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Chapter Text

The child refused to talk. He just sat there, knees to his chest, glaring at the wall, and flinching from all touch.

The one time Dumbledore tried to use Legilimency on him, he had nearly strangled the old wizard with chains that had risen around him, hissing like snakes.

“He’s amazingly powerful for his age,” Dumbledore had commented after they had forced the boy to take a Calming Draught, “He seems to be already capable of Occlumency with a tiny bit of Legilimency. Of course, that must have been why Shaw had been interested in him.”

Brian Xavier felt somewhat ill; out of all the Death Eaters, it was said that Sebastian Shaw was the one most prone to horrific “experiments” involving Muggleborns and their innate magic. That this child had somehow managed to escape was a miracle all on its own.

But now, since he refused to talk, and any attempts to see in his mind was met with a storm of furious magic, no one really knew what to do with him. All they knew was that he was a Muggleborn child whose parents were dead, and he had escaped from Shaw because the Xavier Mansion’s wards, tuned to distress and need, had seen that and let him in. It was unknown whether or not he had relatives that they could return him to, and the Order was much too stretched to go investigate.

There was a war to fight, so Brian just hoped that the boy would manage to find his own way to heal inside the walls of the mansion.

--

Erik could feel the brush of another’s mind against (the high, high concrete and metal walls of) his own. He had felt it since he had walked into the mansion. At first, he had thought that it was the mansion itself, like in the beginning when he had slammed into something invisible running to the seemingly empty grounds and had felt something slip into his mind (so softly, like a tendril of smoke, not like the cold knives that Frost had ripped through his mind) and then the invisible barrier had suddenly dropped and he had been let in. He had been willing to ignore that at the time since the mansion was not a person (not someone who would laugh as his partner played his parents’ deaths over and over and over to see what sort of magic he would bring up next in his fury), but when words and emotions began to bleed through (curiosity, Who are you? What’s your name?, loneliness, friendliness, We could be friends?) he had thrown up all the barriers that he could (that he had been trained to) and lashed out at the other mind (blindly, he had never been especially good at it).

There had been a small wail of pain, and then the other presence was gone, and he was alone again (as it had been since that day). But it came back quietly, day after day, knocking on the walls of his mind with tentative motions, breathing Can we be friends? It’s just, there’s no one here to play with, and Erik tried making the walls higher, thicker, tried smacking back the other mind (sometimes he would hit it, and it always cried but then sent back so many emotions of compassion and hurt feelings that he felt sick), tried burying himself, tried ignoring it, but he was getting tired.

What do you want? he finally yelled through his mind.

The other mind pulsed with excitement before bubbling, I just want to be friends!

The walls of Erik’s mind developed spikes as he became suspicious, Why?

Because you’re fascinating, the other mind promptly responded.

Erik snarled (“You are fascinating Erik, do you know that? As a Muggleborn specimen, you are simply superb. We’re going to learn so much from you.”), forming knives in his mind, Wrong answer.

Wait, wait! shouted the other mind, sending a wave of peaceful feelings with a hint of panic to wash against the walls of Erik’s mind, I didn’t mean it that way! I just meant—I’ve never met anyone like me before.

Erik paused in his efforts to figure out which way to throw the knives, What do you mean like you? he asked cautiously.

Normally, children exhibit magic by making things float, or vanishing things, or maybe causing people they don’t like to break out in boils, but I’m different. I can do this, Legilimency, which according to the books I read, normally takes years of practice, but here I am, the other mind expounded excitedly, I thought I was the only one, but you can do it too! Well, actually I think you’re actually doing Occlumency with a tiny bit of Legilimency when you’re angry, but—

Who are you? Erik cut in, putting an end to the other mind’s (almost endearing, and why does he think that?) babbling.

A small hand tapped Erik’s shoulder, and he turned around to see a small boy with wavy brown hair and the bluest (like the sky on a clear, clear day) eyes he had ever encountered.

The boy smiled and stuck out his hand, “My name is Charles Xavier. You are not alone here.”

Erik stared at the other boy (Not alone?) for a few moments before finally shaking his hand and saying, voice hoarse with disuse, “Erik Lehnsherr.”

Charles beamed at him and asked eagerly, “Do you want to play hide-and-seek with me?”

Erik flinched (running and hiding through a dark house, walls stained with blood, desperately trying to get away) and shook his head.

Charles looked at him sympathetically (a feeling like a warm blanket brushing around his mind) and suggested, “Why don’t we go de-gnome the garden then? It’s pretty fun.”

Erik frowned and asked, “How do you de-gnome a garden?”

Charles grinned and clapped his hands, “I’ll show you!”

Later, Brian found the two children arguing in the garden, covered with dirt.

“I threw it farther than you,” the boy said adamantly, crossing his arms.

“That was cheating Erik! It was going to hit the gate and then you levitated it!” his son protested, waving his hands around.

“I still threw it farther than you,” the boy (Erik?) replied stubbornly, “You can use magic too.”

“Yes, but we hadn’t said we were going to use magic!” Charles argued back, and Brian wondered if he had ever seen his son so excited before.

“Well, now we are,” the boy replied and then flashed a quick grin, “Another round?”

“Sure,” Charles agreed happily before noticing his father and waving, “Dad! You’re back!”

“Hello Charles,” Brian said, ruffling Charles’ hair as the boy hugged his leg, “Are you having fun?”

“Yes!” Charles smiled and then tugged the taller, suddenly silent again boy over by the hand, “This is Erik Lehnsherr! He’s six years old, like me! We’ve been de-gnoming the garden!”

“That’s wonderful,” Brian replied, glancing at the taciturn boy who refused to meet his eyes, “Charles is not bothering you, is he, Erik? Because if he is, you can tell him to go away.”

The boy looked up and mumbled, “No, sir.”

“Are you sure?” Brian persisted, despite the hurt looks (and thoughts) his son was sending him (Charles manifesting Legilimency at such a young age had been a surprise, and he was still worried sometimes about what a child with such magic could do. Charles never meant any harm, but he was such a curious boy).

Erik looked him straight in the eye and said clearly, “Yes. Charles is my friend.”

Brian swore that if Charles’ smile grew any wider, it would split his face in half.

“Alright then,” he sighed (Sharon was going to have a fit when she realized that her pureblood son was playing with a Muggleborn, but he could talk her around), “Have at it then and have fun.”

“We will dad,” Charles said cheerfully before turning to Erik, “I bet you can’t make the gnome spin ten times and make it go over the fence, even with magic!”

“You’re on,” Erik replied dryly.

--

Charles was getting beaten for the first time at wizard’s chess (his king was currently scurrying away from Erik’s aggressive knight), and he thought he should be annoyed (which he was, a little), but really he was ecstatic. No one had ever beaten him at wizard’s chess before since it was easy (especially with eye contact, but strong emotions and thoughts still bled through without any, which was also unusual according to all the books Charles had read on the subject, since most Legilimens required eye contact in order to look) to counteract all the plans forming in his opponent’s mind. This time however, he couldn’t get in to Erik’s mind (walls higher than the gates that surrounded the Xavier Mansion, although Erik seemed to be slowly relaxing the more dangerous defense systems around his mind whenever Charles brushed in), and while he was actually pretty good at chess even without seeing his opponent’s thoughts (there were lots of wizard’s chess manuals in the Xavier library), Erik was ruthlessly good.

