarus blinked at him, brows rising slightly.

“What are you talking about?” he asked with a light laugh, turning toward the fifth-year. There wasn’t malice in his voice, just confusion. The warmth of the cider still lingered in his chest.

Mulciber leaned in, his voice silky with malice. “The Boy Who Lived,” he said. “Sitting here, feasting like it’s any other night. Toasting the day your parents were blown apart by the Dark Lord.” He raised his goblet in a mock salute. “Cheers.”

The words didn’t land all at once. They drifted toward Icarus like leaves on water, too slow and too strange to make sense right away.

Somewhere in the background, a third-year coughed and choked on a pastry. A couple of nearby Hufflepuffs turned in their seats. Blaise Zabini, seated across the table, went very still. Even Malfoy had gone pale. The paper bat in Icarus’s hair twitched slightly, as if disturbed.

Icarus furrowed his brows, smile still half-clinging to his face, like it hadn’t been given permission to fade yet. “What?” he asked again. The word came out smaller.

Mulciber tilted his head. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know. Halloween. Ten years ago. Voldemort murders your parents. Except—” he gestured lazily toward Icarus’s forehead, where a faint shimmer of a scar sometimes caught the light, “it didn’t quite take. And now, here you are. Laughing. Drinking cider. Sitting under floating pumpkins like nothing happened.”

Icarus stared at him. His brain didn’t seem to be catching up to his ears. He was waiting, hoping for the tone that would ring the words as false. 

It never came.

Blaise stood, the scrape of the bench sharp. “Mulciber, shut your mouth.”

“What are you talking about?” Icarus asked again, but the question came hollow, like an echo of something that had already cracked.

Mulciber raised his hands in mock innocence. “Just trying to offer some context. Historical education. It is important, isn’t it?”

“Then take your history and choke on it,” Blaise snapped. He grabbed Icarus’s sleeve. “Come on.”

But Icarus didn’t move.

He sat frozen, his fingers still around his fork, knuckles white. The sounds of the hall swelled again, but it was warped, like it was happening behind a wall of glass. The joy from earlier had turned foreign, like it belonged to someone else.

Blaise’s hand on his wrist startled him. He hadn’t realized he was trembling. The fork slipped from his fingers and clattered softly onto his plate.

They slipped from the hall together. Icarus let himself be guided, moving on instinct. Down a corridor and past shadowy torchlight, where the air was cooler and quieter, and the smell of cinnamon and pumpkin didn't reach. Blaise pulled him gently into an alcove near a window. The soft glow of jack-o’-lanterns flickered in the distance.

“You really didn’t know,” Blaise said. Not a question.

Icarus didn’t look at him. He was staring at his hands. “The book didn’t say. It just said they were attacked. No date. No details.” His voice was too level, like he was repeating something he'd memorized. “And the people who had me, the ones before, they said it was in July. That’s when they said I was orphaned. They told me it happened in the summer.”

He swallowed hard, but it didn’t clear the pressure in his throat.

“I thought I remembered it being sunny,” he added, almost too softly. “I thought... I thought I remembered the sun. How did I not know they were lying?”

But his head was spinning now. The raven's words from earlier in the day unfurled in his mind like a trap springing shut.

His mother is dead.

And this is the night she died.

The night she died for him .

This is the night everything burned down.

“I laughed,” he said suddenly. “I put fangs in. I was- I was happy.”

He slid to the floor with no ceremony, like his legs had decided they’d had enough. Blaise moved with him, crouching quickly as Icarus buried his head between his knees and tried to remember how to breathe.

The sound of his own blood in his ears was louder than the distant storm outside.

“They lied,” he managed after a moment. “They lied, and no one else ever told me.”

“I don’t know who was supposed to,” Blaise said quietly. “Maybe Dumbledore thought it didn’t matter yet. Or maybe he thought it would be too much.”

“It is too much,” Icarus rasped. “But not knowing was worse.”

He lifted his head slightly. His face was pale, and his expression was distant, caught somewhere between fury and heartbreak.

“I should’ve known,” he said. “How could I not know?”

“You’re not the one who failed,” Blaise said. “They did.”

Icarus scrubbed at his face with both hands. The paper bat finally detached from his hair and fluttered to the floor. He watched it with an odd sort of detachment.

“I feel like I should hate myself.”

Blaise shook his head. “You feel that way because you’re human.”

Icarus’s lip quirked at that, something that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt so much.

“Thank you,” he murmured, knowing the sentiment, even if Blaise didn’t know what Icarus really was.

Blaise didn’t say anything. Just patted his back again and sat beside him as the wind outside howled across the towers, and the past finished catching up with the boy who had been left in the dark far too long.

Asgard

Frigga did not go to the feast.

The feasting hall of Valaskjálf was full tonight, echoing with songs for the fallen and praise for those who had passed into legend. Flames leapt high in the hearths, casting light upon gleaming goblets and the golden helms of warriors seated in long rows. The Allfather, her husband, presided at the high table, surrounded by gods, heroes, and those who had returned from battle, clad in the silence of death. 

It was the night to honor the righteous dead. 

But Frigga did not join them. 

Could not join them. 

Would not.

This was her continued silent protest. Centuries had passed since she had last attended. Now, only three people realized she was protesting: Her husband, Loki, and herself. 

Instead, the queen remained in her chambers. Secluded in the quiet, high-walled, and steeped in the hush of memory. Here, there were no horns of mead, no bellowing of songs, no clanging of cups, or great, exaggerated stories told. Only the whisper of wool, the low creak of wood, and the hum of thread being drawn through fate. 

This was where she honored the dead in her own way. The dead are worth honoring. 

The hearth’s amber glow flickered gently against the stone, casting long shadows that stretched like ghosts across the floor. The scent of cedar smoke and old lavender lingered in the air, the perfume of stillness. In the center of the room stood her loom, a towering shape cut from the roots of Yggdrasil itself, alive, in its way. Not a tool. A companion. 

Her sacred loom. 

Frigga sat before it in silence, her hands already moving before she knew what they would create.

Her fingers worked with a gentle urgency, weaving threads of silver and green, streaked now and then with glints of starlight gold. She wove the way others prayed, quietly, wholly. The tapestry took shape in motion, each thread answering some unspoken pull in her bones. There were times when she knew what she was weaving, and times, much like this, when the cloth told her instead.

Tonight, it was the loom that was in control. The treads were restless. It would not be ignored. There was something she needed to see. Fate was whispering, and the world around her shifting. 

This tapestry would not reveal its secrets to anyone but her this night.

She paused as the image began to coalesce. What had been mist and shimmer darkened, focused.

There.

A figure rose in the warp. 

Young. Slender. 

A boy.

A child.

Hair black as a raven’s wing. Wild curls and beaded braids. Eyes green as cut emerald, fierce and guarded. The child burned like a single flame in the dark, and though she did not yet know his name. Something in her ached, fierce and old. The kind of ache only a mother could understand.

Who are you?

The loom answered in silence, shifting again. 

The boy now stood on a jagged path, barely a ribbon, suspended in a vast field of nothing. He stood balanced like on a knife’s edge. Shadow pressed in from one side. Light shimmered on the other. The path was dangerously narrow. One misstep would mean the end.

But he was not alone.

Threads moved of their own accord, rising like spirits to curl around the child.

A shield. Made of flesh and bone. A bloody will of protection. 

A bloodied hound.

A serpent gleaming white.

A towering wolf, pale as moonlight.

Frigga’s hand trembled. She knew those threads. Recognized them from other, older weavings, ones she kept hidden and unspoken in this very room. 

Ones she treasured deep in her heart.

These were her grandchildren.

Unnamed in the golden halls. Feared. Cast out. Children born not of war, but of prophecy. Of Loki.

The thought struck her like cold water.

Could this boy be Loki’s as well?

Another child kept from her, buried in the shadow of exile?

She leaned closer. The tapestry shimmered again. The child’s eyes burned brighter now, their green hue lit with pain, power, and a deep and fragile hope. It was a familiar color, though, bright shining emerald. 

Frigga closed her eyes briefly, pressing her palm to the weave. Her magic met the pulse of the threads—ancient, aching. This was no ordinary vision. 

It was a summons.

She had seen him before. In flashes. In forgotten corners of half-finished tapestries. But never like this. Never held so clearly, so heartbreakingly alone, and yet not unloved.

The thread of the white wolf was almost always curled around his, in the same way all her grandchildren’s threads had once been entangled together.

But something else stirred in the weave.

A different kind of magic. One she did not recognize at first.

Then, slowly, it bled through, gold and blue and thunderous, not like her own.

Olympus.

Its mark threaded across the child’s path like an old wound. Stylized lightning curled through the edges of the tapestry, less a blessing than a scar. Laurel leaves and fractured marble twisted between the boy’s steps, as if another power had claimed dominion over him, wrapped him in a mantle not of his choosing.

A jagged symbol flared and vanished—a thunderbolt, familiar yet wrong.

It hung over the child like an oppressive hand. It was offering cover, but it forced the child’s back to bend under the weight of the pressure.

Frigga’s breath caught.

This child bore the touch of Olympus.

The tapestry rippled again, and for a brief, blinding second, she saw the boy in two halves. One shrouded in Norse shadow, wrapped in wolf and blood and sorrow; the other cloaked in gold and pain and the echo of distant gods who had no right to him.

He was being pulled.

Two realms. Two legacies. And neither would let him go.

Frigga reached out, fingertips brushing the image. The cloth pulsed faintly beneath her touch, the magic thrumming low like a warning drum.

He was not just walking a dangerous path.

He was being hunted.

Something stirred in her, a fire kindled not by anger, but by resolve.

There would be no more forgetting.

She would not let the past swallow another child.

The rest of the gods might feast in honor of the dead tonight, but she honored them here, in the quiet, in the work of fingers and threads and unspoken truths. She honored them by remembering, not just the glorious, but the forsaken. The children lost in silence. The ones who still walked the knife-edge between survival and oblivion.

She sat there staring at it. This would be her resolve. She would continue to work on it. 

Continue to watch over him. 

She had to be ready.

And she had to be there.

Because something was coming. Something that might yet mend what had been broken—or else shatter the fragile threads still holding it together.

And when that time came, Frigga would not sit quietly in her chambers.

The Queen of Asgard had seen enough children swallowed by silence.

This time, she would not wait for fate to decide.

She would rise.

And she would act.

Hogwarts 

The halls were too quiet compared to the bustle of the feast. 

Far behind them, the rise of cheering echoed, though muffled, against the thick stone. But here, in the deepening corridors of Hogwarts, winding into the depths of the castle’s dungeons. Almost suffocating.

The wards of the castle tickled against him, like an insistent cat, brushing against his legs for attention. 

Icarus said nothing, his face unreadable, his steps purposeful. Beside him, Blaise walked in silence, his shoulder brushing Icarus’s occasionally, a quiet reassurance neither of them acknowledged aloud. The warmth of the feast was already forgotten. The scent of roast pumpkin, cinnamon wine, and sweet breads had faded into the cold breath of stone.

