Redemption Songs Part 01 - Harry/Loki - NC17
New fiction. Oh god; stop the plot bunnies, so that I might get some studying done! I have another FrostIron fic in the works, a Thor/Harry/Loki one, and then, THEN, then I’ll get back to working on all the HP fics I left hanging. #Ashamed
Enjoy PART 1!
“Redemption Songs”
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros, et all. Avengers, Thor, Loki, etc belong to Marvel, Stan Lee, et co. I make no money from this and own nothing, don’t sue.
Summary: [HP/Loki] Loki escapes from Asgard during his punishment, and finds himself back in New York City where people still remember his face. Well, except for one man, who doesn’t know of him or the Avengers and has a strange habit of trying to save people who are beyond redemption. Like Loki, Harry has known pain and suffering, and was Mother once. And like Harry, Loki now has someone who wants to save him.
Warnings: Slash. HP/Loki. Post-Avengers. Violence. Language. Torture. Typos. Creepiness. Eventual happy ending. AU Harry Potter ending. Past LV/HP. Mpreg. Past rape. Lots of Loki feels. Angst.
Rating: NC-17.
A/N: Title is the name of a Bob Marley song: it’s good, youtube it. Also. I might have broken Loki (with all his creys and my feels and his hurts), so he’s bottoming for this fic…
XXX
“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery; none but ourselves can free our minds.” - Bob Marley.
“…love has within it a redemptive power. And there is a power there that eventually transforms individuals.” - Martin Luther King, Jr.
“However, since He took the most horrific death to redeem us, He showed us in fact that suffering and pain have great power.” - E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly.
Words: 1,439
Chapter 1
March 18th 2013. London.
The war hadn’t ended the way Harry had always thought it would.
It had been Hermione’s idea, actually, based off of something she had read in the children’s book Dumbledore had left to her in his will. Harry had later learnt that it wasn’t actually that particular story Dumbledore had wished for them to read and remember, but another, but that was the one that stuck in Hermione’s mind.
It was the magical version of Romeo and Juliet, the star-crossed lovers. But in the Wizarding World, marriages were used to end feuds between families, not hidden like Romeo’s but celebrated, resented at times, and the families that were joined were unable to harm one another without harming themselves. And that was the point that had ensnared his friend. So, when the Death Eaters had attacked the Burrow just after Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Hermione hadn’t run and hid like the majority of other guests. Nor had she attacked and defended as the Order members did. Instead, she had cast ‘Sonorus’ upon herself, and announced before friends and foe alike their surrender, on one condition: that Harry Potter marry the Dark Lord Voldemort.
Voldemort hadn’t been a bad husband, Harry had to admit. The Dark Lord couldn’t torture him, or allow others to hurt him, and Harry had turned it into a game of sorts, to throw himself in front of someone else who was being tortured and see if Voldemort could stop the curse in time, or risk injuring himself if not. He had mellowed a little, with victory, though not by much. But he treated Harry well, and his friends were welcomed to visit, though Hermione’s Hogwarts attendance had been revoked and she was made attend the School for Muggleborns with all others of dirty blooded parentage, despite Harry’s pleas and protests. Harry had, after his graduation, taken up his seat in the Wizengamot, as Lord Potter and Black and as the consort of the Dark Lord. He found he rather liked politics, for all that he had hated it as a child, and when spoken rightly to, politicians regularly found themselves falling at Harry’s feet. He had a way with words when it came to them, and Voldemort was pleased enough by it to allow Harry to help draft new legislation. It became Harry’s job. He was the law, and Voldemort the judge and jury who adhered to it; and adhere he did, for Harry was the saner, calmer, of the two and if he didn’t like one of Voldemort’s plans he said so, and Voldemort revised and revised until his husband agreed as well.
They were married for years, and though they were never in love, they were happy. Not everyone was as happy as they were though. In the fifteen years since the war had officially ended, rebellions had begun. They had been lost, and begun again and again. Muggleborns mostly, since the magical creatures were content enough under the new government and Purebloods and most half-bloods were well taken care of. But sometimes numbers were more important than the calibre of the soldier, and occasionally, the rebels got close enough to do real damage.