“Checkmate,” Erik said, his knight finally cornering Charles’ cowering king.

“That’s amazing!” Charles burst out, patting his poor king on the head, “No one’s ever beaten me before! Did you used to play a lot?”

Erik grew still and quiet and Charles bit his lip. Erik was touchy about his past; Charles usually tried to avoid the subject (if Erik got really angry, he could strike out randomly with Legilimency, and even though Charles could usually dodge it since Erik was no Legilimens, rage and despair still fundamentally hurt), but sometimes Charles just wanted to ask.

“I did,” Erik said finally, tapping the board to get his black pieces to regroup, “I used to play regular chess with my father.”

“Oh,” Charles said softly, touching each piece to tell it to reform, “Muggle chess? It has the same rules, doesn’t it? Is it just as fun?”

“It’s fun,” Erik agreed haltingly, staring at the board.

“Do you want to play that instead?” Charles asked quickly (he knew there was a Muggle chessboard somewhere in the mansion; the Xaviers had collected many odd things over the years).

“No,” Erik abruptly replied, and softened his tone when Charles flinched, “No, I mean, this is fun too. It’s interesting watching the pieces fight.”

Charles smiles at the clumsy way Erik projects contrite thoughts and emotions into his mind (like a brush of a hand against his shoulder and Sorry, sorry, sorry) and projects back a warm wave of affection. The fact that Erik doesn’t bother to try to try to block it and lets it seep in through his walls makes him ridiculously happy (kind of like his birthday and Christmas combined).

“It is, isn’t it!” he commented cheerfully, directing his pawn to move forward two spaces.

Erik gives him a brief smile in return and is about to direct his knight to move when the doors of the study burst open to reveal a harried looking Auror Moody.

He gave a quick glance around the room, gave a misshapen grin at the way Erik already had a few lamps floating behind him, ready to hit the Auror in the back of the head (Constant vigilance! Moody’s mind always sang out), turned to a surprised Charles and roared, “Boy, where’s your parents?”

Charles blinked, “I think they’re meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore right now, why?”

“The war’s over, boy!” Moody yelled enthusiastically, “Some baby offed You-Know-Who! At least that’s what I keep hearing! I want someone to confirm it!”

Charles’ eyebrows shot up his forehead, “Really? A baby? How? What? When?”

“Are they trying to catch Death-Eaters now?” Erik cut in intensely.

Moody bared his teeth in a grin of feral joy, “We’ll be hunting them down boy, never you fear. Now I’ll leave you two to your little games and go find out if a little baby seriously took down the Big Bad Dark Lord.”

He ran out (most likely to go to the main parlor with the giant fireplace, which was the only one linked to the Floo network at the moment for security reasons), leaving the two boys stunned in silence.

“A baby! Really!” Charles finally broke the silence, running around the study to fetch some books, “Perhaps a special sort of innate magic—? But no, not strong enough. Blood magic then, perhaps—”

“Do you think they’ll catch him?” Erik interrupted, staring intently at Charles, “Do you think they’ll catch Shaw?”

Charles paused in his pursuit of research and said slowly, “I’m sure they’ll try their best, Erik.”

Erik laughed, a low, ugly sound scraped from his throat, “Is that what they were doing before I managed to get away on my own? I will be better off trying to hunt him down myself then.”

Charles turned back to the table where they had set up their game and firmly intertwined Erik’s long fingers with his own, “Listen closely, my friend: killing Shaw will not bring you peace.”

Erik shook his head and said softly, “Peace was never an option.”

Oh Erik, Charles projected softly, wrapping his arms around his friend (if he could, if there was some way, if he could somehow turn back the tides of time, he would try to erase all that had been done, but this was impossible).

Erik stiffened and drew away, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Charles insisted, holding on tighter, “I’m your friend; I should feel bad if you can’t be happy here.”

Erik huffed out a breath and mumbled, “It’s not so bad here. With you anyway.”

Charles felt a smile tugging up his mouth, but he still held on to his friend, “I like having you here also,” he confessed, “Stay a little longer?”

Erik patted Charles on the head, “Alright,” he agreed in a somewhat amused tone.

“Excellent!” Charles grinned, letting go and settling back into his own seat, “Now, let’s continue on with our game, where I will finally beat you.”

Erik snorted, shaking his head, “In your dreams.”

--

“To all those that have fallen: we salute you and your sacrifice. To the living and fighting: we still have a long road ahead, but tonight, we celebrate our victory. To Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived!” Brian raised his glass high.

“To Harry Potter!” the Order cheered, raising all their glasses high and quaffing it down.

Charles grinned at Erik as they clanked their two cups of Butterbeer together, “Do you like it?” he asked eagerly.

Erik took a sip and grimaced slightly, “It’s awfully sweet.”

“We could go down to the kitchens and ask the house elves for something else, if you like,” Charles suggested, drinking down the rest of his cup.

Normally Erik would protest (he still feels like a charity case, wandering around this mansion where each room seems to be the size of his old house), but Charles is beaming at him, Charles’ giddiness is flitting around the walls of his mind (he had a feeling that Butterbeer was more alcoholic than everyone had claimed), and all the adults had started dancing around the ballroom and singing terribly off-key (“Groove around like a scary ghost, spooking himself the most,”), so he nods and stands up to offer a hand to his friend.

Charles’ grin grows wider, and he grabs Erik’s proffered hand and stands up, only to sway and stumble directly into Erik’s shoulder, “Oops,” he giggled.

Erik smiles down at him fondly, “You are a lightweight,” he informs Charles, as he propels the both of them out of the ballroom and down into the kitchens.

“I am not,” Charles mumblingly protests, clutching Erik’s sleeve, “Butterbeer has a very low alcohillic, no wait, alcoholic content. Have to drink lots before you get ine-inebri-inebreat-drunk. I read that somewhere.”

“Obviously whoever wrote that never met you,” Erik replied, pushing open the door to the kitchen.

The house elves (odd little squeaky things that quite honestly somewhat get on Erik’s nerves, much too subservient, it couldn’t be natural) all look up and begin fluttering around them.

“Master Charles! Master Charles! Master Erik!” they all squeaked around them, “Something we can help you with, sirs?”

Charles looked up from Erik’s shoulder and expounded, “Ah, Blinky and Doodge, could you please get us some mince pies? Wadge and Coombs, some quiche, if you would be so kind? Keratin, perhaps some mashed potatoes? And Rebi—”

“Charles,” Erik interrupted, only to be waved into silence by the smaller boy.

“Do let me finish, Erik. It’s a cele-cela-celi-it’s a party! We should celebrate!” Charles exclaimed as the house elves ran around the kitchen frantically.

“There’s already tons of food upstairs,” Erik pointed out, putting a steadying hand on Charles’ shoulder to keep him from falling over.

Charles widened his eyes, “But it’s not food you like!”