They were both quietly aware that, behind them, Terence Higgs followed them. Icarus wasn’t quite sure when the prefect appeared, but he moved with easy calm, his wand held discreetly at his side. He said nothing either, hadn’t said much at all since Marcus Mulciber’s cruel words, and all eyes had turned toward him. There had been a flash of something on Higgs’s face, pity, maybe. Not fear, though. Not scorn. Just… a flicker of knowing. 

“I wasn’t gonna start a fight,” Icarus muttered eventually, not turning.

“I’m not following you because I think you’re going to start a fight,” Higgs replied dryly. “I’m here in case someone else is dumb enough to try.”

The silence between them lapsed again, but this time there was the faintest thread of tension easing, if only slightly.

Then Icarus stilled. The wards flared against him. Icarus reached out and grabbed Blaise.

Then the floor beneath them trembled.

It was subtle at first, just a vibration beneath the soles of their shoes, like a deep rolling thunder.

Then it grew louder.

Heavier.

Blaise stopped walking. “Did you feel—?”

The wall exploded.

A section of stone burst inward with a sound like the world tearing in half. Dust poured into the hallway in thick waves, swallowing the torchlight and turning the world into choking shadow. A massive slab of masonry slammed down just feet ahead of them, cracking the flagstone like eggshell.

Then Icarus realized. 

The cheer they heard earlier. 

It wasn’t cheering.

It was screaming. 

He knew because it was clearer now. The screams echoed from above, students far off, reacting to the sound rather than the sight.

Through the cloud of settling dust, something massive moved.

Twelve feet of rot and muscle lurched forward from the wreckage, a jagged silhouette of grotesque limbs and ancient stink. The troll bellowed as it shoved its way into the corridor, swinging a club the size of a tree trunk. It clipped the nearest torch bracket, sending it clattering to the floor in a burst of sparks.

Higgs’s reaction was instant.

“RUN!” he shouted, grabbing Icarus and Blaise by the backs of their robes and shoving them hard.

But before they could escape, another crash shook the hall. Something above gave way, stone or wood or both, and a fresh avalanche of debris thundered down behind them, sealing the corridor shut with rubble.

They were trapped.

The troll lumbered closer, filling the corridor with the reek of decay and rage.

Higgs raised his wand. “Stupefy!”

A flash of red magic shot forward and struck the troll in the chest. Only it fizzled out like a dying spark.

It didn’t even make the creature flinch.

The troll turned toward them, eyes gleaming dully. It snarled and took another step, club dragging behind it with a teeth-rattling grind.

“Icarus-” Blaise hissed, reaching to grab Icarus, but he had already moved.

Something in him shifted.

Gone was the stiff posture, the guarded silence. In its place was a deadly stillness, and a cold clarity fell over him. His breath slowed. His gaze locked onto the troll, calculating and distant. He had trained for years. 

“Potter, what are you doing?!” Higgs barked, stumbling back to shield Blaise.

“Stay behind me,” Icarus said softly. “And don’t get in the way.”

Then he drew his blades.

Two seaxes with bone hilts about as long as his fingertips to his elbow. They gleamed as he slipped them free from beneath his robes. Their edges caught the dim light with a deadly shimmer. These weren’t toys. Not ornate. Not ceremonial. These were weapons, worn at the hilt and sharpened for the purpose.

The troll roared again and charged.

And Icarus ran to meet it.

The club came down like a hammer meant to kill gods, but Icarus slid low, the rush of air parting his hair. He slid beneath the swing, blades tight in his hands, and slashed across the troll’s ankle as he passed. The hide was thick, but not enough. Blood sprayed, black and foul-smelling.

The troll howled and staggered.

Icarus was already moving.

Icarus was used to training against someone far larger than him.

He surged upward, using the creature’s leg like a launch point, driving his blade deep into its flesh as he climbed. The troll thrashed, trying to knock him loose, but he was too fast, darting up its back, slicing deep with every foothold.

He reached its shoulder in seconds.

With a twist, he jammed one blade into the meat between shoulder and neck, severing something vital. The troll shrieked, stumbling sideways.

“Icarus!” Blaise screamed. “Get down!”

But Icarus didn’t.

He pivoted. Leapt. Landed hard on the troll’s collarbone, using the momentum to jam the second blade up under the jaw, driving it into the creature’s skull through the soft flesh of the mouth.

There was a horrible crunch.

The troll went still.

It collapsed with a seismic crash, stone shattering beneath it. The echo rolled through the corridor like an earthquake.

Dust rained down from the ceiling in a choking haze.

And then—

Silence.

The troll lay twisted in a heap, its limbs twitching once.

Twice.

Then it stilled.

Blaise stared, wide-eyed. Higgs’s wand slowly lowered.

Icarus stood atop the troll’s chest, blood soaking one sleeve, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His blades were still in hand, his eyes flat and unreadable.

“There wasn’t anywhere to run,” he said hoarsely.

Blaise rushed forward, grabbing his arm. “You could’ve died! That thing was… what the hell even are you?”

Icarus blinked slowly, like someone waking from a dream. His hands trembled faintly as he slid one blade back into its sheath.

“Well…” he said with a shaky grin, “according to Mr. D, I’m a menace to society.”

Footsteps thundered down the corridor behind them. Shouts, spells ready, lights flickering from approaching wands.

Snape. McGonagall. Flitwick. Even Madam Hooch.

Too late.

They stopped short at the sight.

Professors froze mid-spell, eyes locked on the broken body of the troll.

And the boy standing over it.

Snape’s mouth opened, brow furrowing.

“What the FUCK? ” Higgs exploded, his voice going up at least two octaves. 

Icarus couldn’t help himself. 

He couldn’t. 

Icarus turned to him, bloodied and beaming, his expression radiant with the kind of mischief only a kid could conjure in the aftermath of something impossible.

He pointed at Higgs and gasped theatrically, loud enough for every professor to hear.

“ You just said a bad word !”

All eyes snapped to them.

Snape blinked. McGonagall’s mouth twitched. Even Flitwick paused, wand hovering mid-air.

And Terence Higgs turned scarlet.

Asgard

Another drunken feast.

Thor was grinning, golden and loud, hanging on Odin’s every embellished word as the Allfather recounted Bor’s ancient battles like they were sacred scripture. Around them, warriors roared with laughter, meat sloshed in goblets, and the scent of roasted boar clung to the air like smoke.

Loki sat in silence, absently nudging a piece of charred root with the tip of his fork. He wasn’t sure if he was shaking from rage or restraint. He gritted his teeth and bore it. They were lucky he hadn’t stood up and driven the dagger through the wooden table, or someone’s chest… Preferably someone’s chest. Every breath was a battle to keep his fury tucked neatly under his ribs. The murderous anger he held had festered deeply in his heart. 

This annual feast was meant to honor the dead.

But how could he honor them when everyone looked at him as if he had spat on their graves? When whispers followed him like shadows, curling beneath doorways and wrapping around goblets, accusing and venomous.

They didn’t understand.

He was just trying to do what any decent father should do to protect their child. And what did he get in return? His life is in crumbles. 

It had nearly destroyed him when the twins died, his boys, mischievous and clever, too bright to last in a world so cruel to them. But back then, he had Sigyn. Her grief had mirrored his own. They mourned together in a house that had once echoed with laughter and now sat eerily silent, echoing only with what was lost. She had been his anchor, his tether to something human. She was his everything in the void.

It had been ten years now since she died.

Ten years and he’s been adrift, trying to cling to what little life he had left. 

Fueled by spite and anger. 

Death’s hand had become a familiar sensation on his side. First had been the mother of his eldest children, Angrboða. Now his beloved wife and his sons (his precious babies). A list that was far longer than it should be. Far crueler. Too final. He knew his eldest children were still alive on Odin’s word alone. Hela was exiled in Helheim. Jormungandr cast off in Midgard somewhere he had yet to find. Fenrir was imprisoned, gods knew where, too dangerous to be just exiled. And poor Sleipnir, forced to his horse form for all eternity as his grandfather’s war steed. 

He didn’t know if he was angry or just hollow.

“Baldr was such a kind soul,” Odin said, lifting his horn as if in praise, his voice grave with forced reverence.

The name struck like a hammer to his temple.
The cold anger raged into a burning fury. 

BALDR.

Fucking Baldr.  

Loki’s knuckles went white around his fork. 

Baldr.

He should’ve killed the bastard himself . 

If he could, he would go back to that time and tear the golden god limb from limb. Rip his perfect, untouchable face apart. He should have ripped off Baldr’s fucking dick and shoved it down that bastard’s throat before hanging him. He wanted to get to see the life leave his eyes. In the end, Baldr should have begged for death’s release. 

Yet they still wept louder for Baldr than they had for any of Loki’s family. 

Icarus slammed his knife, prongs down, into the table and stood so suddenly that his chair scraped violently against the stone floor.

Thor called after him, voice concerned and heavy with mead, but Loki didn’t hear him. Loki was already halfway down the corridor, the feast melting behind him like a long-burned candle.

He moved without direction, without seeing, through the maze of Asgard’s gold-veined halls. The deeper he went, the quieter the palace became, until all that remained was the distant sound of the feast and the thrum of something older, slower, thread by thread. 

Rage simmered down to the familiar cold anger and grief. Once more, it felt his heart had been carved out with rusty nails. 

He stopped at a familiar door, breathing like he’d run a battle. His hand hovered, uncertain. He knew she’d be inside, but… 

He withdrew his hand and went to take a step back.

“Come in,” said a warm voice from the other side, already knowing.

He sighed, shook his head, and pushed the door open.

Frigga, his mother, didn’t look up. She sat at her loom, not weaving, just watching it in silent patience. Her back remained to him, a steady silhouette in the warm light of the hearth. 

He stood there for a long moment, unsure if he’d collapse or scream. Then, finally, he crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him. There was no judgment in these rooms. 

“You left the feast early,” she said gently.

He gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “Would you have preferred I stayed and stabbed someone?”

“I think you've stabbed enough hearts for one lifetime,” she said, not unkindly.

Silence fell again, heavy and intimate. He looked at her loom, at the intricate pattern just starting. It was clearly not a tapestry of war or victory, but something shifting, tangled roots, maybe. Perhaps the glimpses of someone of importance. Someone was coming. 

“What are you weaving?” he asked softly. It was a curious thing, something far different than what he had seen her make before. It thrummed and echoed differently even to him.

“I don’t know yet,” she replied, voice quiet. “I only know that I must.”

He stepped closer, watching her hands move like memory. “Is it for the dead?”

“No,” she said after a moment. “It’s for what remains. And for what must come next.”

He swallowed hard. The knot in his throat tightened. “I don’t know how to mourn anymore.” He admitted.

She turned to him, drawing a veil over the loom to keep it hidden. 

“Then don’t,” she said. “Grief isn’t always about mourning. Sometimes, it’s just surviving long enough to find meaning in what’s left.”

He sank onto the low bench near the hearth, head in his hands. For a long time, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the shuttle sliding through warp and weft.