The summer of 2012, the Dark Lord and his husband announced that they were expecting their first child. Sex was something that Voldemort could demand from his husband, and something that his husband could not get from anyone else because he was married: occasionally, Harry demanded sex as well, when he was lonely or horny or drunk. Voldemort wasn’t fond of the activity, not looking the way he did at least, but his husband was easier to live with when he was pleased, and his husband through complete accident had ended up the master of Death. It was always to Voldemort’s benefit to keep the man who kept Death from him happy. And Harry had wanted a child. It had taken years, but Snape had finally created a potion that would allow for a natural conception between two males (perhaps not so natural, but it did not require constant spell work, nor the near complete draining of ones magic in supplicance to a fertility God). At six months pregnant, they had felt the pregnancy stable enough to announce to the public. There was no longer a risk of miscarriage, and Snape had assured them that the nutrients and supplements Harry was on would prevent a still-birth, and Harry had had a very easy pregnancy so complications were unlikely; unfortunately, the rebels chose that day to attack.
In the chaos of the attack, Harry was injured. Though he could not die, his child did. As he lay, unconscious in the real world, as his child was cut out of him and prepared for burial, Harry had found himself seated side by side with Albus Dumbledore on a bench at Kings Cross station.
They spoke of the Peverells, and of Death, which Voldemort had already known but had never told Harry. Dumbledore, in his usual omniscient manner, had informed Harry that it wasn’t the right time. The right time was yet to come, and he only had to preserver a little longer, to bear with the loss and rise above it. Harry had laughed in his face, had told him that everything would be fine. He had kept laughing, genuinely amused by the thought that he didn’t have the right to choose when to have a child, until Dumbledore had stood up and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. But it had no longer been Dumbledore, but Death, and in his arms when he boarded the Hogwarts Express was Harry’s unborn son.
Harry had woken, a week after the burial, and had done everything he could do to forget. When that didn’t make it easier to live with the loss and the hurt and the hate, he begged Voldemort to let him help hunt down the rebels. Still looking little more than twenty years old, (thanks to the Hallows but never having known why), Harry found himself once more setting out to camp in the woods and hunt down ancient relics. When each of those responsible had been killed, the majority by his hand and he never once regretted his vengeance, Harry fell back into Voldemort’s arms and begged for another child.
It was loveless and violent, but Harry relished every bruise and ache and each finger that dug into him and left its mark, because it was felt. Hurt was better than apathy, than emptiness, and if Snape’s potion succeeded a second time there would no longer be emptiness: Harry would be whole. He would be a mother again.
When the child had been conceived, there was no morning sickness, no dizziness or cramps or tiredness. Though they had used the potion just like the last time, Voldemort had been convinced it had failed, and when Harry three months later noticed the tiniest of swells to his stomach he said nothing.
Fear, like nothing he had ever felt before overwhelmed him. There was a terror so deep and dark within him, that screamed that it would happen again, that Harry could never escape it. The fear haunted his dreams, and every waking moment he saw Death carrying away his son, until eventually he couldn’t look at Voldemort without feeling like his heart was being ripped from his chest. So he had packed up his things, and taken as much gold as he could carry, and he had run.
He had gone to America, where no Wizard would look for him, because America had no Ministry, no real way of keeping track of their magic users, and finding someone who had hidden there was like hunting a needle in a haystack. It was where fugitives went to start over, because with the right magic in place (other magic, foreign magic), not even Wizard magic could find them. Harry had only meant to stay away until the child was born. He had planned to bring the child home then, to introduce Voldemort and have them both welcomed back with open arms. Harry had never expected to stay away for so long, so indefinitely, without word to his husband, who probably thought Harry had been kidnapped and killed.
But Harry had meant to go back sooner. It was just, he hadn’t exactly planned to get so distracted, that he would lose track of time and of himself and stay in America for years. He hadn’t expected to stay hidden for so long, but nor had he expected to stumble across a tortured God hiding, huddled, in a New York alleyway.
XXX
That’s Harry’s background done. Eventually I’ll write Loki’s, and then the part where they meet and shit hits the fan. I was going to post it all as one, but I’ll have to split it for Live Journal anyway and I figure this will motivate me to continue… :)
Or I will get distracted by Sherlock fiction in between losing at football to a bunch of kids
NEXT CHAPTER HERE
Enjoy PART 1!
