The realization struck him with the force of a hammer, but unlike the one his brother wielded, this one brought absolute clarity. The book, a simple object of paper and ink containing the words "Loki, the God of Mischief," was closed on his lap. It was an insignificant object in this mundane world, yet it had just shattered his reality and pieced it back together again. He was Loki. Not just a name. Not just a boy. He was the God of Mischief, a title he wore like a cloak of glory and sorrow. The revelation was not a surprise, but a homecoming. Every fragmented memory, every inexplicable power, every cold, distant feeling that had defined his young life suddenly made perfect sense. He was not a broken child; he was a god in disguise.
His years of frustration, of being trapped in a powerless body, had come to an end. He began to practice his magic with a purpose he hadn't known since his death. It began with simple illusions, ghosts of power. He lifted his hand, his tiny fingers tracing shapes in the air. The flickering light from the single bulb in the orphanage library would dim and brighten at his command, the filament responding to the pressure of his will. The shadows in the corner would twist and writhe, taking the form of a small serpent, a symbol of his cunning, or a ghostly dagger, an echo of his past betrayals. He was no longer just a boy causing mischief; he was a master illusionist, a weaver of lies and reality.
His magical abilities, once second nature, were now a muscle he had to retrain. He found a secluded corner of the attic, away from the prying eyes of the caretakers, and began to experiment. He learned to make small objects—a discarded button, a stray pencil—vanish from sight for a few seconds before they reappaised. He practiced his stealth, moving silently across the creaking floorboards, his footsteps swallowed by the ambient noises of the old building. He started to toy with the perceptions of the other children. With a subtle nudge of his will, he could make a boy believe he had seen a mouse scurry past, or cause a girl to think she had left her favorite doll on a chair when it was still in her hand. These were petty, simple parlor tricks, but each one was a victory, a reaffirmation that his power, though dormant, was still there, waiting to be fully awakened. It was deeply satisfying.
His perspective on his surroundings shifted completely. The orphanage was no longer a prison, but a training ground. The caretakers were not wardens, but unwitting pawns in his game of manipulation. The children were no longer playmates, but subjects for his experiments in mind games. He perfected his subtle influence, turning small squabbles into full-blown feuds, planting ideas in their minds with a whispered word or a knowing look. He was a conductor, and they were his orchestra, their little lives a series of musical notes for his grand plan. He remembered doing this on Asgard, manipulating kings and queens, but doing it here, on such a blank canvas, was a fresh and profoundly enjoyable experience.
He delved deeper into the orphanage's meager library. He read about history, science, and the mundane world. His reading was not for pleasure, but for reconnaissance. He scoured every book, looking for any hint of something more, something that would resonate with the divine power he felt within. He read about ancient Greek and Roman gods, about the Egyptian deities, and about countless folklore creatures and heroes. He found tales of Asgard in the mythology section, a narrative so familiar it felt like reading his own autobiography. It was a story of a trickster god, a mischievous figure, sometimes a villain, sometimes a cunning hero. He read about Odin, the All-Father, and about Thor, the Thunder God. He read about his own death, his betrayal of Asgard.
But there was no mention of a magical society, of other beings who could wield power like he could. These stories, these legends of gods and monsters, were just that: stories. For them, he was a myth, a character in a book, not a living, breathing being. This was a deeper betrayal than any he had ever known. He was not just forgotten; he was a parlor legend. A character in a tale. He was truly alone. Not just reborn, but abandoned by the universe. He felt a familiar rage, a comfortable cloak of fury he had not worn in a lifetime.
He wasn't angry at the orphanage or this world. He was angry at his father, at his brother, at the universe itself for forgetting him. This wasn't about conquest. This was about recognition. His goal was not to rule this world, but to force it to acknowledge him. To force it to acknowledge the existence of the gods. He would become a legend, a myth brought to life. He would find a way to make them believe in him, in Asgard, and in the gods of old.
He had to leave. The orphanage was too small a stage for a god with a grand design. He meticulously began to plan his escape. He was not in a hurry. A god of cunning does not rush. He plots. He prepares. He spent weeks observing the routines of the caretakers, their weaknesses, their habits. He noted the precise moment when the lone security guard would take his smoke break by the back alley. He used his subtle magic to create small distractions—a sudden noise in the hallway, a teacup that would rattle just as a caretaker was about to turn a corner. He watched the city through the windows, a chaotic, bustling world that was his to explore. He needed a plan to survive on his own.
He began to steal. Not out of malice, but out of necessity and a certain thrill. A candy bar from a unattended shopping basket, a loose coin from a drawer. He used his illusions to make himself unseen, a ghost slipping through crowds. The fear that had once defined his past life was replaced with a sense of raw power. He could take what he wanted, do what he wanted. Life was a game, and he was the master player.
He spent the next few months preparing. He hoarded money in a stolen sock, squirreled away non-perishable food, and even managed to purloin a map of the city. He studied bus routes, train schedules, and footpaths. His plan was to escape on his eleventh birthday, when all the caretakers would be distracted with preparations for the children's party. He would melt into the crowd of the city, and from there, he would start his ascent. He didn't know where he was going, or what he was looking for, but he was driven by a single-minded purpose: to find a source of power, to find others like him, and to make them remember. He didn't know that there were others who wielded magic. He was a god, and he was alone.
Then, a week before his eleventh birthday, a letter arrived. It was an odd letter, written on thick parchment, with a wax seal pressed with an emblem he didn't recognize. It was the first letter he had ever received. He was suspicious, but also intrigued. It was addressed to "Loki Laufeyson, Room 3, St. Jude's Orphanage". The letter was an invitation. An invitation to a school of magic and wizardry. A school called Hogwarts.
He reread the letter, his green eyes scanning every word. It was an invitation. An invitation to a world he had no idea existed, a world full of magic, and a world he was about to conquer. His well-laid plans for escape, for a silent infiltration of the mundane world, were suddenly rendered obsolete. He had thought he was a lone god in a world without magic. But the world, it seemed, had a surprise for him. The game, it turned out, was much, much bigger than he had ever anticipated.