After what felt like hours, he finally whispered, “I don’t think I have anything left to survive for.”

Mother turned then, and her eyes, tired but steadfast, met his.

“You do. You always have. You just don’t see it yet. But I do.”

She reached across and took his hand in hers, and cupped his cheek with the other hand. It was the first warmth he’d felt in days.

“I see threads you’ve forgotten. Worn thin, but unbroken. And I will keep weaving them, my son, until you are ready to pick them up again.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he believed her.

Hogwarts

The Slytherin Common Room was quieter than usual.

The usual smug hum of superiority had been replaced with something taut and bristling. Something more dangerous. Curiosity, tension, and fear. 

Whispers snapped like threads around Icarus every time he entered a room now. Some called him brave. Others said reckless. But the most dangerous opinions didn’t get spoken aloud.

They brewed in silence.

It was late when it finally boiled over.

Icarus had finally been released from the hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey’s mother henning. He hadn’t actually noticed he had been hurt at first, but a quietly simmering Snape dragged him to the healer. The bandage around his forearm was tight and irritating beneath his robe sleeve. He didn’t bother adjusting it. His limbs were leaden.  He barely registered the few second-years who looked up and then quickly looked away, suddenly fascinated by their textbooks. Blaise sat by the hearth, legs crossed, watching him with something between concern and calculation. 

Icarus drifted towards him in silence, more ghost than boy. 

“You think you’re some kind of hero, don’t you?” 

The voice was like flint. Sharp, sudden, and striking, the room alight.

Icarus turned, slowly.

Cassian Avery stood near one of the alcoves, arms crossed, broad-shouldered and looming, his wand tucked into his sleeve like a statement. His entourage lingered behind him, perfect uniforms, smirks practiced like reflexes. Those were starting to annoy him. 

Icarus looked at him, blinking once. He tried to find the energy to care. 

“I don’t think I’m anything,” he said, voice dry. “But if you’re going to accuse me of something, do it now, and make it quick. I’d like to sit down.”

Cassian stepped forward. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t belong in this House. You never did.”

There it was.

Icarus didn’t argue. He didn’t even sigh. He was too tired to pretend tonight.

Cassian kept going, gaining momentum. “You don’t act like one of us. You don’t fight like one of us. You don’t even think like one of us. You make friends with Gryffindors. You give things away like it costs you nothing. You don't pick sides.”

Icarus tilted his head. “So that’s what this is about. Sides.”

“No,” Cassian said, his voice colder now. “This is about House legacy. You don’t understand what Slytherin means. You don’t understand ambition or loyalty. You don’t understand power.”

“I understand enough,” Icarus said quietly. “Enough to see what it costs.”

Cassian sneered. “My father’s in Azkaban. You know why? Because he fought for our future. Because he believed in keeping wizardkind strong, not diluted and ashamed. Now he’s rotting in a cell, and you walk around like some half-blood prince with a wand full of tricks and a knife like you’re better than any of us.”

Icarus stared at him for a long moment. Then-

“Your father made two mistakes.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Say that again.”

Icarus didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. But he did lean closer. 

“Your father made two mistakes. He picked the wrong side,” Icarus said, holding one tired finger up. Then he took a dangerous step forward, a predatory animal refusing to back down. Then he held a second finger up. “And then he got caught.”

The room stilled.

Even Blaise, who had been pretending to look unimpressed, leaned forward.

Cassian flushed. “You think you’re clever?”

“No,” Icarus said. “I think I’m alive. And that takes more than cleverness. It takes knowing when not to start fights you’ll lose.”

Cassian’s hand twitched toward his wand.

Icarus didn’t flinch.

“I wouldn’t.”

There was no drama in the words. No menace. Just… certainty. Like someone explaining gravity.

“I’m tired,” Icarus said. “And I have better things to do than perform for your grief. But if you want to bleed for your father’s legacy, I won’t stop you.”

Without flourish, he drew his wand… and tossed it to Blaise. 

Gasps sparked again. Not dramatic. Just surprised. Sharp.

Then, ominously, he slowly reached into his robe and drew the seax. The bone hilt caught the firelight like a warning. 

“I don’t need spells for you,” Icarus said. “I trained without them longer than you’ve had yours. This is older. This is personal.”

Cassian didn’t speak, but his jaw was tight, knuckles white.

Icarus stepped closer. Not looming. Just steady. “I didn’t kill that troll for glory. I did it because it was there, and no one else was fast enough. If I didn’t kill that troll, Higgs, Blaise, and I would be dead. It was simple math. I didn’t ask to be noticed. I didn’t ask to be here.”

His voice softened, not out of kindness, but exhaustion. “But I am here. And if you think that means I owe you anything, you’re mistaking pity for mercy.”

He didn’t raise the seax. He just let it gleam between them like a truth neither of them wanted to say aloud.

Cassian stared at him, tense and frozen.

“Your choice?” Icarus asked. 

It was then that the older boy moved. He scoffed, just a little too loud to be confident, and shoved his wand back into his sleeve. “Not worth it,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Not worth you.”

His entourage followed, but Icarus’s voice stopped them cold.

“Anyone else?”

He turned to the room, eyes sweeping over the gathered Slytherins. Tired. Worn thin. Deadly.

“I’m too tired to care who hates me right now. But if any of you think you’ll get further than he did,” he jerked his chin toward the dormitory door that had just slammed shut, “say so. Step up. We’ll handle it tonight. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Icarus let the moment stretch, then exhaled and slid the seax back into its sheath. He took back his wand from Blaise and dropped onto the couch beside him, like the weight of the whole House had finally settled into his bones.

Still, no one spoke.

Blaise, after a beat, leaned in. “You alright?”

“No,” Icarus said. “But that’s normal now.”

“Would you’ve actually fought him?”

“I told him the rules,” Icarus muttered. “He had the choice.”

Blaise tilted his head. “And if he’d played?”

Icarus gave a faint smile, so tired it barely reached his eyes. “Then we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

And in that moment, something shifted.

Not admiration. Not fear. But recognition.

Not a hero.

Not a monster.

Something older.

Something the House of Serpents could finally start to understand.

Asgard

The great hall had quieted, but not fully. 

Drunken warriors still lingered like smoke, their laughter thinning into mumbled tales and the occasional thud of someone slumping unconscious onto the stone floor. 

Thor sat at the long table, tidgeting with his half-full goblet, not tasting the mead. His gaze kept flicking towards the doors. Loki’s fork was still stuck in the table next to him. He hadn’t said anything when his brother left. Not right away. Not with Father watching. Not with the feast in full swing and Father praising Baldr again like he was the only soul that had ever mattered. 

Baldr

A cousin by blood, on their mother’s side, but treated like a firstborn son. Father had held him up like the sun, like he was the golden measure by which all others were found lacking. Thor had grown up believing the whispers. Believing that Loki had hated Baldr because of jealousy. That his brother resented the way Father spoke of Baldr more fondly than either of his trueborn sons. Believed that all of Loki’s coldness, cruelty, and cunning came from being born in Baldr’s shadow. 

He had believed it until a few decades ago. A handful, more than two, less than ten. It had blended together, but now it seemed important. 

It had been a feast like this one. Loki and Sigyn had been quiet at first. Thor remembers seeing her gripping his hand tightly. He was too drunk at the time to follow along. He regrets that he didn’t. But Baldr’s name had been mentioned. Loki had stood sharply then, too. Someone else said something, and Loki flew into a rage. It had been utter chaos. Three Einherjar were gravely injured. It took another ten and Father to get Loki down. Thor didn’t pay it mind then, but there was rage in her eyes too. The quiet kind. She left the halls with him that night. 

The next morning, Loki was gone.

Voluntarily exiled. 

Sigyn had followed him. 

People still whispered of jealousy. Of untamed envy. Thor was starting to doubt. 

Now that Loki had left yet another feast, Thor felt the absence like a splinter in the skin. He couldn’t risk his brother disappearing again. 

He stood abruptly, ignoring the curious glances of one of the Einherjar, and strode out of the hall with none of his usual thunder. His steps were too loud anyway. 

He didn’t know where his brother had gone, but he had a suspicion. When they were younger, still just boys, Loki had always gone to her. Their friends called him a baby for it, but Mother’s quarters were a special place of comfort, even for him. 

When Thor reached her chambers, he hesitated just long enough to feel awkward about knocking. So, he pushed the door open instead. 

The scent of lavender and warm hearth smoke enveloped him. The light was low, golden, flickering. Mother wasn’t at her loom this time. She stood near a table near the fall wall, quietly tending to a bowl of crushed herbs, her movements slow and practiced. The smell of thyme and marjoram clung to the air. It was an old remedy Thor remembered her making before, for sleep and grief. 

Across from her, in a low chair near the fire, sat his brother. His head was bowed, one hand pressed over his eyes, his usually neatly combed hair in a disarray, hanging about like a veil. He suddenly looked thinner than Thor remembered. 

Older. 

Neither of them looked up. 

Thor cleared his throat. “Right. So. You’re here.”

Loki didn’t answer. He didn’t flinch. Mother looked over her shoulder, her expression calm, but more careful than he would have expected it to be. 

“Thor,” She greeted. 

Thor stepped further in, hovering awkwardly, his frame seeming suddenly too large for the open chambers. He dared to move closer, shifting to stand between Mother and Loki. Not too close, though, Loki could be unpredictably… stabby.

“I saw you leave the hall,” he said, addressing Loki, but still watching Mother. “It seemed… abrupt.”

Still no response.

He cleared his throat again. “Not that I blame you. Father’s stories have gotten… longer. And louder.”

Loki let out a sound that might have been a laugh, or a cough, or a breath pulled sharply against cracked ribs. 

Thor took it as encouragement, turning fully to Loki. “That speech about Baldr, same one as last year. Same every year.”

That got a reaction.

“Yes. Glowing praise. A hero in every sentence. A soul without blemish.” Loki’s voice was flat, low, and almost emotionless. 

Thor shifted his weight. “He was loved.”

“Was he?” Loki said quieter now. Not a question. 

Behind them, Mother loudly ground the herbs, and Loki slumped. Thor glanced back. Mother was pouring the herbs into a pot of steaming water, her eyes glancing at Loki for but a moment. Thor turned back to Loki, trying to figure out what to do with his hands. 

“I know it’s hard,” Thor tried, taking a step closer. “With everything you’ve lost. But tonight was meant to honor the dead.”

Loki turned his head slowly, and Thor felt himself still under the look he received. 

“Don’t talk about honoring the dead,” Loki said. “Not when the court sings hymns to a corpse and buries the rest in silence.”

Thor’s jaw tightened. “You think no one mourns your family?

“I know they don’t. They mourn what’s easy.” Loki replied. “They mourn what shines. No one sings for the ones who were difficult. Or different. Or mine… It’s been ten years since my wife was killed. No one speaks her name.”

Frigga said nothing. She poured the steaming liquid into two cups. They clicked when she set them to the side. The scent filled the air. Deep, calming. 