“Redemption Songs”
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is property of JK Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros, et all. Avengers, Thor, Loki, etc belong to Marvel, Stan Lee, et co. I make no money from this and own nothing, don’t sue.
Summary: [HP/Loki] Loki escapes from Asgard during his punishment, and finds himself back in New York City where people still remember his face. Well, except for one man, who doesn’t know of him or the Avengers and has a strange habit of trying to save people who are beyond redemption. Like Loki, Harry has known pain and suffering, and was Mother once. And like Harry, Loki now has someone who wants to save him.
Warnings: Slash. HP/Loki. Post-Avengers. Violence. Language. Torture. Typos. Creepiness. Eventual happy ending. AU Harry Potter ending. Past LV/HP. Mpreg. Past rape. Lots of Loki feels. Angst.
Rating: NC-17.
A/N: Title is the name of a Bob Marley song: it’s good, youtube it. Also. I might have broken Loki (with all his creys and my feels and his hurts), so he’s bottoming for this fic…
XXX
“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery; none but ourselves can free our minds.” - Bob Marley.
“…love has within it a redemptive power. And there is a power there that eventually transforms individuals.” - Martin Luther King, Jr.
“However, since He took the most horrific death to redeem us, He showed us in fact that suffering and pain have great power.” - E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly.
Words: 1,439
Chapter 1
March 18th 2013. London.
The war hadn’t ended the way Harry had always thought it would.
It had been Hermione’s idea, actually, based off of something she had read in the children’s book Dumbledore had left to her in his will. Harry had later learnt that it wasn’t actually that particular story Dumbledore had wished for them to read and remember, but another, but that was the one that stuck in Hermione’s mind.
It was the magical version of Romeo and Juliet, the star-crossed lovers. But in the Wizarding World, marriages were used to end feuds between families, not hidden like Romeo’s but celebrated, resented at times, and the families that were joined were unable to harm one another without harming themselves. And that was the point that had ensnared his friend. So, when the Death Eaters had attacked the Burrow just after Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Hermione hadn’t run and hid like the majority of other guests. Nor had she attacked and defended as the Order members did. Instead, she had cast ‘Sonorus’ upon herself, and announced before friends and foe alike their surrender, on one condition: that Harry Potter marry the Dark Lord Voldemort.
Voldemort hadn’t been a bad husband, Harry had to admit. The Dark Lord couldn’t torture him, or allow others to hurt him, and Harry had turned it into a game of sorts, to throw himself in front of someone else who was being tortured and see if Voldemort could stop the curse in time, or risk injuring himself if not. He had mellowed a little, with victory, though not by much. But he treated Harry well, and his friends were welcomed to visit, though Hermione’s Hogwarts attendance had been revoked and she was made attend the School for Muggleborns with all others of dirty blooded parentage, despite Harry’s pleas and protests. Harry had, after his graduation, taken up his seat in the Wizengamot, as Lord Potter and Black and as the consort of the Dark Lord. He found he rather liked politics, for all that he had hated it as a child, and when spoken rightly to, politicians regularly found themselves falling at Harry’s feet. He had a way with words when it came to them, and Voldemort was pleased enough by it to allow Harry to help draft new legislation. It became Harry’s job. He was the law, and Voldemort the judge and jury who adhered to it; and adhere he did, for Harry was the saner, calmer, of the two and if he didn’t like one of Voldemort’s plans he said so, and Voldemort revised and revised until his husband agreed as well.
They were married for years, and though they were never in love, they were happy. Not everyone was as happy as they were though. In the fifteen years since the war had officially ended, rebellions had begun. They had been lost, and begun again and again. Muggleborns mostly, since the magical creatures were content enough under the new government and Purebloods and most half-bloods were well taken care of. But sometimes numbers were more important than the calibre of the soldier, and occasionally, the rebels got close enough to do real damage.
