88 Loki

Harry, Thor, and Frigga walked down the dimly lit corridors of Asgard’s dungeons. The air was thick with the scent of damp metal, and the weight of the past pressed down on them with every step.

Frigga’s hands were clasped together. She had always believed in Loki, not just as her son, but as the brilliant, complicated soul she had raised. A part of her still clung to the hope that the Loki she had known wasn’t truly lost, that there was an explanation for his crimes beyond the simple hunger for power. If there was even the smallest chance that Loki had been manipulated, that something beyond his control had twisted his choices, she had to take it.

Thor, on the other hand, held his silence like a shield. His grip on Mjölnir was tense. He had stood before Odin and accepted the sentence passed upon his brother, but he had never been able to accept it in his heart. Loki had fallen into the abyss once, and Thor had believed him dead, mourned him, and then watched him return as an enemy. But was he truly an enemy? Or had something corrupted him, turning his bitterness into blind hatred? Thor needed answers, not just for Asgard, but for himself. If there was any sliver of truth that could absolve Loki, he would not turn away from it.

For Harry, this meeting was different. He had no childhood memories of Loki, no history of love and betrayal. This wasn’t about redemption, it was about information. Loki had worked for someone, a benefactor lurking in the shadows, and if there was a greater threat still at play, Harry needed to know. However, as he glanced at the tense faces beside him, he understood that for Thor and Frigga, this was far more than an interrogation.

If Odin knew what they were about to do, he would call it treason. But for a mother and a brother, the risk was worth it.

Even the smallest lifeline was enough.

When the trio arrived at the dungeon, Thor gestured for all the guards to remain outside. The warriors hesitated for only a moment before bowing and stepping aside. Even with Loki locked away, the dungeons were not a place to be left unguarded.

The scars of the Dark Elves’ attack were still evident. Some walls bore cracks where spells had struck, and faint scorch marks marred the columns. Several cells had been completely destroyed in the breakout, their barriers shattered, leaving gaping wounds in the ancient stone. Repairs were underway, but restoring Asgard’s defences was a slow process, and the prison had not yet been fully rebuilt.

Despite the damage, the remaining cells held firm, their shimmering golden barriers standing, as unyielding as ever. The prisoners sat in silence, their expressions unreadable as they watched the trio pass. For now, the security was sufficient. The enemies of Asgard were contained and still behind bars.

Harry strode forward with confidence, while Thor and Frigga lingered just half a step behind hesitantly.

As they reached Loki’s cell, Loki sat in the far corner, draped in his loose Asgardian robes with a book resting in his hands. He had one leg stretched out, the other bent with a foot resting against the stone wall. His fingers idly traced the edges of a page, though he no longer seemed to be reading.

The moment he caught sight of his visitors, Loki carefully closed the book, setting it aside. Then, with a slow, unhurried grace, he rose to his feet and made his way toward them. He stopped just at the edge of his confinement, standing tall before the shimmering golden barrier.

His gaze didn’t linger on Thor or Frigga. Instead, his sharp, calculating eyes locked directly onto Harry. For a moment, there was silence. The golden light of the barrier flickered faintly between them, the only thing keeping them apart.

Loki’s lips curled into a smirk the moment his eyes settled on Harry. "Ah, the new golden boy finally graces us with his presence," he drawled mockingly. "Tell me, how is the wife? Still on a killing spree to clear the red from her ledger?"

Harry didn’t react. He merely held Loki’s gaze.

Loki tilted his head, waiting for a response. But it was not Harry who responded, but Thor.

"Brother," Thor said, stepping forward, his voice carrying a weight that wasn’t just sorrow, but hope. "Harry believes he can remove the influence of your benefactor from your mind. If he succeeds, we can prove to Father that your actions were not your own, that you do not deserve this punishment."

Loki’s expression didn’t change immediately. He let the words settle, the only sound between them the faint hum of the barrier.

"I was not a puppet!" Loki shouted, his voice echoing through the dungeons. His usual composed demeanour cracked, revealing raw frustration beneath. "What I did was of my own volition! No strings pulled, no mind shackled. I chose my path. I commanded others, not the other way around! It was a simple transaction: an army to conquer Midgard, in exchange for the Tesseract. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Harry tilted his head, his green eyes glinting with amusement. "And yet, even with that army, you failed."

Loki’s jaw clenched.