“I’m not trying to fight you,” Thor said. “I just thought you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m not,” Loki said, eyes flickering toward Mother. “Mother’s here.”

Thor nodded stiffly. “You’ve always hated the feast days,” he said after a moment. “Even before… everything.”

Loki looked away, gaze returning to the fire. “Some deaths don’t deserve a feast.”

The words were soft, but they struck like thorns.

Thor frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Loki didn’t answer. His expression didn’t change, but something old and dangerous tightened around his mouth. Mother passed by, a full, steaming goblet in hand. She handed it to Loki, who took it silently, but did not drink it. His voice was cold when he spoke again. 

“There are things people don’t say about Baldr,” he said. “And they won’t. Not now. Not ever.” 

Thor took a slow step back. “Loki-”

Loki’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile. 

“He died a god, didn’t he? That’s what they remember. Radiant, untouchable. But not everything that glitters is gold. And not everything that rots smells while it’s still walking.”

Frigga paused. The look in her eyes… she didn’t disagree with Loki. 

Thor’s voice came out quieter than he meant to. “Loki, what are you saying?”

“Forget it.” He murmured, sipping at the potion. Mother disappeared from view again. 

“I remember the feast, a few years ago. When you left… When… When Sigyn went with you.”

Loki flinched hard at her name, but he didn’t look at him. 

“I thought… I thought it was grief,” Thor continued. “That you couldn’t bear to hear about Baldr anymore. That it was-”

“Jealousy?” Loki’s voice was a whipcrack. 

Thor flinched this time. “I don’t think that now.”

“Good. Because if you still thought that, I’d burn the lie into your skull myself.”

“Loki.” Mother spoke softly but firmly. He wilted.

“I don’t know what happened,” Thor said softly. “But something did.”

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Loki whispered. “You don’t want to know. Just- just go.”

When he looked to Mother for some kind of reassurance, she only nodded and turned her attention back to Loki. 

So Thor agreed. He turned and left. But there had been something in that moment. Something in his mother’s posture, still and careful, as she tended to his brother. It spoke of a truth that had weight. Weight enough to make a god’s spine bend. 

So he left, but he did not go far. 

Just beyond the curve of the corridor, he stopped. Leaned back against the wall. He didn’t know why. Maybe part of him misheard something. Maybe he couldn’t just leave it alone. Maybe it was the way Loki had looked at him, not with grief but with something jagged and bottomless. 

He returned as quietly as he could and leaned next to the door. 

Inside, the fire murmured. The quiet resumed. 

Then he could hear Mother’s voice, soft and steady, wrapped in grief.

“Loki,” she said gently, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”

A beat. Then Loki’s voice, frayed and low, “Please don’t. Not tonight.”

“Your brother…” she began and sighed. “He doesn’t know, Loki. Please don’t judge him so harshly.”

“Ignorance is a luxury,” Loki snapped. “Not a virtue. And in the end, it’s still a sin.”

There was a long silence. Thor almost left, but Mother spoke again, so softly he had to strain to hear.

“Perhaps it’s time we tell him.”

“No,” Loki said, fierce and sharp. “I won’t do that to Vali. Baldr had put him through enough. If it gets out what happened to him… No. I won’t hurt my son more than he has already been. He deserves to be remembered better than that.”

Thor’s stomach twisted.

Vali.

His nephew.

One of the twins.

He pressed a hand to the wall to steady himself. 

Inside, the fire hissed as a log split. Then Loki spoke again, voice low, half broken. 

“I should have taken them and run. All of them. The day I saw the signs. The day I found out. I should have fled with them and never looked back. Or I should have killed Baldr myself. Vali at least deserved to know his father would seek justice with his own two hands.”

Mother said nothing. There was a sound. Something of magic, or mothering. 

Then her voice came in nearly a breath, “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. 

Loki, in barely more than a whisper, with a hoarse voice. “Then ignorance is his sin. And he’ll carry it like I carry mine.”

Thor stood frozen. A hand over his mouth. 

A cold sweat behind his neck.

He didn’t understand, not fully, but he knew enough. Knew that whatever had passed between Baldr and Loki, whatever had been done to Vali, it was worse than any whispered jealousy or bitterness could explain. It was something unspeakable. Something buried in silence. Thor was ashamed for not seeing it sooner. 

Adhd thought Loki’s rage was just pride.

He’d thought Baldr’s light meant he cast no shadows. 

But there were shadows.

Some of them had teeth. 

He didn’t know what Baldr had done. 

But it was real.

And it was terrible. 

Thor was afraid of the truth.

Afraid of what it would mean to learn it. And more afraid still of what it meant that he hadn’t already. 

And so he lingered, alone in the corridor. Caught between wanting to turn back and knowing.

He no longer had the right to.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Gods and Monsters

November 1, 1991

Icarus did not sleep that night.

He knew he was tired, bone-tired, like the ache lived not just in his limbs but in the hollows of his soul. He’d bathed in the haze of firelight and laughter at dinner, forced himself to eat, to speak, to pretend. But now the quiet pressed down on him with a weight that felt personal. His eyes burned, raw from holding back tears that threatened every time he blinked too long. He kept seeing it. The troll. The swinging club. Blaise’s face.

And his own hand, raising the blade, drawing fire and fury out of instinct rather than thought.

He gave up trying to sleep around the witching hour. The dorm felt too close, the blankets like lead weights, and his mind was a churning sea of too many what-ifs.

Slipping from bed, he padded into the common room. The stone floor was cool against his bare feet. Embers still whispered low in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows like slow-moving ghosts. With a silent wave of his hand, the hearth rekindled itself, fire licking eagerly into life. He curled into the armchair nearest the window, drawing his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them like a shield.

For a long while, he just sat.

He pressed a hand over his eyes and tried to breathe. The silence was too loud. His thoughts, too sharp.

“ What the hell even are you? ”

The question haunted him. 

Part of him wanted to answer. To tell his friend everything. 

But part of him, the part of him that sounded like Fenrir, whispered that it wasn’t safe for outsiders to know. 

He hadn't even realized what he’d done until afterward. Until the veil of battle lust lifted. Until he saw Blaise staring at him as if he were someone else. Until the whispers had started again. Quicker this time than the last. This time it was not about Harry Potter, not even about Slytherin’s little mystery. No. This time, they whispered about how he hadn’t hesitated.

Not for a second.

That was what scared him.

Not the troll.

Not even the magic.

The certainty. Like something in him had woken up.

Practice was supposed to make things like this easier, easier, not simple. Not second nature.  

The shadows in the room deepened.

For a moment, he thought it could have been the fire in the fireplace settling, but the darkness was pooling. It shifted unnaturally, creeping along the floor and walls with a chill that turned the room to bone. This wasn’t the clean cold he liked, the kind that soothed his soul and made things comfortable. 

No. This cold settled inside you. 

The cold that called flesh to rot and the soul to hush. 

It hummed in his teeth and curled into the cracks in his heart. 

A death cold.

The shadows stretched, twisted. Near the far wall, they began to knit together, folding in on themselves, until a door formed —a tall, old, ancient thing, wrong in its very nature. The wood creaked as it opened inward, and from the dark beyond, voices whispered in no language he knew, but one he understood. The dead spoke in truths too final for the living.

She stepped through.

Hela.

His sister.

Hela did not walk like a mortal. Her presence came before her, a breathless pause in the world, as if the air itself were bowed. She wore black, always black, but it moved like a shadow given shape, never quite settling into a dress, never quite obeying gravity. It clung, curled, and flickered like a memory.

The human half of her face was pale, perfectly still, the calm of a lake just before it freezes over.

But Icarus knew her tells.

The way the light dimmed behind her.

The way the dead whispered louder when she was angry.

The way the shadows near her hands twitched.

She was furious.

And he’d learned all too young that anger made someone all the more dangerous.

Icarus did not fear his siblings.

Siblings were protection .

Siblings were home .

But still, he rose fast from the chair and backed away. Still, his heart beat faster, unbidden.

There was something in her that reminded him of the moment right before a storm breaks, too much pressure in the air, too many unsaid things between them.

“What were you thinking?” she hissed, voice low, dangerous.

She crossed the room in ten strides and seized him by the shoulders. Her grip was iron. Not cruel, but unrelenting. Desperate.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammered, shoulders curling to make himself small in her grip. 

“ Sorry ?” Her voice cracked like ice underfoot. “You reckless little fool, you could have died !”

She dropped to her knees in front of him, eyes level with his, and clutched his face between her cold hands. “You faced down a troll , Icarus. A full-grown mountain troll. You climbed it like it was a fucking tree .”

“You said a bad word,” he mumbled, blinking fast.

“Icarus!”

Her voice rang through the room, sharp as a bell tolling for the dead.

He flinched.

“We were cornered,” he whispered. “It almost hit Blaise.”

“So you made yourself bait?” she said, incredulous. “You decided your life was the price for someone else’s?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

She sat back on her heels, staring at him like she was trying to understand something terrible.

“Do you think Fenrir would forgive me if you died?” she asked, voice barely audible. “Do you think I would forgive myself? I could have lost you.”

That landed with a weight he hadn’t expected. Not a spell. Not a slap. But a truth that hurt deeper.

His throat felt tight. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she breathed. “Y ou ripped open something I’ve buried deep for a thousand years .”

She pulled him into her arms.

Icarus froze for a moment, surprised by the ferocity of it. Her hug was bone-crushing, but not because she was trying to hurt him. It was like she was holding him, and some part of herself, together.

“You remind me of Narfi,” she whispered, voice muffled against his shoulder. “Always rushing into danger. Always thinking you can take the hit.”

“I’m not him,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she replied. “That’s the problem. He was decades older than you when he was pulling stunts like this.”

They sat there for a moment. She didn’t let go.

Then, slowly, she pulled back, hands still on his face. Her thumbs brushed under his eyes.

“You’re too much like both of them,” she said. “Sigyn in your heart. Loki in your fire. And neither of them learned how to stop .”

He swallowed hard. “Are you mad at me?”

She sighed, long and sharp. “Not with you. I’m mad that the world keeps making you think you need to burn yourself alive just to be useful.”

His lip trembled. He hated that too.

“I’m not trying to be a hero.”

“You’re trying to protect people,” she said. “That’s almost worse.”

Her eyes softened. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead, a cold, quiet benediction. He sank into her embrace, tucking his face into the curve of her neck, shivering at the chill of her touch but needing it all the same.

“I’m okay, though,” he whispered.

They both stilled.

He winced.

She knew.

Of course, she knew.

Her breath stirred the top of his hair as she curled around him tightly.

“No, you’re not,” she murmured, voice low but firm. “If you were, you wouldn’t be awake right now.”

A pause.

“But you will be. In time.”

It was a promise. He nodded into her shoulder, but his eyes burned with tears. His small fingers clung tightly to the folds of her black dress, the way a drowning soul might cling to driftwood. She said nothing about it, only held him in silence, steady and still.

Then, gently:

“You know I have to tell Fenrir about this.”

Icarus jerked back, eyes wide with panic.

“No! Please don’t-” he begged, voice rising.