The summer of 2012, the Dark Lord and his husband announced that they were expecting their first child. Sex was something that Voldemort could demand from his husband, and something that his husband could not get from anyone else because he was married: occasionally, Harry demanded sex as well, when he was lonely or horny or drunk. Voldemort wasn’t fond of the activity, not looking the way he did at least, but his husband was easier to live with when he was pleased, and his husband through complete accident had ended up the master of Death. It was always to Voldemort’s benefit to keep the man who kept Death from him happy. And Harry had wanted a child. It had taken years, but Snape had finally created a potion that would allow for a natural conception between two males (perhaps not so natural, but it did not require constant spell work, nor the near complete draining of ones magic in supplicance to a fertility God). At six months pregnant, they had felt the pregnancy stable enough to announce to the public. There was no longer a risk of miscarriage, and Snape had assured them that the nutrients and supplements Harry was on would prevent a still-birth, and Harry had had a very easy pregnancy so complications were unlikely; unfortunately, the rebels chose that day to attack.
In the chaos of the attack, Harry was injured. Though he could not die, his child did. As he lay, unconscious in the real world, as his child was cut out of him and prepared for burial, Harry had found himself seated side by side with Albus Dumbledore on a bench at Kings Cross station.
They spoke of the Peverells, and of Death, which Voldemort had already known but had never told Harry. Dumbledore, in his usual omniscient manner, had informed Harry that it wasn’t the right time. The right time was yet to come, and he only had to preserver a little longer, to bear with the loss and rise above it. Harry had laughed in his face, had told him that everything would be fine. He had kept laughing, genuinely amused by the thought that he didn’t have the right to choose when to have a child, until Dumbledore had stood up and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. But it had no longer been Dumbledore, but Death, and in his arms when he boarded the Hogwarts Express was Harry’s unborn son.
Harry had woken, a week after the burial, and had done everything he could do to forget. When that didn’t make it easier to live with the loss and the hurt and the hate, he begged Voldemort to let him help hunt down the rebels. Still looking little more than twenty years old, (thanks to the Hallows but never having known why), Harry found himself once more setting out to camp in the woods and hunt down ancient relics. When each of those responsible had been killed, the majority by his hand and he never once regretted his vengeance, Harry fell back into Voldemort’s arms and begged for another child.
It was loveless and violent, but Harry relished every bruise and ache and each finger that dug into him and left its mark, because it was felt. Hurt was better than apathy, than emptiness, and if Snape’s potion succeeded a second time there would no longer be emptiness: Harry would be whole. He would be a mother again.
When the child had been conceived, there was no morning sickness, no dizziness or cramps or tiredness. Though they had used the potion just like the last time, Voldemort had been convinced it had failed, and when Harry three months later noticed the tiniest of swells to his stomach he said nothing.
Fear, like nothing he had ever felt before overwhelmed him. There was a terror so deep and dark within him, that screamed that it would happen again, that Harry could never escape it. The fear haunted his dreams, and every waking moment he saw Death carrying away his son, until eventually he couldn’t look at Voldemort without feeling like his heart was being ripped from his chest. So he had packed up his things, and taken as much gold as he could carry, and he had run.
He had gone to America, where no Wizard would look for him, because America had no Ministry, no real way of keeping track of their magic users, and finding someone who had hidden there was like hunting a needle in a haystack. It was where fugitives went to start over, because with the right magic in place (other magic, foreign magic), not even Wizard magic could find them. Harry had only meant to stay away until the child was born. He had planned to bring the child home then, to introduce Voldemort and have them both welcomed back with open arms. Harry had never expected to stay away for so long, so indefinitely, without word to his husband, who probably thought Harry had been kidnapped and killed.
But Harry had meant to go back sooner. It was just, he hadn’t exactly planned to get so distracted, that he would lose track of time and of himself and stay in America for years. He hadn’t expected to stay hidden for so long, but nor had he expected to stumble across a tortured God hiding, huddled, in a New York alleyway.
XXX
That’s Harry’s background done. Eventually I’ll write Loki’s, and then the part where they meet and shit hits the fan. I was going to post it all as one, but I’ll have to split it for Live Journal anyway and I figure this will motivate me to continue… :)
Or I will get distracted by Sherlock fiction in between losing at football to a bunch of kids
NEXT CHAPTER HERE