This short is for the Slytherin House, prompt being Myths - 2,243 words

Little note: I took some liberties with the myth of Rangarök and portrayal of Nordic gods to fit the story, but I tried to stay as close to the original as possible.

A small girl sits at the feet of an elderly man, curiosity shining in her eyes. "I heard you like telling stories, Mister. Can you tell me one?"

The elderly man smiles sadly, his hand stroking his beard. "A story? Be more specific, dearie. What kind of story would you like?"

The girl shuffles, her body leaned forward in eagerness to listen, and crosses her legs, Indian style. "A myth! Tell me a myth!"

"A myth, hmm… Very well. What do you know of Heimdallr and Gjallarhorn?"

Tom Riddle had always been a precocious child. Even as a youngster, his silver tongue earned him a well-deserved reputation amongst the other children in the orphanage as the lie-smith; the one that could get away with the murder if he spoke in just the right way. It had been the only title Dumbledore (and the master manipulator had the nerve to call him a liar!) had allowed him to keep after coming to Hogwarts; it was the only skill that managed to keep him afloat in the House so prejudiced against his impure blood.

Hogwarts was where he learned the most valuable lessons - everybody wants something, and everyone lies, so you've got to lie better. After all, we learn all of the most important lessons in our lives at home, and for Tom, Hogwarts was his first, and only, home. The orphanage was where he grew up, but Hogwarts was where he discovered his magic, his reason for existence.

"But you said-!"

"Peace, dearie," the old man placated his young listener. "If you want to know more about Heimdallr and Gjallarhorn, you need to know about Loki. And Odin, of course."

"Odin?" The youngling was quickly distracted by the new name. "Who's Odin?"

The old man smirked for a moment.

"A meddling old man."

Albus Dumbledore had never felt more exhausted in his life as he stared down his former student.

"Let us not pretend anymore, Tom," he sighed, interlocking his fingers and propping his chin on them.

"Pretend?" Tom blinked in a perfect show of surprise, and Albus just wanted to smack that fabricated expression off the boy's face.

"Yes, pretend. Pretend that you truly care for the post of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." The delivery was smooth as ice, but the underlying emotions Albus let seep into his eyes, allowing Tom to see them.

The boy's face twisted slightly and eyes flashed before smoothing out into the blank impassivity, surprising Albus somewhat. So, he did genuinely care about the post, at least to a point.

"I do care, Professor," Tom said heatedly, leaning forward, careful not to interlock his gaze with Albus'. So he did know how to defend against Legilimency. "And I know I am the best teacher the children can get here."

"You were an outstanding student," Albus admitted unhappily, the boy's casual arrogance reminiscent of his own turbulent youth and brush with the darkness. "But, forgive me my directness, I believe your affinity lies more with what you're trying to teach your students to fight against?"

Tom scowled. "I can show them things no other teacher could even dream about. They need to know what they'll be going against."

Albus sighed and leaned back. For a moment, he felt a flash of regret that was almost not his own, but he pushed it away. Tom had been such a gifted child, but he could not allow him to teach here. He had already dragged too many impressionable minds down the road of no return.

"I believe you already know my answer."

"I don't think Odin was that meddling, Mister," the girl pointed out the inconsistency in the story.

"Oh, maybe I forgot to mention? It was Odin who first let Loki know he had magic and taught how to use it," the old man smiled, "when he brought Loki from the icy plains of Jotunheim to the golden halls of Asgard."

The girl gasped as her young mind struggled to process the information.

"But that's cruel!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "It's not fair!"

The old man nodded in agreement. "The gods don't like mortals to know this, but in their essence, they're practically identical to me, you and any other mortal on this planet. It is we who give them immortality."

The girl blinked, not comprehending the ominous words. "What do you mean, Mister?"

The old man's smile turned bitter. "The gods were once like us, dearie - faulty mortals."

"Mortals?" The girl couldn't grasp it. "But-but they're immortal! How could they've once been mortal?!"

The old man shook his head fondly. "Because we believe in them. Our belief gives them the immortality. But I've not finished the story, have I?"

The girl was quickly distracted from that train of thought with the promise of the story. "When will we meet Heimdallr?"

"In a moment," the old man chuckled, his vibrant green eyes flashing golden for a second in the light of the setting sun. "In a moment, Jo."

Harry had never given much thought to the existence of myths. For ten years he spent in the sole care of Dursleys, he learned quickly never to ask or explore anything that had even the slightest trace of 'unnatural' in it, and world mythologies fell firmly in that category. After he started attending Hogwarts, the magic of the Muggle stories quickly faded in favor of very real and very present magic he witnessed and manipulated on the daily basis. It was difficult to be impressed by the invulnerability of Achilles or the mysticism of Egyptian underworld when he made things fly, cartwheel, tap-dance and bend itself into completely different objects.

After that terrifying duel in the graveyard of Little Hangleton and the subsequent house arrest for the next month and half at Dursleys however, he tore through every book in his relatives' house out of sheer boredom. One of those books had been the compilation of the most important myths from all the major Pagan pantheons, and Harry, not exactly a bibliophile by nature, devoured it in matter of hours and was left astounded. So many myths addressing similar problems, all those heroes and gods finding themselves in sticky situations… Harry couldn't help but reflect on some of them and sympathise with them, as their situations closely mirrored his own.

The myth that struck a particular chord with him, though, had been the story of Rangarök - the end of the gods. The myth had presented the Loki as the obvious instigator of the battle that killed just about every major god of the Norse pantheon, but Harry was not inclined to agree. He may have been a child in the eyes of the world, but he had already survived four attempts on his life, and he was unwilling to see the world in the stark black-and-white spectrum. In his personal opinion, while Loki whispered the idea of the war in the minds of the unsuspecting, it had been Heimdallr and his Gjallarhorn that sounded the formal beginning of the bloodshed.