Hela shook her head slowly.

“Icarus,” she said softly, “you know he’ll find out. The only question is how . Would you rather he hear it now, when he can help you-” her voice gentled, “or later, when he’s hurt you didn’t trust him?”

He groaned and looked at her with pleading eyes.

“Does he have to know?”

She offered him a sad, knowing smile and extended a hand.

“He will. One way or another.”

Then she added, almost like a peace offering, “Come. I remember an old remedy our grandmother used to make. It won’t fix everything, but it may ease your heart and help you sleep.”

He hesitated, then slipped his hand into hers. She led him to one of the long wooden tables and began to gather herbs with practiced care. He watched in silence as she crushed leaves with a mortar and pestle, her movements steady, methodical, almost sacred. The scent of lavender, thyme, and marjoram filled the air as she simmered the mixture over a flame no brighter than a candle. 

Later, when she set the warm cup into his hands and tucked him back into his bed, the quiet didn’t feel quite so hollow anymore.

It wasn’t empty.

It wasn’t heavy.

It was still. 

And it was hers.

The longhouse was steeped in silence, the kind that hangs over places after firelight fades and mead runs dry. The embers in the hearth glowed faintly in dim, red veins under a layer of ash. Wind stirred against the walls, whistling slightly where gaps still stood. The bone wards hanging from the rafters whispered in the slight breeze like a whisper of breath through the teeth. Jormungandr stirred first. He had fallen asleep in the small makeshift cot that Fenrir had made for him, covered in warm, soft animal pelts, warmed by heated stones at his feet. His pale green eyes snapped open in a moment, sensing the change in the wards he placed around the longhouse. He stretched out silently with one foot, reaching out to nudge Fenrir, who slept not far away by the fire pit.

Fenrir jerked awake like a struck hound, ice-blue eyes blinking into the dark.

“Wards?” he asked, voice gravel-rough with sleep.

Jormungandr nodded once.

Fenrir was already sitting up, hand reaching for the haft of the ax that was never out of arm’s reach. He didn’t need to ask if it was a threat. The shadows in the longhouse had deepened, not with menace, but with inevitability. A seam opened in the far wall where no door had been, wooden planks groaning like they remembered ancient trees. Whispers came first, too old for language, like frost cracking bone.

Hela stepped through. 

She was as pale as the moonlight, her presence in the room cold and somber. She said nothing when she entered, but her presence was like a storm waiting to break. Her pale green eyes found his in the dark, and her eyebrow rose. There was exhaustion there, in her eyes, drawn and quiet in a way he had seen few times.

“You could’ve waited till morning, sister,” Fenrir muttered, setting the ax aside but not relaxing. 

“I couldn’t. Much has happened these past hours.” Hela said simply. She lowered herself to the floor beside him with little ceremony, folding her long limbs beneath her. Jormungandr joined her, sliding down to sit cross-legged between them. “There have been events that you need to be made aware of.”

“We’ve news as well,” Jormungandr said. “And no, you’re not going first.”

“I said I had news first!” She protested. 

Then he grinned. 

He pulled a small pouch from his belongings, and Hela groaned aloud.

“Oh, seriously? We’re still doing this?” She looked between them like a mother indulging toddlers. “I would remind you, I’m the goddess of death . Decider of the dead. Keeper of the bones.”

“You’re also our little sister,” Fenrir said, reaching out to take a stone.

“ Barely ,” she muttered. But she reached into the pouch anyway, closing her fist around a smooth, cold shape.

Jormungandr dumped the last stone into his hand. Black.

“Fine,” he muttered. “The Norns have spoken.”

They opened their hands.

Fenrir’s was white. Hela’s, black as obsidian.

The brothers were to go first. 

“I hate this,” she grumbled, flicking the stone back at Jormungandr.

“Then stop losing,” Fenrir said with a smirk.  

“Well then, go ahead.” Hela rolled her eyes.

“Fenrir told me of what happened with the olympian king.” Jormungandr paused, glancing between the two. Hela nodded. Fenrir had already informed her of the incident weeks ago. “So, a few hours ago I took out my seeing set, and cast them.”

Hela sucked in a breath. She leaned forward and took his hand in her cold one.

“Tell me.”

“It was not good.”Jormungandr started. Then he went into the complicated pattern that came from the casting. The exact placements of each piece, which runes were glowing, and every detail. His voice was low and clipped, reverent in the way one recounts a funeral or a dream that smells of prophecy. As usual, the details had meant nothing to Fenrir, but to Hela, who had learned next to their grandmother, these details were everything she needed to know. 

As he finished, Hela bowed her head into her hands.

She stayed like that for a moment.

Then, softly, “Damn it.”

She nodded once and lifted her head, eyes hollow but clear.

“Well,” she said grimly. “That does explain things.”

Fenrir tensed beside her. “What things?”

Hela’s gaze turned toward the fire. “There was a mountain troll at the school.”

Fenrir straightened abruptly, the tension in his body snapping taut. “What?”

“Icarus was there,” she continued. “He didn’t just survive the attack. He killed it.”

The words dropped into the room like a weight.

Fenrir cursed and stood, suddenly, kicking his bedroll as he moved. He didn’t say another word before storming out into the cold, bare feet crunching in frostbitten earth outside the longhouse.

Jormungandr watched the pelt covering the front entrance flutter shut behind him with a small shake of his head.

“Well,” he said wryly, “nice to see some things never change.”

“No,” Hela said, pulling her arms tight around herself, “they don’t. He still carries the weight of this family like it’s his burden alone.”

Jormungandr reached for the pouch and idly ran his thumb over the runes etched into the leather. “Well, I’m here now.”

“Which only means he’ll worry twice as much,” Hela murmured. “That boy is his soft spot. His last anchor.”

Jormungandr tilted his head. “You say that like you’re not carved hollow when you speak about him.”

Hela didn’t answer. Her gaze had gone distant again. The firelight caught in the silver strands braided through her dark hair.

Finally, she said, “He reminds me of Narfi.”

“More reckless than Narfi,” Jormungandr replied gently.

“Yes,” she whispered. “But the same heart.”

A silence settled between them, grief-shaped and worn with age: Narfi, the brave one of the twins, had always rushed into mischief and danger like he’d die if he didn’t. And Vali, the one who had fallen quiet as he got older, became a silent shadow to his foolhardy brother. The grief, though hundreds of years past, still sat raw.

Then Hela stood. “He’ll go to the ridge. He always does when he’s angry.”

Jormungandr rose too. “Should I follow?”

“No.” She hesitated, then turned. “Let me. He won’t yell at me.”

“He might.”

She gave him a tight, sad smile. “Then he won’t yell long.”

Then she went out the same doorway Fenrir had left. 

Jormungandr waited until the longhouse fell quiet again. The wards settled into a soft hum, bone charms swaying faintly from the eaves like chimes strung by ghosts. Then he stepped outside.

The cold hit him first. Not biting, but heavy. The kind that seeped into the joints and echoed the tension left in the room. He didn’t need magic to track Fenrir’s path; it was cut into the frost, deep and angry, a straight line into the trees beyond the clearing.

He moved fast but silently, following the path up toward the ridge that overlooked Hogsmeade. Lights from the village glimmered in the near distance, and far beyond that shimmered the faint outline of Hogwarts’ great towers. Close enough to see. Close enough to feel.

He found them on the edge of the rise. Fenrir standing like a statue carved of stormcloud and iron, and Hela facing him, her voice low but unmistakably firm.

“You can’t keep spiraling every time he bleeds,” she said.

“I can’t not,” Fenrir growled. “He’s right there, Hel. I can see the castle from here. I could run there in five minutes. I have run there in less time.”

“And what?” she cut in. “Tear through the wards? Again ? Drag him out kicking? Pick a fight with the headmaster?”

“I am picking a fight with Dumbledore,” Fenrir said, turning toward her, eyes burning. “First thing in the morning. Before breakfast. Before anything else. He’s going to look me in the eye and explain how a mountain troll got loose in that castle. And why the boy had to face it alone.”

Jormungandr froze beneath the cover of a pine. The anger in Fenrir’s voice wasn’t rage. It was grief with a sharper edge.

“You think it’s your fault he fought,” Hela said. “You think it’s your fault he’s like this.”

“I raised him,” Fenrir snapped. “For three years, trying to teach him caution. Survival. To stay alive. And he’s throwing himself headfirst into monsters like it’s his destiny.”

“It might be,” Hela said. “But he didn’t die. And he didn’t fall. He fought, and he won. Because of what you gave him.”

Fenrir’s hands clenched. His jaw was tight. “I didn’t want him to turn out like us.”

“He didn’t,” Hela said softly. “He turned out like himself. And that terrifies you.”

Fenrir looked away, toward the silhouette of the castle. “He’s still just a boy, a baby .”

“He is, but he isn’t,” Hela said gently. “He’s ours. One day, he’ll be all grown up, and he’s going to be more than we ever were.”

Jormungandr crept forward then, no longer caring if they heard him.

“He isn’t alone,” he said as he stepped into view. “And neither are you.”

Hela turned first. Fenrir didn’t flinch, though his head turned slowly and his eyes narrowed.

“You followed us.”

Jormungandr shrugged. “You’re surprised?”

“No,” Fenrir muttered. “Just annoyed. You were supposed to stay inside.” 

“You were supposed to stay calm,” Jormungandr replied lightly. “And yet here we are.”

“Let him have this little victory, Brother. He’s been spying on us since he learned what sneaking was.”

Jormungandr came up beside them, not touching but near enough. “I’m not trying to win anything. I just wanted to see if the old wolf still cracked at the edges.”

Fenrir snorted. “He does.”

Jormungandr’s expression softened. “Good. That means you still care.”

Fenrir gave a weak, humorless laugh. “If that man sends my little brother into one more life-or-death situation, I will burn down his office.”

“And how long before that turns into another exile?” Hela asked, stepping closer.

“As long as it takes,” Fenrir said. “I’m done letting strangers gamble with Icarus’s life.”

“Then talk,” Jormungandr said. “But don’t burn.”

“I’ll do both if I have to.”

Hela crossed her arms. “You’re angry because he’s not here. Because you couldn’t stop it.”

“He’s right there,” Fenrir whispered, barely audible now. “A few fields, a few miles. He’s just a baby, and I can’t reach him.”

“He’s not a boy anymore,” Jormungandr said. “He’s a godling, raised in your shadow. And he’s made it this far because you didn’t run every time you were afraid.”

Fenrir didn’t respond. He just stared at the castle.

Hela added, “He came to me tonight. Curled up and lied through his teeth. Said he was fine. He wanted to be strong for you. That’s the child you raised.”

Silence again. This time steadier. Fenrir let out a breath, misting in the cold.

“I’m still going to the castle.”

“Good,” Hela said. “But use your words this time.”

“I will.” He gave them both a look. “But if Dumbledore deflects or lies or anything of that sort-”

“Then we’ll help you light the fire,” Jormungandr said. “But not before. I think I’ll join you this time.”

