Harry Potter and the Thunder of Thor

Chapter 1

The rumors had circulated around the Halls for millennia. Even mewling babes knew of the tale. In fact, the story was so famous that even other gods outside of Asgard knew at least that it had happened.

But none of these people had ever heard the full story. Nobody had ever paid attention to the small, insignificant details.

Until today.

* * *

Hermes, Jr., favored son of Hermes, the fastest, always-prompt messenger ever to tread on Earth or Mars, frowned at the dish set before him.

"I ordered spicy!" he ranted at the poor, defenseless maitre'de in front of him. "And when I ask for something, I expect to get it. That's why they call this the Service Industry." And besides, he thought, but didn't say, I am a god.

"This is the spicy, you bet. Oh, yah, I spose it is, then."

"Well then why isn't it spicy?" roared Hermes, Jr.

"Oh, I spose it is, then."

Hermes threw his plate of potatoes and lye-soaked fish at the maitre'de, who was hit full in the face and scurried through the door. "And stay out!" called Hermes to the back of the fleeing waitress. He took a deep, deep swig of beer and belched contentedly. He always felt better after a good yell at a subordinate. The great Asgardian Psychologist Sigmund Freud had once called it better than therapy for a god, and Hermes Jr. was definitely a god.

He had no clue how wrong he was.

* * *

"All right, settle down, settle down," said Orthak Olafson, the human storyteller whose grasp of the subtleties of the Norwegian language, and who had the distinctly magical ability to speak fluently in 8 different languages at once, had brought him up to Asgard for the 4,500 anniversary of that great battle at which Thor was defeated. He was to tell the story as only one who had been there could. For Orthak had been there, and had known Harry for some time beforehand. Assuredly many things had changed since them, such as his name, but his memory was as good as ever. He had been cryogenically frozen for all this time, so as to preserve his memory for this very occasion.

The crowd was restless. Today was monumental, from the standpoint of Asgard. They had invited all sorts of other gods. The Buddha was there. Brahma was there. Christ was there, and he had brought his ensemble of Peter, Paul, and Mary, his three favorite of all the people he had met during his not-so-extensive stay on Earth. However, the Pantheon from Olympus was doing a comedy routine in New York, so they were unable to attend. But they did send messengers to record the event.

A fantastic buffet was laid out. The lutefisk had been soaking since 2083, the year when the celebration was first conceptualized. Then, in 6001, the lutefisk was taken out of the lye - which, by the way, was from the best lye year Norway had experienced ever (2076) - and finished. It was now being served steaming on silver platters - a bit old-fashioned, but there you go - along with the finest unseasoned mashed potatoes. Most of the guests of honor ordered pizza from a delivery place in New York, but the Asgardians didn't feel offended. On the contrary - more for them.

Hermes, Jr., heaped his plate with potatoes and rubbery fish. Not that he liked the stuff (quite the opposite, in fact) but he needed something to throw at this Orthak fellow should he be terrible, or should Hermes feel like it. Thor had food on his plate, food piled up to the ceiling of Asgard, but he never intended to eat it. He was too nervous. Thor himself could not remember anything from that period of time, and he hoped desperately that he hadn't made a fool of himself. That had happened far too much in olden times.

The Buddha was sitting in a double lotus, meditating on anything he could recall that had played out during the age of the famed tale. He must make sure that these nirvana-less cretins got the facts straight.

Christ was deep in conversation with Paul relating to some minor point of theology that nobody else cared about.

Brahma looked dead.

All were anxious.

Orthak Olafson began his tale.

* * *

4,500 years earlier

Harry Potter awoke with a splitting pain running through the lightning shaped jag on his forehead.

This was a rare occurrence nowadays. Since Voldemort had been destroyed, Harry had assumed that the pain in his scar would stop. And for the most part, it did. But on occasion, his scar would see fit to disrupt his precious sleep by spasming pain through itself. Harry supposed that this residual pain was due to that last, ultimate pain, the pain which was amplified by the curse itself being cast, the pain which, unfortunately, had not killed him.

Instead, the curse hit Ginny Weasley.

In reality, Harry had died that night. With Ginny in a coma, he had nothing to live for anymore. There was no reason. Sure, he stayed alive, but only on the insistence of Ron and Hermione. He only lived for those two now. And even still, he wanted to die. That was the plain truth of it. He wanted to die.