"I thought your benefactor would come to retrieve his prized general," Harry continued, stepping closer to the shimmering golden barrier. "But he didn’t, did he? Not even a whisper, not even a shadow sent in your name. It's almost as if… he realised you were nothing but a liability. Dead weight. A broken tool, easier to discard than to fix."

Loki’s face twisted with fury. His fists clenched at his sides, his entire frame taut with unspoken rage. But no sharp remark came. No cutting retort.

Because deep down, a small, infuriating part of him knew Harry was right.

"Son, please," Frigga pleaded, stepping closer to the shimmering golden barrier. "Is it so hard for you to see that there are still those who love you? Those who want to help you?"

Loki scoffed, his lips curling into a sneer. "I do not want any help," he snapped. "All I ever wanted was your respect, your acknowledgement—" his gaze flickered to Thor, his expression darkening "—your acknowledgement. But in this barbaric society, I was never going to have it."

Frigga’s brows furrowed. "We have always been proud of you, Loki," she insisted.

Loki let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "No. No, you haven’t." His voice turned cold. "You wanted to be. But pride in someone like me was always an illusion, wasn't it? A fleeting thing, easily overshadowed by your golden son and his shining hammer."

"Loki—"

"In solitude, I have realized how futile my efforts were," he interrupted, not listening to reason. "For a kingdom that worships brutes, what value is there in intelligence? In cunning? In resourcefulness? Asgard sings songs of warriors, of battles won and foes slain! But where in its grand halls is the scholar? The strategist? The thinker?" His fists clenched at his sides. "For a people who believe the sword mightier than the pen, what use is there for someone like me?"

The air grew heavy with his words, his resentment seeping into every syllable.

Frigga’s expression softened, her heart aching for her son.

"Who was your benefactor, and why did he want the Tesseract?" Harry demanded before Loki could continue his tirade

Loki turned back to face him, sneering. "And what is it to you, mortal?" he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Because I think he might come back," Harry answered. "And if he does, Earth needs to be ready."

Loki’s lips curled into a smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Let him come, then. I would love to watch Earth’s so-called 'Mightiest Heroes' crumble beneath his feet." With that, he turned away dismissively. "Either way, I win."

Harry exhaled sharply, then turned to Frigga. "Forgive me in advance for what I'm about to do," he said.

Frigga studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod. That was all the confirmation he needed.

"Thor," Harry said, turning to the God of Thunder. "Open the cell."

Thor hesitated. "Harry—"

"Do it," Frigga interjected softly.

Thor clenched his jaw but obeyed, stepping forward and deactivating the golden barrier.

The moment the energy field dissipated, Harry strode in and seized Loki by the collar, yanking him around. Loki barely had time to sneer before Harry’s hand shot up to his throat, lifting him off the ground effortlessly.

Loki's smugness faltered as Harry's emerald eyes locked onto his own.

Before Loki could spit out another insult, Harry whispered, "Legilimens."

Unlike their previous encounter in Stuttgart, Harry wasn’t here to tear through Loki’s mind. This time, he was methodical. He wasn’t searching for memories just yet. First, he needed to cleanse Loki’s mind of the lingering influence of the sceptre.

In a blink, Harry was no longer in the dungeon. Instead, he stood upon the shattered remains of the Bifrost, its once-prismatic surface now dull and lifeless. The bridge stretched out before him but was fractured, floating in jagged, disconnected pieces over an endless void. Behind him, Asgard’s royal palace loomed, but it was not the golden beacon of grandeur he had seen in reality. Here, it was twisted, its towers cracked, its foundations sinking into the shadows, creeping up its walls like a growing rot.

The sky above flickered and wavered, unable to decide what it wanted to be. One moment, it was bathed in the eternal golden twilight of Asgard. Next, the sky shifted to the storm-ridden darkness of Jötunheim, its heavy clouds swirling like a brewing tempest. And then, all light would be swallowed whole, plunging everything into the cold, endless abyss where Loki had once fallen.

A suffocating, yellow miasma thickened the air, slithering like living tendrils around the ruins. It pressed against Harry’s skin like an unseen force, squeezing, constricting. Loki’s own mind was a fortress built from anger, betrayal, and hatred.