They stood together on the ridge as the stars wheeled above them. Hogwarts stood in the distance like a distant dream. Close enough to touch. Close enough to protect.

And beneath its roof, their brother slept.

For now.

The castle loomed larger up close. Ancient stone worn smooth by time, windows like narrow, watchful eyes. Jormungandr tipped his head back as they crossed the stone bridge, the spires rising like jagged teeth against the sky. The closer they got, the more the air crackled. The magic here was not wild and free like the magic of the longhouse, but coiled. Domesticated. Restrained. Magic here was layered like limestone and old blood.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose.

“You’re not supposed to,” Fenrir grunted beside him. “You’re not here to like it. You’re here to watch me behave.”

“I’m here to stop you from turning Dumbledore into a red smear on the carpet,” Jormungandr corrected mildly.

“Same difference.”

“The emotional support world-serpent.” Jormungandr agreed mildly, trying not to grin. 

“No one here knows who we are. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible. We don’t want Him finding out. Don’t make me regret letting you come.”

Jormungandr smirked but said nothing. The massive oak doors creaked open, as if sensing them, reluctantly, like the castle itself wasn’t sure if it wanted them inside. 

The scent hit him first: chalk, parchment, old stone, and power. Not the rich loam of runes carved in bone or wind-sung ley lines, but the kind of magic that had been hammered into shape by generations of dead men in wool robes. 

It was colder than he expected, not in terms of temperature, but in its presence. The halls were clean and polished, echoing with the footsteps and whispers of students far beyond their sight. But beneath that polish was something older, coiled beneath the stone. He followed Fenrir up staircases that shifted underfoot and through corridors lit by floating torches. They strode through the corridors like ghosts in the wrong mythology. Portraits whispered and turned their heads. A few looked away, recognizing something in the brothers that didn’t belong within castle walls.

“I still don’t like it,” Jormungandr muttered again.

“Noted,” Fenrir grunted. 

The gargoyle guarding the headmaster’s office flinched. Wisely, it made no attempt to block them. 

Fenrir didn’t knock. He shoved the doors open with such force that they banged off the stone walls, rattling dozens of fragile silver trinkets cluttering the shelves. 

Dumbledore sat at his desk like he’d been waiting for them all night.

“Ah,” he said, serenely, “the elder brother. And…?”

“Icarus’ older brother,” Fenrir answered coolly, not offering names.

Dumbledore blinked. “There are two of you?”

Jormungandr raised a brow, unimpressed. “Most families produce more than one child. Shocking, I know.”

Sparkling pale eyes flickered between the two of them. 

“Your resemblance is… minimal,” Dumbledore said, lips twitching faintly. He was referring to them and their littlest brother. Jormungandr was quite aware that he and Fenrir looked quite similar, though he was less brutish-looking than his elder brother.

“Thank you,” Jormungandr said dryly. “It’s deliberate.”

“Please, sit.”

“No,” Fenrir said, crossing the room in three strides. “Talk.”

“About?”

“You let a troll into your school.”

There was no preamble, no flourish. Just the accusation, hard and cold.

Dumbledore didn’t flinch. “Icarus acted with great bravery. But yes, the troll’s presence was an unfortunate breach.”

“I don’t care about bravery,” Fenrir snapped. “Bravery is for dead men and fools. I care that your wards failed. That your protections failed. And that my little brother had to face a war-beast alone.”

“Mr Potter was not alone,” Dumbledore replied evenly. “Mr. Zabini and Mr. Higgs were with him.”

“Icarus,” Fenrir snarled. “His name is Icarus. And those two were lucky to get out alive. He protected them. He shouldn’t have needed to.”

The air in the room tightened, a chill curling through the space like a rising tide. Frost began to rim the edge of a nearby inkpot.

“Brother,” Jormungandr said sharply, in the old tongue, clipped and precise. Fenrir stilled, teeth clenched, but said nothing more.

Dumbledore folded his hands. “Your concern is valid. I am investigating how the breach occurred. But Icarus proved himself more than capable.”

“You say that like it was a test,” Fenrir growled.

“It wasn’t,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But he passed, regardless.”

Silence. Then, slowly, Jormungandr stepped forward and leaned on the edge of the desk, palms flat.

“I walked your halls for the first time today,” he said. “And I already see it. The weight, the tradition, the ghosts of men too proud to die properly. This place sharpens children like blades and calls it a legacy. But Icarus is not your blade. He’s not your war to fight. And if you keep treating him like something you can aim, then I promise, Headmaster, you will find out what happens when the blade turns back.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. His voice was low, dry as old ash, and sharp as a seax’s edge.

Dumbledore held his gaze. To his credit, he didn’t blink. “I hear you.”

“I don’t need you to hear me,” Fenrir said. “I need you to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

At that moment, the door swung open behind them. All three turned, and Severus Snape entered with the grace of a storm about to break.

“My apologies, Headmaster,” Snape said, voice clipped. “But we had a situation last night in the Slytherin dormitories.”

Dumbledore’s brows lifted.

Snape’s gaze flicked from Fenrir to Jormungandr, then settled on the Headmaster. “An altercation. Post-curfew. Cassias Avery confronted Icarus in the common room. He drew a wand. Icarus responded by drawing a blade.”

Dumbledore’s calm cracked. “He threatened to kill a fellow student?”

“No,” Snape said swiftly. “He made it clear he would defend himself. He specifically stated that he would not show mercy. No magic was cast. No blood was drawn. But the message was received. Strongly.”

“And you waited until now to mention this?” Fenrir asked, eyes narrowing.

“I was verifying the reports,” Snape said coolly. “Witnesses confirm the event. And no injuries occurred.”

Jormungandr chuckled under his breath. “So, the boy’s learning Uncle’s method of diplomacy. Your doing I suppose?”

Fenrir looked pained. “It’s not diplomacy. It’s survival. It’s what we taught him. And the fact that he still feels like he has to rely on a blade… that’s on you, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore nodded, expression tightening. “I understand. I will speak to the students involved. And I will ensure Icarus is not left to fend for himself again.”

“See that you do,” Fenrir said, already turning toward the door.

Jormungandr lingered a moment, then added with a faint smirk, “And perhaps invest in some blade-proof curtains. I believe our Icarus might have inherited a flair for the dramatic.”

Dumbledore blinked.

“I’m joking,” Jormungandr added, deadpan. “Mostly.”

They left the office in silence. But the stone beneath their steps seemed colder than before.

The towers still loomed, glittering with secrets and legacy.

But now the gods had walked their halls and left their shadows behind. 

The corridors were unusually quiet for a morning after Halloween. Not the hush of sleep, but the kind that followed a catastrophe, curious, coiled, and watching. 

Icarus walked beside Blaise in silence, their steps echoing against the cold stone. He kept his gaze forward, but the tension hadn’t left his spine since the moment the dorm door slammed behind Cassian the night before. 

“Odds, Cassian tries to set you on fire at breakfast?” Blaise asked without inflection, sipping on tea that was most definitely not school-sanctioned.

“Odds are better he pretends I don’t exist,” Icarus muttered. “Humiliation’s a better teacher than pride.”

“You threatened to gut him,” Blaise pointed out.

“ Technically , I implied it.”

“And brandished a knife.”

“It was a seax.”

“A big knife.”

“Details.”

They rounded the last corner leading toward the Great Hall and stopped. 

Two figures waited in the torchlight just ahead. One tall and solid as a glacier, Fenrir. His arms were folded, jaw tight, posture coiled in a way that screamed barely restrained violence. The other leaned casually against the support pillar, all long limbs and angular silhouette, shoulder-length white hair tucked behind his ears, expression somewhere between smug and curious. 

Recognition twisted in Icarus’s chest. He’d never seen him in person before, but he knew the name, had heard it spoken in stories and warnings. 

The second one was Jormungandr, his second-oldest brother. 

Jormungandr’s eyebrow arched slowly. “Well,” he said, voice smooth but not exactly warm, “if it isn’t our little hero. You look… like you lost a fight with a bookshelf.”

Icarus blinked, uncertain. His stomach dipped. The words felt like they were meant as a joke, but the tone didn’t quite land. Something ached behind his ribs anyway.

“You’re here,” he said, cautiously.

“Of course,” Fenrir answered, stepping forward, grounded and familiar. “Heard there was a troll.”

“I’m fine.” He said automatically. Lie . Rang clearly between the three of them, and Icarus valiantly did not wince. 

“You seem to say that a lot,” commented, peeling off the pillar and sauntering forward. His stride was graceful and deliberate, like someone accustomed to being watched. “Funny how it follows a near-death experience. What’s next, I wonder? Basilisk? A dragon, perhaps? A small war?”

“I said I’m fine,” Icarus repeated sharply, no falsehood this time. He had said he was fine.

“Oh, and I believed you,” Jormungandr said, clasping his hands behind his back with theatrical lightness, “ Truly . Right up until I spoke to your headmaster and realized the most dangerous creature in this castle isn’t the troll that wandered in inexplicably, it’s the adults who let a child fight it.”

Ferir stepped up beside his brother and studied Icarus’s face. “You look like you didn’t sleep.”

Icarus pouted, “I did-”

“After our sister came?

Icarus nodded. Fenrir bent down to look Icarus in the eyes. 

“You pulled a blade on another student.” He accused 

“He drew his weapon first.”

“You threatened him.”

“He’s lucky I didn’t stab him.”

“That’s not a standard we’re comfortable with,” Jormungandr murmured, dry as winter wind, not quite joking.

Icarus scowled and snapped in their native language, posture bristling. “ What do you want me to say? That I panicked? That I was wrong? That I should’ve let him hex me in front of the whole House ?”

“ I’d settle for ‘I’m tired and I’m scared and I’d rather not have to be the terrifying one just to survive, ’” Jormungandr replied, also in their language—but slower, more careful. It landed softly but uncomfortably, like a hand on the shoulder too soon after meeting.

Icarus turned away a little, jaw tight. “Not helping, brother.” 

The word tasted strange in his mouth.

“They’re multiplying,” Blaise said blandly. 

Icarus turned to look at him, a confused expression on his face.  Blaise pointed between Fenrir and Jormungandr. “They’re multiplying. How many of you are there, Nooneson?”

Jormungandr jerked as if he had been electrocuted. 

“Seven!” Icarus said brightly, too brightly. The grin that followed was genuine, but stretched a bit. “Same as the Weasleys.”

“Oh, good god,” Blaise groaned, pressing his face into his hands. Fenrir snorted. Jormungandr laughed a beat too late.

“Oh, I like him,” Jormungandr said with what might’ve been sincerity, though his tone still hovered somewhere between mocking and... trying. “Observant. A rare breed in this school.”

“I get by,” Blaise said blandly.

Fenrir looked at him. “You were with him when it happened.”

“I was.”

“Thank you,” Fenrir said simply.

Blaise blinked. “You’re welcome.”

The pause that followed sat heavy. Icarus hadn’t uncrossed his arms. His eyes kept darting to Jormungandr, like he was trying to measure a stranger who was supposedly his brother.