Harry unblurred his eyes, and rubbed the sleep-goop onto his nightclothes. He stepped out of his bed and into his fuzzy slippers, the best present the Dursleys had ever given him. He slowly approached the second bed in the room, and stared into his love's empty face, imagining the life they could have had, the fun times they would have shared together, and all those missed opportunities.

A drop of saline dripped off the end of his nose and onto Ginny's face.

Harry turned away, grieving. He walked out of the room, and soon loud splashes of water could be heard resonating throughout the manor.

Ginny's eye popped open.

* * *

Ron stared wistfully out the window. He saw leaves drift lazily down from the maples to the fresh cut grass, their auburn hue illuminating the grass, creating prisms of rainbow that scattered into the brisk November dawn.

He saw Fred, and George, the house dog and cat, respectively, engaging in a game of bait and... chase. George, the cat, crept slowly onto a branch and hovered patiently above Fred's head. After about five lazy minutes, during which Fred scratched himself incessantly, apparently trying to remove a persistent flea, George would pounce onto Fred, swat at his nose, and dart off into the neighbor's yard.

He saw the jets of water that emanated from the courtyard fountain puff into clouds, spray throughout the air, infecting the atmosphere with a clean - not sterile, but as if the atmosphere had just taken a bath - sensation, and then free falling back into a pool, and traversing back up the spout to do it again.

And worst of all, Ronald Weasley gazed upon Hermione, deep in conversation with Blaise Zabini, sitting there, snuggling, sharing intimate stories, stories that they were too 'embarrassed' to tell anybody else, holding hands, and simply being together.

Ron retched.

He almost turned away, but couldn't tear his eyes off of the sight of Hermione. He instantly regretted this weakness.

Hermione was leaning her head - more specifically, her lips - down towards Blaise's. Ron almost closed his eyes, but still he was enraptured by Hermione's figure, and also by knowing that this was happening. After a brief moment's hesitation, their jaws locked, and Ron heard a slight moan from Hermione. He did close his eyes then, imagining that he was Blaise, that it was him who had made Hermione moan from a kiss, that it was he who shared every intimate detail of his life with her, that they simply were together.

But that simply wasn't his fate.

Curse Fate.

Ron sighed and went back to his eggs.

* * *

Blaise Zabini noticed.

In fact, Blaise would have been surprised if he hadn't noticed. For Blaise noticed everything. And he had noticed Ron's jealousy of himself and Hermione.

Blaise really didn't like Hermione beyond friendship. Well, maybe a little beyond friendship, but nothing serious like Hermione obviously desired. But since obliging Hermione suited Blaise's own goals, he was more than happy to.

But Blaise knew that he had to both be subtle, and not move the relationship along so far that he was promising Hermione anything. If Blaise made commitment other than the one he was in currently, he knew that eventually, they would cross paths and have divergent goals. He could not afford to lose this job.

Blaise almost laughed as an overly cliche'd phrase, which actually seemed appropriate for his situation crossed his mind.

My life depends on it.

* * *

"Hello, and welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you?"

"Okay. Anything else?"

"A very good choice, sir. Will that be all?"

"Nooooooo!"

A burlap bag closed over Stacie's head, and she fell unconscious.

* * *

Sluuuurp.

Ahhh.

Splelch. Smack, smack, smack.

Yum.

Harry Potter hated breakfast.

He used to love breakfast. Breakfast was what kept him from dying of starvation before lunch. Breakfast was where he associated with friends, sharing gossip about Slytherins, sharing his dreams, pondering the dreams of others, flirting with Ginny... Breakfast had always been the most whimsical meal of the day, for at lunch and dinner, the conversation had always turned to school, or work. But at breakfast, he and Ginny could simply enjoy life.

But now Ginny was gone, and Harry wanted to die.

Now, at breakfast, Harry's porrige seemed to eat itself, for Harry himself never tasted it, but somehow the bowl was emptied. His grapefruit spoon devoured the grapefruit itself, never letting the pips touch Harry's lips. His bacon snorted and ran away to eat slop. But somehow Harry got his nourishment, and never died of starvation.

Ron sat across from him, sipping fresh squeezed orange juice in silence. Although the two were best friend, neither boy felt much like talking. Both had things on their minds that they could not share with others.