As Harry stepped forward, the dull crystal beneath his feet felt brittle, as if one wrong step could shatter it completely. When he reached the great doors of the palace, once a gleaming testament to Asgardian craftsmanship, were now cracked and weathered, barely hanging onto their hinges. Yet, standing defiantly at the threshold was a towering statue of Loki. Unlike the broken palace, the statue was pristine. It depicted Loki in his royal garb, his horned helm glinting as he stood tall above a crowd of faceless figures kneeling before him. Their blank expressions were carved in submission, their hands outstretched as if begging for his favour.

The symbolism was glaring.

Harry didn’t slow down as he passed the monument. He had seen enough to know that Loki’s self-image was fractured. Scattered across the palace grounds, half-buried in the rubble, were remnants of memory given form. A shattered frost giant relic lay by the steps, its jagged edges glowing with faint blue veins. A child’s book, singed at the edges, rested near a pool of dark, ink-like liquid that reflected Odin’s stern face when Harry glanced into it. There was a cracked mirror, its reflection distorting his own face into Loki’s, twisting and shifting between his Jotun and Aesir forms.

Harry tore his gaze away and made his way to the throne room.

The grand hall was suffocating in its emptiness. The pillars that once stood proudly were fractured, some barely holding together, others completely crumbled into dust. The walls flickered between gleaming gold and dark, cracked stone, as if Loki’s mind couldn't decide whether it was still Asgard or something else entirely.

And there, lounging lazily on the throne as if he had been expecting him, was Loki.

Or at least, the manifestation of his consciousness.

Unlike the Loki in the cell, this one wore his regal armour, pristine and untarnished, his emerald cape draped over one arm. His eyes filled with mockery and amusement.

"Surprised?" Loki drawled, drumming his fingers against the armrest. "Why wouldn’t you be? Your feeble mind could never comprehend the full scope of the mind arts."

Harry narrowed his eyes as he studied Loki. “Are you a manifestation of Loki’s cognition, or his conscious self?” he asked.

Loki scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Please, don’t insult me with such trivial questions, mortal.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. “I am me. My consciousness, my will. Not some fragmented, broken thing conjured by your pathetic attempt at intruding my mind.” He spread his arms wide in mock grandeur. “Impressed, are we? I suppose I should expect nothing less from a mind as crude as yours.”

Harry wasn’t about to give Loki the satisfaction of a reaction, but internally, he was mildly impressed. For Loki to not only manifest his consciousness but to wield it with such awareness meant he was far more adept at mental defences than most.

Loki spread his arms in a grandiose gesture. “Welcome, wizard. To my castle of ruins. I hope you’re proud.” His voice dripped with venom. “After all, you played such a pivotal role in bringing it to this state.”

Harry scoffed. “Your life would have been in ruins with or without me, Loki. You’ve only ever been running from the truth.”

Loki’s eyes darkened, and the oppressive atmosphere of his mind twisted around them, pressing against Harry like a living thing. “Go back to Midgard, wizard,” Loki sneered, voice cold as the abyss he once fell into. “There is nothing of value for you here. Only my millennia of hatred for my so-called family.”

Harry didn’t waver. He tilted his head, gaze unwavering. “And yet,” he said evenly, “your palace is still Asgard. Your throne still sits in Odin’s hall. And despite all that hatred, you still call them family.”

Loki’s expression faltered, if only for a fraction of a second.

Harry took a step closer. “This is a conversation that no one else will hear. No Asgardians to judge you. No Midgardians to pity you. Just us.” His voice lowered, pressing into the cracks in Loki’s defenses. “So drop the act, Loki. We both know this isn’t just about vengeance.”

Loki’s jaw tightened, but his stance remained defiant. His sneer curled back onto his lips, but the bite wasn’t as sharp. “I am not here for your sympathy, wizard,” he spat. “And I certainly don’t care for your self-righteous sense of justice.” His fingers twitched, and the ruined palace around them seemed to creak under an unseen pressure. “Be gone, and let me wallow in my suffering.”

But Harry had no intention of leaving.

Not until he had what he came for.

Harry exhaled sharply, done with Loki’s theatrics. His patience had worn thin.

“All I want,” he said with irritation, “is to know who your benefactor was. Give me a name, and I’ll leave you to your misery.” His green eyes burned. “I don’t have sympathy for you. I don’t care about proving your innocence. I just want information.”