“You’re not staying, are you?”

“No,” Fenrir said. “But we’re just outside the border. Close enough to matter.”

Jormungandr tilted his head toward the high windows. “Close enough to see the castle from the ridge. And close enough to come running the next time someone decides you’re expendable.”

“You’re making it sound like a siege is coming, ”Icarus said warily.

“Oh,” Jormungandr said, stepping closer—too close, maybe. “It already has. We’re just making sure they know which monsters are ours.”

Icarus blinked at that, unsure whether it was meant to comfort him or warn someone else.

“I’m not trying to be a weapon,” he said quietly.

“And yet everyone here is very eager to see how sharp you are,” Jormungandr replied, gaze flicking down to where Icarus’s hand unconsciously hovered near his hip. “You think they fear the blade because of what you did. But no. They fear it because you didn’t hesitate.”

“I had to protect Blaise. And Higgs.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Fenrir said. “That’s what I told your headmaster.”

“And what did he say?”

Jormungandr smirked. “Mostly vague regrets. Sprinkled with guilt. Smelled like lemon drops.”

“But he listened,” Fenrir added. “For now.”

Icarus finally looked up. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’ll see what happens when wolves stop barking and start biting,” Fenrir said.

“Or worse,” Jormungandr said. “When serpents start to coil.”

They stood there, suspended in firelight and silence. Four shadows and a fifth trying not to become one.

Eventually, Icarus sighed. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Yes,” Fenrir said. “We did.”

“I didn’t do anything heroic.”

“That’s what makes it worse,” Jormungandr said, tone softer but still not warm. “You fought like it was normal. Like it was expected. Like dying young is part of the plan.”

“It’s not,” Fenrir added, quiet now. “Not anymore.”

There was another beat. A little too long. 

Then

“This is touching and all,” Blaise said, deadpan, “but breakfast waits for no one.”

“Wise,” Jormungandr said with mock gravity. “Feed the mortal. Keeps the sarcasm sharp.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Icarus, I will leave you behind with your terrifying family.”

“Don’t you dare,” Icarus muttered, already turning. He paused to give Fenrir a tight, quick hug, familiar, if still tense.

He walked past Jormungandr.

Then stopped.

Turned.

Hesitated for half a second too long—and gave him a brief, stiff hug. Awkward. Obligatory. But real.

He bolted after Blaise without looking back.

Behind him, he heard Fenrir’s smug voice echo down the corridor: “Awww, he likes you.”

He didn’t.  

November 9, 1991

To Icarus’s relief, things remained quiet in Slytherin house after the Avery issue. Life at Hogwarts proceeded as usual until the time of the first Quidditch match came. 

The stands were already buzzing with rising anticipation. Icarus had caught a glimpse of the Slytherin banners before he stepped into the changing room; they flickered like serpents caught mid-strike, and the opposing team's cheers crackled across the wind like the distant clash of steel. The air practically sang with magic and adrenaline. 

Icarus had already changed before he got to the pitch, so he stood, helmet in hand, broom at his side. It was a sleek, powerful thing—custom-made, gifted by Fenrir weeks ago with the kind of silent intensity that meant don’t fall off this one, little brother.

He hadn’t said it, of course. He didn’t need to.

Icarus swallowed. His heart wasn’t racing, yet. But something in the air prickled along his skin like lightning warning of a coming storm. 

“I’m going to die up there,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“You’ve already fought a troll,” Bletchley, their keeper, said flatly from the bench without looking up. “This is arguably safer. Except for the bludgers. And maybe the crowd.”

“And your teammates,” Higgs added. “They still aren’t sure if you’re a good omen or a bad one. There’s a betting pool.”

“Lovely,” Icarus said. He looked toward the pitch doors and swallowed hard. “Tell me no one important is watching.”

A knock interrupted. Not polite.

More of a threat, really.

The door creaked open and Jormungandr’s head popped in. His expression was that of a cat who’d just knocked over something valuable and was waiting to be congratulated.

“Well,” he drawled, eyes immediately locking onto the helmet in Icarus’s hands. “A war mask. You do love the theatrics, don’t you?”

“It’s for safety, brother,” Icarus replied stiffly. “And you’re not supposed to be down here.”

His eyes narrowed. “How did you even get in?”

“I smiled at someone who looked underpaid and whispered something ominous,” Jormungandr said brightly. “Works better than a guest pass.”

Icarus blinked, not sure if that was a joke or a confession. “That… feels illegal.”

“That’s because it probably was.”

He stepped inside, far too casually, as though this were a social visit and not a high-stress moment before Icarus hurtled through the sky at seventy miles per hour with the whole of the school watching.

“Your fan club is gathering,” Jormungandr added with mock solemnity. “I thought you might want fair warning.”

“…Fan club?” Icarus repeated, brow furrowing.

“He means Hera,” came Fenrir’s voice from the hall, far less amused.

He stepped in behind his brother, radiating the quiet, steady kind of menace that made space in a room without ever needing to raise his voice.

“She brought Zeus.”

Icarus made a face like he’d bitten something sour and sentient. “What.”

“Apparently,” Jormungandr said, adjusting his coat like this was all terribly inconvenient for him personally, “she thought a public show of support would make a statement.”

“To who?” Icarus demanded. “My team? The announcer?”

“Zeus is here under protest,” fenrir said dryly. “She dragged him like a well-dressed corpse.”

“Wonderful,” Icarus muttered. “Olympians at a school sporting event. Half of them can’t find the time to visit their own kids, but sure—come watch me maybe fall off a broom.”

“It gets better,” Fenrir said, tone grim. “We’ve been asked to be civil.”

Icarus stared. “You? Civil?”

“I can pretend,” Fenrir replied.

“Poorly,” Jormungandr added helpfully. “He tends to vibrate when he’s holding back murder.”

“And what about you?” Icarus asked.

Jormungandr shrugged. “I’m naturally charming. Civility’s just menace in a tuxedo.”

Icarus raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Look,” Fenrir said, exhaling. “We’re here for you. But we won’t bow.”

“And yet,” Jormungandr added smoothly, “Hera has promised to keep Zeus from smiting anyone. You should be flattered. He only barely tried to incinerate me on sight.”

“Does anyone here even know who they are?”

“Only the headmaster,” Jormungandr said with a lopsided smirk. “And a very confused Hufflepuff who now thinks your extended family includes a fashion icon and a weather anomaly. Oh, and of course, everyone here, who hears you keep going on about Olympians and such.”

Icarus opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his face.

Footsteps approached the corridor, elegant and deliberate.

The door opened, and Hera stepped inside like royalty entering a war tent. All heads turned as she entered. She was resplendent, imperious in a gown that shimmered like peacock feathers and frost, her eyes cool and cutting as glass. Her expression was one of fond calculation.

“Icarus,” she said sweetly, her voice slicing like a silk-wrapped dagger. She reached him in three strides and cupped his face like a doting aunt. “Look at you, so grown up, so handsome. Isn’t he, husband?”

Behind her, Zeus shuffled in like a storm cloud with a bear. He looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else, including Tartarus. His expression was already thunderous, as if he’d been dragged out of a very satisfying afternoon nap and resented all forms of existence because of it. His mood was likely worsened by the number of mortals breathing in his general direction. Electric eyes swept the room, then landed on Icarus with distaste. 

He grunted but said nothing. 

“Our little Icarus is just precious in uniform,” Hera continued, tone turning gently threatening. “Agree, husband.”

“Yes, wife,” Zeus said flatly.

“And today he will fly magnificently .”

Zeus grunted. “If he dies doing it, don’t blame me.”

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Fenrir muttered under his breath.

Hera’s eyes flicked to Fenrir and Jormungandr. “You’ll behave,” she said without raising her voice.

Jormungandr gave a mock bow. “Of course, my lady. We wouldn’t dream of causing a scene. Not in front of the children.”

Zeus arched a brow at him. “I should have drowned you in the sea.”

“And I should’ve eaten your liver with salt,” Jormungandr replied, still smiling too wide. “And yet here we are. Growth.”

“Enough,” Icarus said quickly, stepping between them like someone trying to separate fire from oil. “If anyone’s going to fall off a broom today, let’s try not to make it about divine grudges, alright?”

Fenrir walked forward and gripped Icarus’s shoulder, eyes steady. “You know you don’t have to win this match, right?”

“I know,” Icarus said. “But I want to.”

Jormungandr stepped closer, just behind Fenrir, voice low and surprisingly sincere. “Then fly. And make it look effortless. It’ll drive the Olympian king mad.”

Hera smiled faintly. “We’ll be watching.”

As they turned to leave, Zeus muttering something about mortal hobbies and idiotic games, Icarus pulled on his helmet and picked up his broom.

Behind him, Higgs gave a low whistle. 

“You know,” he said, “I think this might be the first Quidditch match with gods in the audience.”

“I’m sure nothing will go wrong,” Icarus said.

“Famous last words.”

Icarus didn’t answer right away.

Behind him, Jormungandr shifted, as if he wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the right tone. Instead, he said, far too casually, “Try not to die. It’d really ruin the atmosphere.”

Icarus turned to look at him, expression unreadable. “Thanks, I guess.”

Another awkward pause.

Jormungandr opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then added, lamely, “You look… heroic. The helmet helps.”

“…Sure,” Icarus muttered, tugging it on to avoid eye contact.

Fenrir rolled his eyes. “You two are terrible at this.”

Hera sat like a queen upon her perch, watching her chosen demigod take to the skies. Zeus looked on with feigned disinterest, arms folded, gaze stormy.

“Remind me again,” Jormungandr murmured from Fenrir’s side, quiet enough not to get the queen’s attention, “what the rules are if the broom explodes?”

“There are no rules,” Fenrir growled. “Only revenge.”

“Good,” Jormungandr said. “Because I think I just saw a Gryffindor Seeker mouth something about breaking his jaw.”

Fenrir cracked his knuckles. “Let them try.”

Hera leaned toward them without turning. “Behave. For now.”

The brothers stiffened. Evidently, they were not quiet enough.

The whistle blew.

And high above them, Icarus dove into the sky like a falling star.

From the moment Icarus rose into the sky, Jormungandr knew something was going to go wrong.

He didn’t have a vision or cast bones. He didn’t need to. It was in the air. Too tight. Too coiled. 

He couldn’t say why, exactly, though the presence of Zeus in a crowd of mortal children certainly didn’t inspire confidence. But no, it wasn’t just the Olympians. It was something in the wind. Something in the magic. It curled beneath his skin like a bad omen.

Something smelled wrong.

The stands shook with cheers, roars of “ Slytherin !” echoing like war drums. The green banners whipped and twisted in the wind, the air charged with teenage fury and ancient schoolhouse pride. Quidditch, he had been told, was a “friendly school sport.” Watching from the VIP section, if one could call a reinforced stone box with barely padded benches “VIP”, he thought it looked more like ritual combat.