Ron felt betrayed. Almost a week ago now, he had confessed his love to Hermione, and asked her out, which almost cost him his dinner. She declined, saying, "I don't really want to go out with anybody right now. It's not that I don't like you, Ron, but I don't want to go out." Ron felt slightly depressed that he'd been turned down, but also slightly cheered by her words. He was definitely happy that she had not said she didn't like him.

Then he looked out the window.

And his already fragile heart crumbled.

Ron had attempted to tame his wild emotions by writing poetry. His early attempts had failed miserably, and his poems were crap. But then he remembered something his mum had told him once. She said, "Poems are not rhymes that are about a subject. They are an expression of feelings that don't have to conform to the rules of prose. When I write poetry..." and she broke into tears and ran to her room, muttering something indecipherable. So Ron tried that. He came up with this poem.

An ice cube slithered down my back like a basilisk,

and it's eyes gazed into mine, killing me from the inside out,

but the worst part was

the basilisk had your eyes.

I chose to gaze at them, because of their beauty,

and my weakness,

and your strength,

killed me.

Sadly I survived, but St. Mungos's cannot cure this,

only you can,

you, the heart surgeon,

and you have already rejected your scalpel,

for the sake of the snake.

Yes, it was short, but Ron was very proud. He had always before considered poetry to be a wasteful exercise, one that only losers did, and though he still thought only losers did it, he no longer assumed it was wasteful. He simply had never been a loser before.

Now he was the biggest.

* * *

Thor was angry.

Once again, he had failed to nab the right one. This - this mortal had tricked him.

Death! called out his instinct.

Rape! called out his pleasure sensors.

"Mercy!" cried Stacie.

Thor was confused. He hated it when more that one person talked to him. It made him angry. The anger suffused him, making him powerful, but blind. He swung his fists madly for about an hour.

Finally the red curtain was drawn back from his eyes, and he saw Stacie's mutilated body lying before him.

What have I done? he grieved.

His senses had returned by now. Now he saw what he should have done.

But it was too late. He had killed another innocent.

His father would not be pleased.

Thor trundled off to his phone to call Asgard for an update.

Stacie got up and walked out of the room.

* * *

Hermione slipped out of the shower and into a towel. She was happy as a clam - a lot happier, in fact, since clams really aren't that happy. Blaise had kissed her! She had been waiting for this moment for years. Ever since 7th year, the year she and Blaise had first entered into this relationship, Blaise had insited upon taking it very slowly.

Hopefully that was about to change.

Hermione ambled to her closet, and picked out a skirt with a pattern of iris embroidered on. She smiled, fondly remembering the day her mom had given her this. "I remember I made this skirt for my first date," her mom had said, "And now I want you to have it for your's." That had been the first time she had gone somewhere remotely datelike with Blaise. In reality it was her second date, but her mom didn't need to know that.

She also picked out an orangish shirt which exposed most of her back, and was colored so as to match her hair. Fortunately, it also contrasted perfectly with the skirt. Hermione also meandered to her dresser to choose her undergarments. She chose lacy white bra and panties, for these were her 'sexiest.' She wanted Blaise to be impressed, although usually she relied on what was under the bra and panties to impress boys.

Hermione snatched a bottle of perfume from the shelf above her dresser. She deftly sprayed the important parts of her with the rose scent, and then slowly placed the skirt and shirt on. She then grabbed a sweater which she had knitted herself, and pulled it on. This was the only sweater she owned which had been approved by Ron and Harry as wearable. She wished she had a better one, but there you go. That's life: You can't always get what you want.

But you can try very hard.

And Hermione wanted Blaise.

* * *

Stacie stepped out onto the cobblestone road and began to run.

She wasn't quite sure where she was going. Destination seemed to have no meaning. Her body was an automaton, moving where the road took it, but never following the road. Sometimes she would swerve into the ditch, or through a field. She never stopped, not once.

Stacie could not know that her wounds would kill her if she kept up this pace. She was not a doctor, not a surgeon. She had no idea that there was internal bleeding in both her kidneys and her liver. There was no way she could know that the lining in her stomach had split open. She could not tell that her nose was smashed in, and that she was leaving splinters of bone in her wake as she tread that unknown path normally destined for rangers.

All Stacie knew was that she had to run, and that she hurt.

But now, her body was screaming 'STOP!' Her broken thighbone grated against the lower part of her hips as her legs finally began their braking.

Purely by coincidence she stopped outside of Harry's house.