Erik coughs and looks down (why? Why him? It’s true that there aren’t any other children in the mansion, since it was an Order headquarters, but surely Charles with his impish grin and endless charm could have found someone else to attach himself to, someone that was not sneered at by his mother, someone who didn’t wake up screaming from nightmares, someone who didn’t form hissing chains around him every time the door slammed).

He looks up again when Charles grabs his hand and says seriously, “Erik, you’re my friend. My best friend. And I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

And he doesn’t deserve this at all (not with all his rage, not with all his hate, not with all the dark plans he thought out when trapped in that basement), but he still squeezes Charles’ hand and nods his thanks.

Charles smiles, offers him one of the quiches that Wadge had just pulled out of the oven, and says offhandedly, “And that’s why I asked dad to take you in as a ward.”

Erik stiffened and growled, “I told you, I’m not some charity case that you can just—”

“I know you’re not,” Charles says, tone steely, the drunkenness suddenly having faded away, “I’m not asking you to stay here out of pity, Erik. I want you here. Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather be?”

He has no relatives, and even if he had, he doesn’t know if he could bear to go back to a (ordinary) life where magic (and the darkness and pain) is invisible and not an intrinsic part of him (and part of him, the part that seethes and simmers and plots, whispers that this is the best way to find Shaw). “No,” he grudgingly admits.

Charles stuffs the mini-quiche into Erik’s mouth and chirps, “Then indulge me?”

Erik rolls his eyes as he chews and swallows, “You are such a spoiled brat,” he complains.

“Ah, but you love me anyway,” Charles retorts happily as he waves over more house elves, “Everyone, enjoy yourselves! Tonight is special!”

Chapter Text

April 1982

Charles wasn’t sure why he was teaching Erik how to play Quidditch since really, he was a terrible flyer (the first time he had tried riding a broom, it had smacked him in the face, and then he’d ridden it straight into a tree), but with the aid of several books (thankfully there were diagrams that would helpfully zoom around again and again if asked), the Xavier’s ancient Quidditch kit (not all of his ancestors had been bookish after all), and the large collection of brooms that had been collected over the years, it seemed to be going well.

“What’s the point of only ending the game after the Seeker catches the Snitch?” Erik complained, floating steadily on a Nimbus 1001, “Doesn’t that mean the game could theoretically last forever?”

Charles nodded, clutching for dear life on the Silver Arrow broom (really an antique that should be in a museum, but he liked how steady and non-psychotic it was. The brooms had personalities; he always felt that the Nimbuses sensed his distaste for flying and wanted to dump him off in mid-flight), “The record, according to Quidditch Through the Ages anyway, was six months.”

Erik snorted, smacking a bludger away to hit a tree with a crack, “That’s pointless.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t want to play Seeker then?” Charles called out, cautiously propelling the broom to float closer to Erik.

“No,” Erik replied, throwing the quaffle through the topmost hoop (Charles wondered sometimes, seeing Erik’s happiness about flying, if he was ungrateful about having a Quidditch field when most children who would kill for this did not, but then again a giant library had to be appreciated as well).

“If you want to try being a Chaser, I could try playing Keeper, although I warn you that I might fall off the broom if you make any sudden motions,” Charles suggested, hoping that his innate magic would assert itself and levitate him if he fell (most of the time his magic didn’t bother, too busy peering into people’s minds).

Erik placed a steadying hand on Charles’ shoulder and said dryly, “Maybe not. Besides, watch.”

He waved his hand, and the floating bat zooms out to meet the bludger and whacks it down into the ground, making a sizable hole.

“Definitely Beater then,” Chares remarks, sincerely hoping the house elves would clean that up before his mother saw it (Mother did not like Erik; she always sniffed and said that he wasn’t really their kind, but honestly, if the other pureblood kids, besides Tony Stark because he was usually fun, he meets at parties are, then he’d rather be Erik’s kind).

Erik grins, and Charles is about to suggest that they release the second bludger and set up some targets when there’s a sharp crack and a weeping Doodge is floating before them and twisting his ears around and around.

Charles waits, but the house elf seems intent on sobbing and twisting its own ears off.

“Yes Doodge?” Charles finally asks, wondering if the elf had smashed one of the vases or accidentally destroyed one of his robes in the wash.

“Master Charles!” the house elf finally managed to squeak out, “Mistress Xavier has told me—

Mistress Xavier said—Mistress Xavier told me to tell you—”

Doodge burst out crying again, and Charles worriedly convinces the broom to fly slowly back to the ground. The house elves got very emotional over whatever they considered their own breaches of duty, but he had never seen one crying this hard.

“Doodge, what is it?” Charles asked trying to look Doodge in the eye (it was hard to read house elves’ minds, but he could sense griefsadnessgrief), “What did mother want you to tell me?”

“Master Xavier is dead,” Doodge gasped out, and then disappeared again with a crack and a sob.

Dead?

--

“Charles, you have to eat something,” Erik pleaded.

Charles gave him a blank (empty) look and turned back to stare out of the wide window.

Erik bit his lip and put down the tray of small fruit tarts and sandwiches that he had convinced the despondent house elves to make. Charles hadn’t spoken to anyone since Doodge had come with the news, but what really disturbed Erik was that he had not seen his friend cry. At first he had thought it was just shock, so he had guided a limp Charles back into the house to the library, wrapped him in all the blankets he could find (that was what you were supposed to do with shock victims, right?), searched for Charles’ mother, found her completely drunk in the parlor, left her there (just slightly disgusted), found Charles’ favorite book (The Once And Future King), bullied the grieving house elves into making hot chocolate (he thinks he should feel bad, but Charles is more important), placed the hot chocolate in front of (an awfully still) Charles, and started to read him the book out loud (“On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays it was Court Hand and Summulae Logicales…”) .

But that had been a week ago, and Charles still had not talked to him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since then. He hadn’t even felt Charles’ light touch in his mind for the past week. And he still hadn’t cried.

He thought that maybe Charles’ mother would come and comfort Charles (that was what mothers were for, “Es ist gut, Erik, es ist gut,” telling you it’s okay even when it’s not) but so far he has only seen Charles’ mother stumbling through the corridors with yet another bottle, smelled the stink of alcohol in the rooms she has been in, and heard her wails of grief at night. He’s not going to get any help there.

(He feels sad too; Charles’ father was a good man, even if he knows that the only reason the pureblood head of the Xavier family had bothered to take him in was because Charles had insisted. He had been kind, Charles had obviously adored him, and if he ever finds out which Death Eater had killed him in that raid, he will see to it that that person suffers the same fate as Shaw.)

“Charles.”

No response, not even a twitch.

“Charles,” Erik repeats, stepping behind the other boy and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Charles stiffens, and draws away from Erik’s touch, curling up in a small ball of blank misery on the window-seat.

(Part of him, the part that whispers and hates and sneers, mutters that it is fitting. That it is fair that Charles should know for once, exactly how it feels to lose something. That it is only appropriate for Charles who had everything to lose something in the war that has taken away everything Erik once knew.