Maybe, if the god had never been moved into position by Odin from which he could see the congregation of Jotnir on the edges of Asgard, the sound of Gjallarhorn would have never been heard. Maybe the war could've been postponed, or the truce hammered out. Alas, the god had unknowingly played straight into the hands of Norns and signed his own bloody end at Loki's hand.

In fact, Harry was starting to feel a lot like Heimdallr, blowing into his own Gjallarhorn and announcing the coming of Rangarök by the hands of Voldemort - Loki. When he thought better about it, younger Tom could've easily passed for the infamous trickster: handsome, talented with magic, extremely good at twisting words around.

Harry shuddered. He probably shouldn't read too much into the story. He wasn't about to die at Voldemort's hand, but if he had to, he'd sure as hell drag the bastard down with him.

"So, Heimdallr and Loki were never friendly? Not even before Rangarök?"

The old man shook his head. "No, my dear. They did share similar backstories, but while Loki grew to hate Odin and eventually turned against him, Heimdallr became Odin's Watcher, serving at his king's leisure and enjoying it."

"So, what happened? You said the Norns had predicted how the Rangarök would start." Jo's eyes were huge and round, eager for more.

The elderly storyteller sighed. He hated telling this part, but it was all part of the story.

"Indeed they did. But, remember what I told Andrew last week about prophecies?"

"'They have the tendency to fulfill themselves because we try to avoid them'," Jo dutifully recited. "I know."

"Well, this prophecy fulfilled itself exactly like that. Loki tried to avoid it, Heimdallr believed in it, and Odin did all he could to fulfill it in his favor, even if it meant his own death."

The moment Harry saw Snape utter those two dreadful words - Avada Kedavra - Harry knew with crystal clarity: his story may not match exactly to that of Rangarök, but it was certainly way too close for his comfort. The prophecy, the key players dying, the declaration of the open warfare. Harry had never felt so much like Heimdallr as he did in that moment; he only needed a physical Gjallarhorn and Viking-era clothing for the experience to be complete.

He wasn't going to let that stop him in his quest to kill Lok - Voldemort. Even if he had to die, he would definitely make sure to drag the monster down as well. It was kind of given at this point: Heim-Harry had lost too much.

And Harry did his darn best. For nine months he ran up and down the country with his friends, chasing fading and nonexistent leads to Horcruxes from one end of the Yggdrasil to the other, until the only thing left was to face his enemy with his head high and walk to his death. Not exactly a glorious way to die, but if it was for his friends, he would gladly bypass Valhalla and head into Helheim.

"Harry Potter," the snake-like man in front of him drawled, the red eyes swiping over him. "The Boy Who Lived, come to die." There was satisfaction in his voice, but also a strange disappointment, and Harry gulped, closing his eyes. There may have been no final battle for the bards write the stories about between Heimdallr and Loki this time, but then again, they had broken the myth beyond repair. Oblivion was the only destination for them all.

"And Loki just… killed Heimdallr?" Dani asked, slightly disappointed. "Just like that?"

"Oh no, not at all," the old man assured her. "You see, Heimdallr knew something Loki didn't. If Loki himself killed Heimdallr, the magical backlash would kill Loki as well, bringing back the balance and signalling the end of the war."

Jo's eyes widened. "Really?" She breathed. "Wow! So the prophecy did come true!"

"After a fashion, yes," the old man confirmed then frowned. "I believe your mother is calling you, dearie."

Jo cast a fleeting glance at her avant-garde wristwatch and gasped.

"Dinner time! I'm sorry Mister, but I have to go!"

"Off with you, dearie!" The girl rushed off to the nearby house, leaving the old man to sit at the edge of the park all by himself.

"I could be wrong, but I believe you have sworn never to tell that story to anyone," came a high, cold drawl behind the old man.

The old man sighed and turned in his seat, facing the young and handsome red-eyed boy who just spoke.

"I swore never to tell that story to a fellow immortal, Loki. Jo is completely void of anything special."

"I wouldn't say so, Heimdallr," Loki smirked. "She has a gift for telling stories. How much do you want to bet she will make your little story an epic tale?"

Heimdallr scowled, eyes shifting from green to gold. "You know I do not bet, Loki."

"Maybe you should," Loki leaned closer and whispered in Heimdallr's ear. "It would help with that dreary disposition you have. Live a little, Watcher."

"And suffer another loss like I did in that infernal war? I do not think so, Liesmith," Heimdallr snapped, collecting the cane resting by him, and smoothly rose from the ground. In that motion he transformed from the hunched old man into a youthful soldier, a horn at his side.

"You're such a bore," Loki sighed. "Ah, well. Had the Allfather spoken to you?"

"About what?" Heimdallr raised an eyebrow.

Loki shrugged. "Time is coming. The Allfather has an eye on the less… confusing dimension this time."

Heimdallr sighed. He had been against this whole process. Reincarnating into several timestreams was troublesome enough; replaying the twisted versions of the myths the mortals had assigned to them in each timestream was just invasive.

"Does he?"

"He said something about superheroes, space gems and alien invasions," Loki was unconcerned. "I say it's about time. Asgard was becoming boring anyway."

"Superheroes," Heimdallr deadpanned. "As if we need any more powers after that little stint we did as mutants."

Loki's emerging smirk was borderline feral. "Oh I don't know, I enjoyed being Magneto."

Heimdallr raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Enjoyed tossing me around by my skeleton? How.. juvenile."

"You were too easy a target," Loki snarked and turned on his heel. "Catch you… later."

"That had been my line, bastard!"