LOKISSON ; chapter I

A cruel, deadened creature made his way through the village of Godric's Hollow. It was All Hallows' Eve, and the filthy Mudbloods and Muggles that lived on the edges of the wards were celebrating some holiday or other, he thought derisively as he strode through the town.

A young boy looked up at him, entirely too happy with himself, with life. He'd never be anything more than a dirty-blooded magicless sack, what was there to be happy about? He laughed slightly, a chilling sound made the people in the near vicinity freeze, but not the child. "Nice costume, Mister! And I like yo-"

"Avada Kedavra." He kicked the corpse, to make sure it was dead, then followed up the street to where the Potters lived. He entered the cottage, to kill the only threat to his immortality. The man - James Potter - was downstairs, and, upon seeing him, screamed, rushing to grab not his wand upstairs, but some sort of runestone, and then run up the stairs to his family and wand and protect his child and wife. "Avada Kedavra." James Potter was no more.

Altogether far too easy, he mused. Ah well. The Mudblood his servant Snape loved so much rushed to block the stairway, hesitating for a split-second when she saw the noseless pale face of the man on the stairs. But she tried to stop him anyway, futilely rushing to shield her child. "Not my son! Not my son! Take me instead- NOT HARRY!" She pleaded, babbling for him to spare the foolish infant. The infant was all he had come to kill, but he could murder her as well if he wanted.

"Step aside foolish girl." Tom Marvolo Riddle laughed. And killed her.

She fell, and her auburn hair whipped in the wind as the life left her body and she was nothing but a body of dead flesh.

And on a world a realm away, the Trickster's runewatcher stopped stinging and began to burn. The first time, he got worried, and began to make an excuse. Then it stung again, and he needed to move. He yelped slightly in the room, and pretended to leave the feast because he had just remembered something to do. The burning he'd cast if anyone had died inside the house's wards, the stinging was for danger. It would look bad to leave the feast for the ambassador of Niflheim, but he cared much more about his son - and to a lesser extent Lily, and James. It was impolite to leave, quite rude in fact, but he could no longer ignore the danger.

The man with the torn soul approached the boy in the cradle, the younghalfrace, the son of Silvertongue.

Therunewatcher stung again, and the Trickster's face was full of fear as he jumped off the railing of a balcony in Asgard onto the multidimensions of the World Tree, Yggdrasil.

Voldemort pointed his wand at Harry James Potter, or Hardun Jerrik Lokison, and smiled chillingly. "Avada Kedavra."

The god rushed through the nine realms, quickly and full of intent. He knew it would sting if there was danger, but there were two proficient wizards in the house, and they had been assured the Fidelius charm was nigh unbreakable. Now though... Two people had died in the house. One he could have passed off as perhaps a dead attacker, one was dangerous and needed to be checked, but he could have made an excuse that had more evidence, a more well-made one by spending a bit more time, faking sickness or something or other. Two meant either there had been two or more attackers- not good odds - or perhaps Harry and Lily had died? Or it could have been the wards acting up.

Still though.

He went into Yggdrasil and felt to the easiest way to Midgard. It took but seconds- Loki was rather good at this sort of thing, naturally, and having traversed the World Tree so many times over the millenniums it was easy. Getting to his son [and once-lover, and her husband] was quick and fast and short, but you could kill a baby, even one that would grow to be a powerful mage in time; you could kill a baby like Loki's heir very quickly, and then he'd be gone forever. Like Hel, she was there one minute, perhaps a bit odd-looking, but she was his, the next time he checked after his bath... Odin had thrown her down the realms, and he was forbidden from seeing her ever again. It was the same with all his other children - Fenris, prophesied to fight against Asgard in Ragnarok, Jðrmungand, Sleiþnir forever burdened with carrying the Allfather's chariots. He still visited them when he could, slipping unseen when they were distracted, and they knew he could not do much more, but it was never enough.

They were the Trickster's children, and each monstrous in their own way, and the Asgardians hated oddities, they hated the misbegotten ugly beings he had sired. He was their father, and his duty was to protect them, to cherish them like Angrbōda had never done. And he failed, loving but weak. He knew what it was like to be looked down on, feared slightly. If he had not been a prince... Well, the only respect he had came from his brother's prowess and his father's might, he was simply the not-wanted one, the boy who was much too proficient in a women's art, the father of monsters. And his children were looked down on even more, and he feared what would happen to his Midgardian son Hardun.

There was a flash of green light, and a scream and the house was blown apart in the resounding explosion.

The god fell out of the air into Godric's Hollow on the road opposite, and could only watch in horror as half of the house caved in, and he heard a tortured wail.

Tom Marvolo Riddle felt pain and the ache of a splitting soul, and wished he could die, reach the silence that was almost there.

Loki leapt into the ruins and furiously searched the house, extending his magic to find any survivors. A tingle told him his son was alive at the top of the swaying building, and he heard a faint cry. Stabilizing the half-bent architecture, he placed it in statsis and ran up the stairs, staring for a second at the body of the girl with the fiery hair that had so tempted him, Lily. But his son was so much more important and she was dead, and he put his magic and spirit and considerable strength into it, and he was atHardun in but a few seconds more.

The boy looked up at his father and felt the warm tingle of Loki's magic, and stopped his tears.

The dark-haired being looked at his son. A young mirror image of the Asgardian prince, with the same inky hair and emerald eyes, and no doubt powerful magics and a silver tongue in time as well. Looking at him, you could see nothing of his mother's warmth or auburn hair, but that was as he had expected. Jotun and Asgardian genes were always dominant, but still~ There had been very few children of Midgard and Asgard, and none of Jotunheim and Midgard, but in the few that had ever been born, not all of the traits carried. Some had the normal extended lives. Others...

He tried not to think about it, but the boy would grow up so soon, and he had not much precious time left if he was mortal. Loki checked him over, properly, and noticed a slight visual impairment that would need correction later on, and easily fixed it, but the other, magical, blemish was not so easily changed.

His forehead was infested with dark magic - a soul shard, something he would have to carefully remove later when he was older. If he tried to pull it out now his son and heir could easily die, later, though, when he had grown into his immortality or was in his mortal prime, it would be much less dangerous. He could not visit his very often, every few months if he was lucky, very lucky... The allfather, or more likely Thor, would notice if he kept going to Midgard. Still, he needed to know where his son was; he could always quite easily track him, looking for the magic aura that mirrored his own, and Frigga's, but he would place a tracking rune as well. Just in case something happened and he needed a split-second advantage.

Loki touched his son's forehead, and layered his rune on the Horcrux. It would keep most of the evil in the soul at bay, and protect him against low demons, and their sort. A shape resembling a double lightning-bolt, it was Dagaz, and he could know where his son was through it, and lend him some of his strength. It was good when he was mortal, but if he grew to a Jotun, then it would be looked down upon, and so he made it easily removable - though only from his hand, although Frigga could have possibly also removed it, she was almost as deep into these arts as he, and could have bypassed the safekeep with a bit of difficulty.

He kissed the boy's head and vanished into the air.