But this is the part of him that Erik squashes down, and grinds his heel in for good measure. He doesn’t want Charles to go through that; he never wants Charles to experience what he endured. Charles is a spoiled, charming little brat who natters away constantly, is always curious, and above all, is his best friend. And he never wants that to change. )

He’s gone through every comforting notion he could think of (biscuits, tea, stories, Muggle fairy tales that Charles had before seemed inordinately interested in, science papers, a roaring fire, more blankets, soothing words, more tea), but Charles still sits there, staring out the window as though if he stares long enough, his father will return. There is only one thing left that he has thought of that could shock Charles out of his stupor, but he really hadn’t wanted to do it (he had sworn that he would never do it again the day he had managed to escape).

But this is Charles, this is his best friend (who made him talk again, who made him laugh, and gave him back the sense that he was more than just a specimen on a table) and this is his last idea, so he forcefully turns Charles around to look him straight in the eye (“It is easier to use Legilimency when the target and practitioner’s eyes meet. The most advanced Legilimens can perform Legilimency nonverbally and wandlessly, but less talented practitioners must use Legilimens to enter—Erik, my friend, are you even listening to me?”) and abruptly drops all the walls around his mind.

Charles’ eyes widen, and Erik feels the familiar presence of Charles’ mind cautiously stepping into his own.

Erik? Charles calls out (confusionworryworrygriefgriefgriefgrief)

I am here, Erik calls back, trying to swamp his own mind with the same feelings of comfort that Charles had (like a warm bath, but it was much harder than forming walls and knives and spikes, so he had the feeling that he was sending something much more like a sun-warmed metal sheet).

He could feel Charles lightly brush against whatever it was he was sending (he hoped it was at least blunt), and then ask Why?

Because you are my best friend. And you said once that I am not alone here, which means that neither are you, Erik replied.

He felt a small gasp in his head (“Oh, oh”), and suddenly his arms are filled with a sobbing Charles.

He patted him on the back (and felt a rising sense of panic. He had wanted Charles to start grieving properly, but what did you do when someone started crying in your arms?) and said awkwardly, “There, there.”

Charles gave a hiccupping laugh through his sobs, a spurt of amusementsadnessconfusion appeared briefly in his mind, and then, You’re terrible at this, Erik.

Erik sat down in the window seat as Charles curled up against his chest, “Sorry; I am trying my best,” he responded stiffly, still carefully stroking Charles’ back.

I know you are. Thank you, Charles gave (rewarded) him with a tiny smile through his tears.

Erik sighs and holds on and does not let go, even later during the funeral (Charles’ mother glares at him through bleary eyes, but he doesn’t care, and some of the members of other pureblood families mutter and stare, but he sneers right back at all of them, and some of the Order members try to offer their condolences, but Erik ignores them; they weren’t there when either of them needed help, so why should they care about them?) he holds Charles’ hand and lets him cry into his shoulder as Brian Xavier’s body is lowered into the ground.

And during the night when Charles clings to him and asks him through a storm of panic, Let me stay?, Erik nods and lets Charles curl up next to him in bed and falls asleep feeling, for the first time since that night, that perhaps he can focus on something besides revenge.

--

June 1983

“Charles, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” his mother says, standing stiffly in the library.

Charles looks up from the book he was reading (The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1) and frowns. The dark-haired man, Kurt Marko, who is standing there with an arm around his mother’s shoulders, has been seeing his mother for a few months now. He doesn’t like him (Erik doesn’t either, so it’s not just the fact that he’s hurt that his mother has started seeing someone a year after his father died). Every time he meets Kurt Marko’s eyes, he catches whispers of goldmoneywealth, and he hates that.

But pureblood courtesies have been ingrained in him since birth, so he stands up and shakes Marko’s hand, saying, “Mr. Marko, I presume?”

The man smiles tightly at him and replies, “Quite. And you must be Sharon’s son, Charles Xavier.”

“Indeed, that is so,” Charles acknowledges, carefully probing through Marko’s thoughts (the same moneywealthgold but this time with a hint of success, and he doesn’t like that at all).

Sharon gives a high (much too high) laugh and says, “Darling, you remember our conversation where I said the house seemed so empty now?”

Charles nods slowly (the “conversation” had been more like his mother being maudlin and drunk while he and Erik had slowly maneuvered her up the stairs to the master bedroom. Mainly he remembers the way she called Erik a “filthy Mudblood,” and how he had to talk Erik down from braining his mother with a chandelier. It had not been a good night).

“Well, now it’s going to be much more full. Kurt just asked me to marry him!” his mother says happily, thrusting out her right hand where a large diamond (he wonders where the modest blue diamond ring that the Xaviers have always used to bind themselves to another has gone) glitters on her ring finger.

He can feel the nervousnessworryhappinessworry radiating off of his mother, so he pastes on a smile (she does deserve some happiness after all, doesn’t she?) and says, “Congratulations!”

His mother grins in relief and prattles on, “Kurt has two other children, Cain and Raven, who will be coming to live with us. Oh, this is so wonderful! I’ll have to start preparations right away! But anyway, tonight we should celebrate; I’ll have to tell the house elves to prepare something special tonight, perhaps a cake—”

“Mother?” Charles asked, confused and a sudden feeling of dread (really?), “Don’t you remember—?”

His mother raised her eyebrows, “What dear?”

He swallows and shakes his head, still somehow managing to smile, “Oh, nothing. I’ll go talk to the house elves; you two go ahead and have a lovely, romantic dinner.”

He hurries away, but not before he feels the spike of fearworrysuspicion, Does he know, Does he suspect, Sharon mentioned the kid had some funny magic, does he know somehow that I’m just marrying her for the money?

He manages to tell the house elves to prepare some more food, and then takes the (his) cake outside to where Erik is examining the wards of the mansion (he had developed a sudden interest in them. Charles thinks it’s more of Erik’s worrying tendency toward “training,” especially with the Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts that he had seen him reading, but the wards are interesting).

“Hey,” Erik greets him and then frowns when he sees the cake Charles is carrying, “Why are you bringing it out here? Don’t tell me your mother banned me from the dining room now.”

Charles shakes his head as he carefully sets the cake down on the grass, “No. I think—well, it seems that—my mother just got proposed to, and she—”

“She what?” Erik prompts, his eyes dark.

Charles lets out a breath as he sits down, “She forgot that it’s my birthday today.”

They sit there in silence before Charles laughs softly and stands up, “Stupid really, I forgot the candles—”

Erik grabbed his arm and stands so that he can look Charles in the eye (angerworryanger), “Charles,” he begins, but Charles wrenches his arm away and shakes his head.

“Erik, she’s busy, she’s had a rough time as well,” he pleads (it’s exhilarating to be able to wander in and out of Erik’s mind at will since he set up a gate just for him, but sometimes his friend feels things much too keenly), “Besides, this is nice isn’t it? Just the two of us? I hate having those giant birthday parties anyway, and so do you—”

“Yes, which is why I thought you convinced your mother to have a quiet party this year,” Erik interrupted angrily, hands balling up into fists.

Charles ducked his head down, “I suppose she wasn’t listening,” he admits softly, “And with all the excitement, she forgot.”