Loki tilted his head, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Harry took a step forward. “We tried doing this the hard way, and you know how it went”, he said, tone darkening. “But if you keep this up, there will be consequences. For you. And I promise, you won’t like them.” He let the words hang in the air before continuing. “So let’s try this with your cooperation instead.”

For the first time since Harry arrived, Loki didn’t have an immediate retort. Instead, Loki sneered. With a lazy flick of his wrist, a doorway materialised beside Harry.

“I have no desire to waste my breath discussing my benefactor with you,” Loki said, his voice dripping with his own irritation. “That door will take you to the part of my castle where I have housed that memory. Go. Take what you came for and leave me in peace.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at Loki skeptically. He turned toward the doorway, hesitating only for a moment before stepping through. Beyond it lay a long corridor, dimly lit, stretching endlessly toward a single solitary door at the far end.

“Go on,” Loki drawled, waving his hand dismissively. His voice was utterly disinterested, as if he couldn’t be bothered with the affair any longer.

Harry took a cautious step forward, then another. His instincts screamed at him, but he knew he had little choice. This was the closest thing to cooperation Loki had given him.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the door behind him slammed shut with a deafening thud.

Harry spun around, his heart pounding. He grabbed the handle and yanked. Locked. Of course. He clenched his jaw, trying to suppress his frustration. A moment later, the walls around him seemed to stretch, shifting unnaturally, pressing in on him like a living thing.

He exhaled sharply and turned toward the only other way forward, the door at the far end.

With no other choice, he strode toward it and pushed through—

Only to find himself stepping out onto the broken Rainbow Bridge, the ruined entrance of the palace looming before him.

The castle was no longer accessible. A shimmering golden dome had enveloped it, sealing it off completely.

Loki had tricked him.

Dejected, Harry sat down in front of the sealed palace gates. Loki’s uncooperative attitude was a pain in the ass. His hatred burned so fiercely that reasoning with him was impossible. There was no debate to be had, no angle Harry could exploit to make Loki see sense.

But as frustrating as it was, it didn’t add up.

Harry ran through everything he knew about Loki’s past. His childhood in Thor’s shadow. The lie about his Frost Giant heritage. Odin’s cold pragmatism, treating Loki as a potential political tool rather than a son. A lifetime of being overlooked in a society that valued brute strength over intellect. His desire for the throne, not for power itself, but for validation. Frigga’s love. Thor’s love. All things he had pushed away, yet clearly still ached for.

Yes, Loki had suffered. Yes, he had every right to feel resentment. But his actions—his true actions—had always been carefully calculated.

Loki didn’t fight his enemies. He outmanoeuvred them.

His entire life had been built on lies, manipulation, and subterfuge. Even when he had the perfect opportunity to take Asgard’s throne during Thor’s banishment, he had done so through deception, not conquest. He had twisted words, spun illusions, and played Asgard’s own expectations against itself.

So why, after falling into the void, had Loki changed?

Why had he suddenly thrown away his greatest strengths, his ability to manipulate, deceive, and control from the shadows, in favor of brute-force conquest?

Leading an army? That wasn’t Loki’s style. He didn’t want mindless subjects; he wanted willing ones. He would have preferred to infiltrate the halls of power, whisper poison into the ears of world leaders, and make them choose him as their ruler.

Brute Force was Thor’s approach, not Loki’s.

The shift didn’t make sense.

Desperation alone couldn’t explain it. Even if Loki had been at his lowest after his fall from the Bifröst, he was still a prince of Asgard, a master of persuasion, someone who knew how to get what he wanted.

So why had he accepted his benefactor’s terms so easily?

And more importantly, why Earth?

Even if Loki’s goal was to rule, there were countless planets across the cosmos where he could have seized power. Planets where his cunning, not brute force, could have made him a king. Why Earth?

Earth meant nothing to Loki. The only Asgardian who had ever cared about it was Thor, and even Thor had only started valuing it after Loki’s fall. Before that, Earth had been just another backwater realm, insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

So why had Loki thrown his lot in with a mysterious benefactor for the sake of conquering this world?

Harry exhaled slowly, the pieces shifting into place in his mind.

Something wasn’t right.

Harry knew that the sceptre had been used on Loki before. That was why Harry couldn’t reach Loki’s memories of his benefactor. The same thing had happened with Selvig. For Selvig, the sceptre hadn’t just enslaved his mind but also expanded it, forcing knowledge of the cosmos upon him, warping his perception until he couldn’t tell reality from madness.