Hera sat to his right, graceful and glinting like a blade in silk. Zeus loomed behind her like a thundercloud forced into a waistcoat. Fenrir had claimed the seat on Jormungandr’s other side, though he hadn’t actually sat in it. He was already pacing.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the stone,” Jormungandr murmured.

Fenrir didn’t answer. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Icarus since the boy kicked off from the pitch.

Good , Jormungandr thought. He’s distracted. He won’t punch Zeus in the throat… Yet .

Icarus flew like he’d been born in the air. Sharp, clean movements. Hair whipping like a war banner behind him. Jormungandr tilted his head slightly, arms folded.

“I admit, he’s better than I expected,” Hera said after a moment, her voice warm with genuine approval.

Zeus grunted. “So was Achilles. Still died.”

“And so did all the men who tried to be you,” Jormungandr said, dry as old bone.

Then the tension struck.

It wasn’t divine. Not ancient. Not something tangled up in the bloodlines of Asgard or Olympus. No, this was different.

Familiar, almost. Mortal .

But malicious.

A flavor of magic he hadn’t tasted in some time, twisting and petty, clever in the way knives are clever. Not meant to strike from above, but from below. Jormungandr’s spine prickled.

Then, up in the sky, Icarus dove.

The Snitch flared gold near the edge of the pitch and streaked downward like it was daring him to chase. And of course he did. The crowd screamed.

And then-

The broom twitched.

It was just a flicker. But Jormungandr felt it like a ripple under the surface of still water.

“What was that?” Hera asked, already half-standing.

“The broom,” Jormungandr said, voice flat. “It’s been tampered with.”

It happened again. Another jerk, more violent. Icarus's dive faltered. His grip tightened visibly.

Fenrir's hands clenched. “Someone’s cursing it. Get him down!”

Hera’s hand had clasped like talons down on Zeus’s forearm. 

They all knew. Neither of them could nor would interfere. 

“I am-” Jormungandr murmured, standing.

He narrowed his eyes, feeling the magic again, its scent like cheap incense and iron. Not old magic. Not wild magic.

Mortal magic . Crude. Mean. But effective.

The broom lurched again. Icarus dropped twenty feet in an instant, barely clinging on. Someone in the crowd screamed.

“Who would curse a child mid-match?” Hera whispered.

“Someone weak,” Jormungandr said. “And afraid. And too stupid to know what kind of child they were cursing.”

Then

Icarus let go.

The crowd shrieked. Even Zeus sat up.

“What is he doing!?” Fenrir barked.

“Watch,” Jormungandr said.

Icarus extended one hand skyward. No wand. No incantation.

Just instinct.

The air shimmered around him, warping like heat over stone, but colder, like frost held back by will alone. Light bloomed across his palm in jagged arcs of light green and gold, crackling with raw Aesir magic. Not the kind taught in textbooks. The kind buried in bloodlines. The kind that moved through Odin’s vault and Loki’s veins alike.

Symbols, not carved, but conjured, rippled into being above his forearm: circular, radiant, ancient. Runes spun briefly in the air, orbiting his wrist like a crown of light. Power surged down the broom’s shaft in a bolt of divine energy, wrapping it in a wreath of gold-silver crackle.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t gentle.

It was Aesir.

The jinx snapped with a sound like breaking stone. The air buckled around him, releasing a burst of pressure that swept outward in a pulse. The curse disintegrated, magic unraveling like threads torn from a tapestry. A shimmer of dark steam peeled off the broom and vanished into the sky.

The broom stilled. Obedient. Loyal. Whole.

Above the pitch, the sky paused, not out of fear, but recognition. That was not mortal power. That was Asgard, channeled through a boy raised far from its gates, but still marked by its throne.

Jormungandr didn’t smile.

But he didn’t look away.

The broom steadied. Icarus swung back into place and became a blur again, chasing the Snitch like death had dared him to hesitate.

Moments later, his hand closed around gold.

The whistle blew.

The Slytherin stands exploded .

Green and silver flags whipped through the air, kids screamed, and the house banners practically rippled with glee. Blaise vaulted a bench to shout something about “suck it, Gryffindors!” and even the teachers seemed to sag with relief.

And still, Jormungandr stood.

Fenrir dropped back into his seat like the air had been knocked from him.

“He didn’t burn,” he said. “He controlled it.”

“For now,” Jormungandr murmured.

Hera was still watching the boy. “That was not Olympian magic.”

Zeus frowned. “No. And it wasn’t divine magic at all. Not fully.”

“No,” Jormungandr said. “It was mortal . Twisted. Not from the boy, the curse. The thing that nearly killed him.” His voice sharpened. “Someone in this castle tried to murder my little brother. With parlor tricks.”

“Who would dare?” Hera asked, voice like silk around steel.

Zeus leaned forward, interest piqued. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Fenrir stood again. “I want to know who. Now.”

“We’ll find them,” Hera said calmly. “I’ll see to it.”

“No,” Fenrir growled. “I will .”

Jormungandr said nothing. But in the deepest part of his mind, he’d already filed away the taste of that magic. Mortal. But close. Close to something dark. Something rotting.

He would find its source.

Soon.

Down on the pitch, Icarus landed to a wall of noise. Teammates hugged him. Professors clapped. But his eyes scanned the crowd and found them .

He saw Fenrir first, and something in his shoulders relaxed.

He saw Hera next and gave a small, wary nod.

And then he found Jormungandr, and the barest hint of a smile ghosted across his face.

You’re still here , that smile said.

Jormungandr inclined his head once.

Always , that look replied.

As the students began to pour out of the stands in a flood of color and noise, Hera rose with poise, Zeus trailing behind her like the stormcloud he always pretended not to be. Fenrir didn’t move.

Jormungandr stayed until the pitch was almost empty.

Until the banners stopped flapping.

Until the air cleared of burning magic.

“He’s not a child anymore,” he murmured.

“No,” Fenrir said beside him. “He’s a godling. Ours.”

“And now,” Jormungandr added, “he has an enemy who knows it.”

They left the stands together.

But Jormungandr looked over his shoulder once, back to the pitch where the curse had nearly claimed his brother’s life, and whispered under his breath:

Whoever you are… I’ll be coming .

Later, as the crowd poured toward the exits in a tide of color and noise, Icarus touched down behind the stands and nearly collapsed. His legs shook from the strain, magic still buzzing faintly under his skin like static clinging to a storm. The world spun just slightly, like it couldn’t decide whether to be triumph or disaster.

Blaise caught up to him first, sliding through the knot of students with the ease of someone who never rushed but was never late. His grin could have lit a small village.

"You are never going to hear the end of this."

"I don't want to," Icarus muttered, dragging a hand down his sweat-damp face. "Someone cursed my broom mid-game, Blaise."

"I know. That was epic ."

"It was attempted murder ."

"Yes. And epic ."

Before Icarus could summon a response to that particular brand of madness, a shadow fell across them. Not the ordinary kind, not cast by light, but heavier somehow. Intentional. Older.

Jormungandr appeared, arms crossed, his expression unreadable save for the glint of dry amusement in his eyes. He looked almost at home, surrounded by the debris of near-disaster.

“So,” he said, gaze sweeping over Icarus’s disheveled state. “First match. Death attempt. Applause. Classic opener. Very subtle.”

Icarus gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Jormungandr blinked, thrown by the directness. “Immensely,” he said, tone arch. “Except for the bit where you nearly plummeted to your doom. That was… familiar. Uncomfortable déjà vu.”

“Right. Thanks. Super comforting.”

There was an awkward pause. Jormungandr opened his mouth like he was going to say something more, something meaningful, but then seemed to think better of it. He cleared his throat instead, shifting his weight like he hadn’t meant to be standing here this long.

Before the silence could stretch any further, Fenrir arrived, carving through the thinning crowd like gravity had simply decided to follow him for the afternoon. His cloak snapped behind him, dark and fast-moving.

He didn’t say anything.

Just walked straight up to Icarus and pulled him into a fierce, grounding hug.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured into Icarus’s hair.

“I scared me ,” Icarus whispered, body finally sagging into the embrace.

Fenrir stepped back, hands gripping his shoulders like he could anchor him by sheer force of will. “You handled it. You stopped it. You won .”

His voice left no room for disagreement. Not praise. Not coddling. Just fact.

Jormungandr stood off to the side now, hands loosely clasped behind his back like a visiting dignitary who wasn’t sure what to do with his feelings. He glanced toward the stands, where professors huddled in panicked conversation.

“You’re going to want to be part of the fallout,” he said. “Whoever hexed your broom wasn’t just being clever. They were testing something.”

“Testing me,” Icarus said quietly.

“Testing your limits,” Jormungandr echoed, a little too quickly. Then he hesitated. “You didn’t… feel anything before it happened?”

“I felt fast ,” Icarus said. “And then like the air turned sideways.”

“Hmm,” Jormungandr replied, brow furrowed. “That’s not helpful. But points for honesty.”

Another pause. Another misfire.

Then: footsteps

Sharp. Cold. Commanding.

Hera arrived like a drawn blade, elegance honed to lethal perfection. Her gown shimmered with peacock tones and power, and when she spotted Icarus, something in her gaze warmed.

“You were brilliant,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from his brow with the calculated tenderness of a queen inspecting a favored weapon. “And reckless.”

Icarus gave a weak smile. “Seems to run in the family.”

She didn’t laugh, but her mouth curved. “Perhaps. But you made him blink.”

She tilted her chin toward the far corridor, where Zeus was already stalking away like a thundercloud on a leash.

“I live for that,” Icarus muttered.

“Don’t say that out loud,” Fenrir grumbled.

They began to walk together, slowly. A strange procession: godling, wolf, serpent, queen, and far ahead a thundercloud. Bound by blood, and something more volatile: choice.

“What did you see ?” Icarus asked quietly, glancing at Jormungandr again. His tone held genuine curiosity this time, but also wariness, like he was trying to decide if this brother could be trusted.

Jormungandr didn’t answer right away.

They passed the last students. The noise of the stands fell away, dulled by distance and stone.

“It was mortal magic,” Jormungandr said finally. “Masked well. Not divine. Not Olympian. Something closer. And smaller. Cursed in motion . That takes precision.”

“A student?” Icarus asked, already dreading the answer.

“No,” Hera said, her voice sharp and clear. “Too advanced. Too quick. This was no prank. It was a warning.”

“Or a probe,” Jormungandr added. “They wanted to see what it would take to break you.”

They reached the shadowed corridor that led back into the castle.

Fenrir paused, looking over his shoulder one last time at the pitch. “There are too many eyes on you now.”

“There always were,” Icarus said. “Now they just know I can survive.”

Jormungandr gave a short laugh, humorless. “Which means they’ll try again. And worse.”

There was a beat. Then, haltingly, he added, “You handled it well. You were-” He made a vague gesture. “Impressive. In a suicidal kind of way.”

Icarus gave him a look. “That’s your compliment?”

“I’m trying,” Jormungandr said stiffly.

“Try less weirdly .”

“I’m new at this.”

Fenrir snorted. Hera said nothing.

They turned down the hall.

“Come,” Fenrir said. “We’ll speak to the headmaster.”