Erik lets out a few German swear words (Erik, Charles chides in his mind half-heartedly), and focuses on Charles again, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

He doesn’t want to say it, but someone besides himself should know (and Erik is looking at him much too intently), so he quietly confesses, “Kurt Marko is just marrying mother for her money.”

“Why don’t you just tell her that then?” Erik asks, and Charles snaps.

“Because she’s my mother. Because she just found the person she thinks will make her happy again. Because I haven’t seen her this happy in a year, and if anything can just drag her away from the stupid, idiotic, imbecilic bottle, then fine! I don’t want to destroy her newfound happiness! I don’t want to ruin everything! I don’t want her to be afraid of me—”

Erik abruptly pulls him in for a hug, and Charles sobs against his shoulder and then wipes away his tears angrily. He’s older now, he should be able to handle all this, not run sobbing to Erik every time (and what if Erik gets tired of him)—

“Charles,” Erik says, interrupting his thoughts and pulling both of them down to sit on the grass, “You are my best friend, and that is not going to change. We’ll deal with Kurt Marko together, alright?”

Charles is glad his face is buried in Erik’s shoulder right now since Erik can’t see the new tears that well up (although, the cool breeze of gratitudefriendshiplove, Thankyouthankyouthankyou that he inadvertently sweeps over Erik’s mind probably gives it away) as he nods.

Erik smiles fondly, pokes one of the wards in the gate, and draws out an old yellowed book (was that why he had been interested in wards?), “Happy Birthday Charles,” he says solemnly, handing the book to him.

Charles peered curiously at the book (A History of Genetics by A.H. Sturtevant), before opening it to diagrams that refused to move and his eyes grow wide, “This is a Muggle book,” he breathed in wonder.

Erik shrugged in embarrassment, “You kept saying that you wanted to know more about Muggle sciences after you read Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles,” he explained, “And since I don’t know much about it, I walked to town a few days ago and found this book in the used bookstore, and I thought you would like it.”

“This is fantastic,” Charles said excitedly, flipping through the book, “This is the best birthday present anyone has ever given me, thank you Erik.”

Erik shrugged again (his embarrassment the feeling of warm sand spilling against skin), and gestured for the large lamp by the gate to float closer to them. He carefully lifts the candle out of the lamp, floats his pocket knife over to chop the candle into eight pieces, carefully lights each piece, sticks them on top of the lamp, and then floats the lamp over the cake.

“Make a wish,” Erik urges hazel eyes bright.

Charles smiles, folds Erik’s hands in his own, closes his eyes (Let no one come to harm), and blows out Erik’s makeshift candles.

“And now cake,” Erik says authoritatively, already floating his cleaned off pocket knife over to cut the cake.

“But we don’t have plates or forks!” Charles protests, watching as Erik’s knife steadily cuts the cake into eight huge slices (really, Erik had such fine control over metal objects, which according to Childhood Magic was a bit worrisome at his age, but Charles thought it was understandable given Erik’s past and also Erik’s magic was wonderful).

“We’ll just use our hands then,” Erik replied blithely, already picking up a slice and sticking it in his mouth.

Charles giggles, a bit semi-horrified (Mother would be furious, but it was his birthday, and she wasn’t here, and wasn’t that the point?), and then reaches out to take a piece of cake.

Erik laughs and smears some butter cream frosting on Charles’ nose.

“Erik!” Charles squawked in protest.

“What?’ Erik asked serenely, leaning over to smear more frosting on Charles’ cheek.

Charles batted his hand away and gets revenge by pasting frosting in Erik’s hair.

By the time the Blinky comes squeaking about his mother’s displeasure, both of them are covered in cake and icing, their clothing is absolutely ruined, and Charles cannot stop laughing and does not care about what’s to come as long as he has Erik at his side.

--

July 1983

The one good thing about moving to this huge mansion was that Cain could not find her that easily anymore. It’s true that now she’s living with more people (Sharon Xavier who she avoids out of a sense of guilt, and the two boys who she avoids out of fear),but the Xavier Mansion is truly huge (she found an actual Quidditch training field her third day).

However, when Cain got in a bad mood, he could be very persistent in hunting down his preferred prey.

She had ducked into the kitchens (empty of house elves since they were probably serving dinner, and she still found it odd that they had house elves now), and hid behind the icebox. If she was really lucky, Cain would get tired of looking for her and go find something else to amuse himself with (she sent a silent apology to any and all small animals around the mansion).

But it seemed her luck had run out when she heard footsteps coming down the stairs (notagainnotagainnotagain), and in her distress, she began frantically oscillating between forms (perhaps if she looked like Sharon Xavier? But why would she be in the kitchen, but it doesn’t matter because he was coming).

“Oh, hello. Mother? What are you doing there?”

It was Charles Xavier (“He has some odd magic, so stay out of his way.”), peering at her curiously.

She stands up straight, tosses the blonde hair back, and says, “Hello Charles, I was just getting some hot chocolate. Would you like for me to make you some as well?”

Xavier’s eyes narrow, he walks closer (oh god), and suddenly she hears his voice in her head saying coldly, You’re not my mother; mother never comes down here, and she certainly would never offer to make me hot chocolate herself. Who are you?

She backs herself into the corner, but Xavier holds her eye, and his voice continues to sound in her head, Who are you? Who are you?

And it terrifies her (“Freak! Freak! If you ever changed outside, everyone would hunt you down like the freak you are!”), but she doesn’t know what else to do except shift back to her usual blonde form (it’s not the form she’s the most comfortable with, but everyone would scream if they saw what she really wants to be).

“Raven?” Xavier asks hesitantly, blue eyes wide.

She hangs her head, bracing herself for the inevitable screams of horror, insults, and beatings (what’s one more after all?).

“You’re a metamorphmagus,” he breathes in a tone she has never heard before (it’s not horror, he sounds…excited?), “My god, I’ve never met a metamorphmagus before! This is amazing! You’re amazing!”

“You’re not…afraid of me?” she asks, suddenly very confused (no one had ever said that her ability was amazing before).

Charles tilts his head to the right, “Why should I be? There’s nothing inherently dangerous about a metamorphmagus. But wait, how much control do you have? How does the conservation of mass work? Can you do animal features, because I read somewhere that—”

“There you are, freak.”

Raven cowered behind the ice box as she could as Cain stalked forward from the open door. If she stayed still, very still, maybe Cain would get bored of hurting her and go away. It had worked a few times before, but it was unlikely to work this time, she thought with a wince as Cain grabbed her by the hair. Cain was in a really bad mood—

“Stop that!” Charles yelled, pulling Raven away from Cain and pushing her behind him, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Cain sneered at the smaller boy, “I’m playing with the freak, what’s wrong with you?”

“You’re not playing with her, you’re hurting her!” Charles protested, standing firmly in front of Raven.

Cain snorted, “Get out of my way, brat,” he said, shoving at Charles,

Charles didn’t budge, and Cain growled and backhanded him across the cheek, “Get out of my way,” he repeated.

“Get lost.”