What if it had done something similar to Loki?

But instead of expanding his mind, what if it had focused it onto his anger, his resentment, his hatred? What if it had fed his worst impulses, sharpening them into something all-consuming?

Loki had always been ambitious. He had always had resentment toward Odin, Thor, and Asgard. But never like this. Never in a way that made him reckless, predictable, or so eager to kneel before another in his own quest for power. That wasn’t Loki.

Harry was onto something. He could feel it.

His eyes swept over the ruined palace, the golden dome sealing it shut. He had to find where the sceptre’s influence was rooted in Loki’s mind.

And then, maybe, he could break it.

The only thing that stood out to Harry, the one unnatural element in Loki’s entire mindscape, was the miasma. It hung in the air like a suffocating fog, curling around the ruined palace, seeping into every crack like a living thing.

Taking a deep breath, Harry spread his arms and willed the air to move.

A breeze stirred. Then another. Then the wind rose into a steady, circling current, swirling through the ruined palace grounds like the first stirrings of a storm.

Harry stepped forward, sweeping his hands in a wide arc. The wind obeyed, picking up speed, twisting and churning around him. The greyish-yellow miasma trembled, shifting uneasily as the cyclone formed.

Faster.

The wind howled as the cyclone roared to life, sweeping across the mindscape like a cleansing force. Dust and debris from Loki’s shattered kingdom were thrown into the air, but Harry didn’t let it distract him. His focus was on the miasma.

At first, nothing happened.

Then, slowly, the miasma began to move.

Tendrils of yellow mist were pulled from the ruins, sucked into the spinning vortex like ink dissolving in water. The cyclone turned yellow while streaks of corrupted energy swirling within it, writhing like something alive.

Harry pressed forward, bringing his hands together, forcing the storm to tighten. The whirlwind shrank, growing smaller and denser, compressing the miasma into a concentrated core of swirling energy.

One last push.

With a sharp exhale, Harry flicked his wrist, and the cyclone imploded, collapsing into itself with a crack of displaced air. The miasma was no longer a shapeless fog. It was now an orb, a seething sphere of corrupted energy, trapped inside a prison of hardened glass.

The moment it was contained, the mindscape changed.

The heavy oppression lifted. The suffocating weight that had hung over the palace was gone. The air felt clearer. Lighter. For the first time since entering Loki’s mind, Harry felt like he could breathe.

As the swirling miasma remained sealed within the glass orb, Loki’s mindscape began to transform. The oppressive atmosphere lifted, like a storm breaking to reveal the dawn. The dull, lifeless terrain was washed away by a tide of vibrant energy.

The broken landscape bloomed with colour. Lush forests stretched across the land, their emerald canopies swaying gently in a newly conjured breeze. Fields of golden flowers burst to life, their petals unfolding as if waking from a long slumber. The raging sea, dark and turbulent, calmed into a vast mirror of liquid sapphire, reflecting the endless cosmos above.

The shattered palace, once looming in decay, shimmered as its grandeur was restored. Towering spires gleamed under the golden light of the skies, their runes glowing with old magic. The Rainbow Bridge, dull and fractured before, regained its resplendent hues, its surface gleaming with the iridescent glow of flowing energy.

Instantly, the golden dome surrounding Asgard dissolved into nothingness. The grand gates creaked open, no longer sealed by Loki’s own subconscious defences.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed across the newly restored Rainbow Bridge as Loki burst out of the palace, his eyes wild with disbelief.

“What did you do?” he demanded, breathless and exasperated.

Harry, unfazed, simply tossed the swirling orb toward him. Loki barely caught it, nearly fumbling as he stared at the writhing storm of yellow energy trapped inside.

“I contained the influence of your sceptre,” Harry said, crossing his arms. “You’re welcome.”

Suddenly, the world around Harry twisted and swirled, like ink dissolving in water. Before he could react, an unseen force yanked him backwards, pulling him out of Loki’s mindscape.

Harry’s vision snapped back to reality, and he found himself gripping Loki’s throat. But something was different. The defiance in Loki’s eyes had shifted. It was no longer a mask of sneering arrogance.

Harry released his hold, watching as Loki straightened his posture, smoothing down his tunic.

Without hesitation, Loki turned to Frigga. Almost urgent, he demanded, “I need an audience with Odin.”