Chains suddenly appeared, seemingly growing from the ground, hissing and twisting and twining around and around Cain, squeezing him tightly, as the other boy, Erik Lehnsherr (“The Mudblood ward, he may be some sort of pet. He’s not important.”) strode down the stairs angrily.

“Erik,” Charles said as the other boy made a fist and Cain let out a choked sound as the chains grew tighter, “Erik.”

Erik looked over at Charles, mouth a grim slash across his face, “What Charles?”

“You’re hurting him,” Charles said steadily, putting a hand on Erik’s shoulder, “Stop.”

“Why?” Erik asked incredulously as Cain struggled, “He was hurting you; why didn’t you bother to stop him?”

“He’s a squib,” Charles said, and Cain stilled, eyes wild with fury (and Raven knew that if he got out of those chains he was going to kill him), “It’s not fair to use our magic against him, so let him go.”

(Raven had never considered it that way; if her magic would let her do anything besides change form she would have struck back a long time ago, but maybe it was terror, maybe it was her age, or maybe it was because she was truly useless like her father was always complaining, but she had never managed it. Father had never intervened; he had always been too disgusted that both of his children were freaks.)

Erik hesitated (and Raven wanted to tell him to keep squeezing, to twist those chains until Cain’s last breath was drawn because otherwise none of them would ever be safe), and then twisted the chains so that Cain was facing him.

“Listen to me,” he hissed menacingly, “If you ever try to hurt Charles again, you will wish that I had strangled you tonight. And don’t think that Charles is harmless; if you truly provoke him, he will make you think you are a—a duck for the rest of your life, won’t you Charles?”

Charles nodded hesitantly before adding, “And if you harm Raven again, consider both of us provoked, understand?”

“Yes,” Cain rasped out, his voice filled with hate.

“Good, then get out,” Erik growled, waving his hand, and the chains slithered back down to the ground.

Cain gave them one last hate-filled glare (there was murder in his heart, but Raven had always known that) before running back up the stairs.

Erik reached over to touch Charles’ cheek where a bruise was beginning to blossom, “We need to get you some ice,” he said quietly.

Charles sighed and smacked Erik’s arm, “Did you have to scare him that much?” he asked, slightly irritated, “You looked like you were about to kill him!”

Erik began to wrap some ice in a washcloth, “Who says I didn’t want to?” he muttered.

Charles sighed again (she thought she heard it in her mind this time as well) as he took the proffered ice-pack from Erik and then brightened, “Oh yes, this is Raven!”

He pushed her forward, and she cringed in front of Erik’s blank stare (when she had first seen the two, she had been more scared of Erik no matter how dismissive Father was about him. Charles looked like other child pureblood heirs she had seen; Erik looked like he was plotting to take over the world).

“She’s a metamorphmagus Erik! You know, a witch or wizard who is capable of changing their appearance without the aid of a Polyjuice potion or a spell—”

“I’m aware,” Erik interrupted, looking at Raven with new interest, “So, that isn’t what you really look like?” he asked, gesturing at her.

“It’s what I usually look like. It’s what Father says is an appropriate image to project,” she replied haltingly.

“Then what form would you rather have?” Charles asked curiously.

She thinks that it’ll be too much (Father had seen her once like this and had ordered Cain to twist her arm until she had turned back), but it’s been so long since she has been in what she thinks as her natural form (shifting in the middle of the night does not count when she has to shift back after a few hours so that she doesn’t fall asleep like that), and so her skin ripples and turns blue with a scaly pattern (she likes the way it curves and twists around her body), her eyes turn bright yellow, and her hair shortens and darkens to red. She stares defiantly back at the two boys, daring them to say anything (to be the same as her father and her brother).

“You’re exquisite,” Erik breathes in wonder.

“Erik is completely right! It’s absolutely fascinating how far your ability can extend! Although perhaps you could put some more clothes on; it’s a tiny bit inappropriate,” Charles begins to expound, waving his hands around, “Metamorphmagi are so rare, and I have come to hypothesize that it’s a mutation, an especially groovy mutation—”

“You think that I look okay like this? You don’t think I’m a freak?” Raven cuts in (she gets the feeling that she’ll be doing that a lot in the future).

Charles actually looks dumbfounded at the question, “Of course not!”

“Charles can do Legilimency, and I can levitate metal without a wand,” Erik responds raising an eyebrow, “At this point, the real question is which one of us is the freak.”

“None of us are,” Charles said seriously, grabbing both Erik’s and Raven’s hand, “At the very most, we have odd mutations.”

Erik quirks a grin, “Mutant and proud?” he asks Charles teasingly.

Charles flashes a happy smile back at him, “Mutant and proud,” he replies.

Mutant and proud, Raven repeats wonderingly in her mind.

Chapter Text

July 1986

Raven whooped as she looped through the sky on her Nimbus 1500 and confidently tossed the quaffle at the left-most hoop. Unfortunately, a bludger hits the quaffle, and it veers off, hits the side of the hoop instead, and bounces away.

She pouts and yells, “Erik, let me practice!”

“In a real game a Beater would be aiming the bludgers at you,” Erik points out, casually twirling the bat around without lifting a finger.

“Charles!” she complains, calling down to her step-brother who was sitting next to one of the hoops, intently devouring yet another Muggle book on genetics, “Erik is using his magic again! That’s cheating!”

“Yes, yes, Erik stop it,” Charles says distractedly, turning another page of the book.

Raven sighs, scoops the Quaffle back up, and pelts it at Charles. It hits the hoop right next to his ear, and Charles jerks up and looks around.

“Raven,” he scolds lightly, closing his book and squinting up into the sky, “I was just getting to Chargaff’s rules!”

“I’m not going to even pretend I know what that means,” Raven declared, scooping the quaffle up again, “Come and fly with us! It’s such a nice day! You can play Keeper!”

Charles scoffed, opening his book again, “Remember the last time we tried that? I think I still have the bruises.”

“True,” Raven replied, tapping her chin, “I suppose we don’t want to give Erik any more heart attacks. And how are you supposed to play Beater if you won’t aim bludgers at the Keeper anyway?” Raven accused Erik, turning her broom around.

Erik shrugged, “Normally Beaters aim at Chasers; it’s common sense to go after the person with the ball.”

“Actually, my friend,” Charles called out, “I believe Beaters are supposed to aim at Keepers too since if they are distracted they can’t block the quaffle from going in, and that time Tony played with us as Keeper, you had no problem aiming bludgers at him—”

“Quiet Charles,” Erik argued, face flushing, “Tony is annoying, and you fall off the broom every time you try changing directions; I’m not about to send a bludger after you.”

“You are so sweet,” Raven cackled, darting away from Erik’s half-hearted swipe followed by a bludger.

(And they are. Erik may glower and glare all he wants, but one big, blue, wide-eyed look from Charles, and he caves into whatever Charles’ latest idea is, be it building the world’s largest pillow fort in one of the spare bedrooms, interviewing bemused portraits about their magic, or trying to create a life sized chess set in the courtyard. And Charles is never happier than when he is playing chess against Erik, mouth twitching in a way that Raven has grown to recognize as a sign that Charles is flitting in and out of Erik’s mind, and the few times that anyone has ever dared to insult Erik, Charles has made them feel like they’re covered in slime for a month. They are practically her brothers, and she knows that they love her as well, Erik tripping sneering people and going out of his way to reassure her about the beauty of her true form, Charles, despite his distaste for using Legilimency offensively, specifically making Cain feel spiders crawling and pinching all over his skin any time he tries to bully her, and it feels like what family should be like.)

“Raven, stop teasing Erik—what’s this?”

Two owls had fluttered in with letters clenched in their beaks, and were now pecking lightly at Charles for food as he scrambled up to take the letters. Raven feels Charles’ burst of excitementsurprisehappiness (the only interaction she has with him on that level; she doesn’t want Charles poking through her mind; it had been terrifying in the kitchen, and despite the three years gone past, she hasn’t completely gotten over the horror of someone being inside her head. She knows that Charles is a bit hurt over this, but he promised to stay out of her head, and she thinks that really Erik’s mind should be enough for him to pry through), and Charles is waving the letter frantically up at Erik.

“Erik!” he yells, “These are Hogwarts acceptance letters!”

“I didn’t realize we had to be accepted,” Erik says dryly as he maneuvers his broom down and takes his letter from Charles.

Charles is already tearing the letter open, eyes zooming through the words, “Term begins September 1^st …await your owl by no later than July 31^st, Erik we must reply right away! …uniform, course books! The Standard Book of Spells! I’ve read that, we have that in the library! …I’ve read all of these before! Wand, we finally get one! Cauldron…oh, an owl! That would be nice! Oh, no broomsticks first year, well there’s always next year for you…”

“Where are we supposed to buy all this?” Erik asked, interrupting Charles’ musing over the letter.

“Diagon Alley,” Charles answered absentmindedly, still digesting the letter, “I suppose I’ll have to go ask Mother to take us there…”

“Does this mean you’re going to be leaving me here? By myself?” Raven cuts in, suddenly feeling her stomach drop.

(If they aren’t here, what is she supposed to do? If they aren’t here, and Cain is here, and Father won’t care, and Sharon is too busy drinking to notice anything, and it will be just like before except worse because now she knows what a family is supposed to be like and if they are gone—)

“Raven? Raven!”

Her head snaps up, and she realizes that somehow she has flown down, she’s oscillating between her true form and her blonde form, Erik is looking worriedly at her, and Charles is clutching her by the shoulders. She takes a deep breath and manages to freeze her form back to normal, but she is still shaking.

“Raven, it’s only going to be for one year,” Charles reassured her carefully, “And Cain won’t be here; Kurt said that he’ll probably be sending him to that Muggle school Smeltings, remember? And we’ll definitely visit on the holidays and also the weekends as much as possible. We can floo in from Hogwarts, the connection is still there in the parlor—”

“But what if Cain doesn’t go to Smeltings? What if Father decides to keep him here? What if—”

“I won’t let that happen,” Charles said, his voice suddenly grown hard and his blue eyes turned to ice, “I promise you.”

(And this is why, she has learned over the years that even if Erik looks more dangerous and really could kill someone with all the metal he floats around effortlessly, Charles is probably actually the scarier one when truly angered. He looks and acts like a pushover all the time, laughing off Raven turning his hair pink, only being mildly annoyed when Erik makes his metal bedstead shake him out of bed in the mornings, but this is the boy whose magic manifested itself as Legilimency first. He can erase memories, make you do whatever he wants, make you believe whatever he wants, and even though Raven knows he won’t , because Charles has a strange code of honor that she thinks he developed from reading The Once and Future King too many times, it’s still terrifying that he could.)

“Alright,” she says finally, and Charles smiles at her and draws her in for a hug.

--

“Absolutely not.”

Inside his head, Charles grinds his teeth, but outwardly he still projects the calm, polite face of a pureblood heir (although, it was kind of pointless; the Xaviers had always been seen as blood traitors, and he knew the only reason the other pureblood families put up with them was because of their wealth).

“I’m sorry, sir?” he politely asks.

Kurt snorts, “There is absolutely no way I am letting your mother take you with your little Mudblood pet out to Diagon Alley. Forget it, you can order the supplies from here, and they can deliver it.”

Charles tamps down his instinctive fury (he had thought that pairing the feeling of slime with every occurrence of the word “Mudblood” would produce a proper Pavlovian response, but perhaps he hadn’t done it enough times), and replies calmly, “With all due respect sir, while everything else can most likely be ordered, at the very least we will have to go to Ollivander’s for our wands.”

Kurt nods slowly, “That’s true. Well, then you can go with your mother, but your pet stays here.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Charles chokes out (he is beginning to feel a vein pulse in his temple), “A wand is an essential tool for a wizard, and without one Erik—”

“You don’t honestly believe that I would let you take your Mudblood pet to school with you, did you?” Kurt asked incredulously, “I believe that the rules are owls, cats, toads, and rats, not Mudbloods.”

“Erik is not a pet,” Charles spat out, “He is a human being just like the rest of us, and he is a wizard, which means he is required to go to school—”

“We’ll say he’s homeschooled,” Kurt replied dismissively, looking through the letters on his desk, “And when he grows up, perhaps he can be a servant. He does have one or two useful abilities. And he can make sure Cain doesn’t sneak off the grounds.”

“Excuse me?” Charles asks angrily, fists clenched at his side, “I thought you said you were sending Cain to Smeltings.”

Kurt shrugged, “I changed my mind; I think we should keep all the freaks in one place, to keep up appearances. Raven will stay here as well, until she learns to permanently stay one way. Either ways, your Mudblood pet stays here, like a good dog—”

And with a snarl, Charles looks Kurt straight in the eye, and jumps into his mind. He swims easily past the thoughts of panicpanicOhMyGodWhatIsHappening (there are no barriers or weapons; this is not the mind of an Occlumens), and screams in his fury, You are going to let Erik go to Hogwarts, you are going to send Cain to Smeltings and make him stay there for the holidays, you are going to let Raven be whoever she wants to be, and you are never going to harm any of us again, do you understand me?

Kurt feebly nods, and Charles withdraws from his mind.

It’s only when he sees Kurt smile and nod happily at him that he realizes what he has done.

--

Erik is a little worried.

Charles went to go talk to Kurt (by himself because Erik could not be trusted to not attempt to stab the man every time he opened his mouth) around noon, and now it was dinner time, but neither he nor Raven had seen even a hair of the other boy. Raven had reported that Kurt had told her that Charles had left earlier and that Kurt had been freakishly nice to her, even remarking that her hair was a lovely color (“No really, it was like, ‘Your hair is a lovely color today Raven, like the color of fall leaves.’ Isn’t that creepy?”)

An even more ominous sign was that he hadn’t felt Charles’ presence in his mind for the past hours either. (He thinks it’s a weakness that he’s grown so used to Charles walking in and out of his mind when he had once sworn to never give anyone that chance again, but somehow, he can’t bring himself to close that gate.)It’s a sign of how worried he is that he finally blindly calls out with his (extremely weak and unfocused) Legilimency, Charles? Charles?

He senses a feeling of someone standing nervously at the edge of his mind before turning and hiding away, but it is enough of a feeling to propel him to the tallest tower of the mansion (why was Charles there? The only thing the tower was used for was Astronomy, and Charles was terrible at the few star charts he had tried).

He finds Charles curled up miserably in a ball in the far corner of the tower. When Charles lifts up his face, and he sees the paleness of his skin, the slight stain of vomit at the side of his mouth, he feels all the telescopes arranged around the tower suddenly melt and reform into hissing chains (this way was much more permanent, he had found), and he is about to turn and head back downstairs (to find that bastard and kill him for whatever he had done to Charles), when Charles grabbed his hand and ran frantically into his mind.

No, don’t Erik! He didn’t do anything! It was me, I—I did something terrible, and I think—I think I’m dangerous, and you have to go, you can’t stay here with me, I’m not safe—

Erik frowns and draws his hands down Charles’ arms, “What happened? What do you mean, ‘you’re not safe’?”

Charles bites down on his (already bloodied) lip and withdraws slowly from his mind and tries to turn back to the wall, but Erik forces him to stay.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong,” he said steadily, trying to make Charles look him in the eye.

“Kurt was—he was saying bad things about you,” Charles began blankly, staring at his hands, “He said that he wasn’t going to let you go to Hogwarts, wasn’t even going to let you get a wand, he said you were going to stay here, and that Cain was going to stay here too, and that Raven was never going to leave until she mode-locked, and he kept calling you things, and I was so angry, so I reached out and I—and I—” he broke off, looking at Erik desperately.

“And you changed his mind,” Erik said slowly, piecing the clues together, “And that’s why he was so nice to Raven when she saw him. What did you tell him?”

Charles curls up even further, knuckles white as he clutches his own arm, “I told him that he was going to let you go to Hogwarts, send Cain to Smeltings, let Raven be whatever she wants to be, and that he wasn’t going to harm any of us anymore,” he says dully.

Erik stares at Charles for several tense minutes (It is scary, that Charles could completely change someone like that. And yes it’s terrifying to know exactly what he’s capable of, yes the possibilities are horrifying to dwell on, yes Charles has enough magic to turn into a monster, but he won’t. He can’t, because first of all, Charles is Charles, and secondly, he’d never let him), and Charles is drawing away and radiating miseryhorrordespair, but then Erik firmly tugs him back and draws him into a hug, “You did what had to be done,” he tells Charles adamantly.

Charles shakes his head, “Don’t you get it? Don’t you see? I forced him to do all that! I used compulsion on him! That’s tantamount to using the Imperius Curse, and that’s an Unforgivable Spell, and I should go to Azkaban for this—”

“For what?” Erik replied harshly, “For forcing an abusive father to change his ways? For stopping him from ruining people’s lives? They should be giving you a medal.”

“But what if I get that angry again?” Charles wailed, trying to get out of Erik’s grasp, “What if I get angry at Raven? What if I got angry at you? What stops me from doing this again and becoming something like—like Frost?”

Erik’s grip tightens, and this time he does manage to force Charles to look him in the eye, You will never become that, he projects angrily as he swings open the gates of his mind, Don’t even think like that.

Why do you think that? Why do you believe that? Charles despondently asks, standing by the gate, making no move to go in.

He doesn’t know how to put it in words, so he sends flurries of memories through the gate (It’s his birthday, and Charles has gotten him a new chess set that they promptly begin playing with/Charles’ hair is pink because of Raven, and he can’t help snickering as Charles turns it green while trying to figure out how to turn it back/They’re playing Quidditch, and Charles is falling off of his broom and he stops breathing/Charles is bored out of his mind at another pureblood party and is being mildly disapproving as he, Raven, and Tony Stark rig the ballroom with nearly invisible chains/Charles is frowning, and Lucius Malfoy is now wearing the horrified expression of someone who feels slime dripping down their back and clumped in their hair/Charles is looking confused as the suit they had set up as the knight of their life-sized chess board blows up/Charles is earnestly asking the portraits about what magic they could use when they were alive and if they could describe it in detail/Charles is clinging to his arm and begging him to read to him again—).

Charles examines each memory with the care of a shopkeeper with a glass figurine before saying, You think that I’m too good of a person to turn into a monster, but doesn’t today disprove that? Isn’t it possible that one day, I could be completely out of control?

Today just proves that if you are really angry, you will fight to protect someone, Erik responds furiously, And all of us could one day be completely out of control. It’s always going to be a possibility.

Charles asks wonderingly, Why aren’t you scared of me?

(And perhaps he should be, and after all he had been when he had first met him, terrified out of his mind about someone getting in again, but that had been before. Charles’ gentle, happy touch is nothing like to the ice cold, brilliant knives Frost had used to scour his mind with, and it had taken a leap of faith and desperation to let him in, but now he cannot bring himself to be scared of the boy has looked in his mind and found something there to care for.)

He fills his mind with the sense of exasperated fondness (warm salt water splashing against skin) and replies simply, I know you. I know why you did that today, and if you ever do it again, I expect I will know why too. I know that you will always have a reason, and that that reason will at least be justifiable, and I’m not leaving you here alone with your guilt. I am here, and you are not alone.

“Besides, I can’t be scared of someone who can’t even change directions on a broom without falling over,” he says out loud, stroking Charles’ hair.

Charles gives a muffled snort and says in a small voice, “You might be getting better at this whole comforting thing.”

Erik smiles, and hugs Charles closer, stroking his back until his breath evens out.

(Raven finds them later like that, fast asleep, Charles head tucked into Erik’s shoulder, and Erik’s chin on top of Charles’ head, hands intertwined. She giggles, takes a picture, and the next day she’s dangling it in front of them, and then zooming away on a broom, with Erik in embarrassed hot pursuit.)

--

Mother had been too drunk (“Whatsit? Diagon Alley? What?”), Charles still felt sick every time he looked at Kurt (Erik kept sending him reassuring thoughts that felt like sun-warmed metal, and although Raven had been somewhat disturbed when they had told her, she had told him that if she could, she probably would have done that to Kurt herself a long time ago), and it would have brought up too many questions had they asked the Starks if they could come along, so they had decided to go to Diagon Alley themselves, with some money taken from the Xavier safe in the house, and Raven disguised as an adult.

There had been a few issues with this plan, the first being that Erik did not want Charles to pay for his school supplies.

“But it’s really no problem—”

“No.”

“But the school supplies are quite expensive—”

“No.”

“I could—”

“No.”

Erik had his pride, and he had his own small cache of money made from delivering papers in the Muggle town nearby, so Charles chalked this up as a lost cause.

The second issue was that Raven didn’t act much like an adult.

“Ooh, ice cream! Let’s go get some Charles!” Raven pleaded, tugging on his sleeve despite the fact that she towered over him in high heels.

“Later, we need to get the rest of our supplies Raven,” he said patiently, turning their little group toward Madam Malkin’s.

In Ollivander’s Wand Shop, Erik smashes windows, blows a hole in the roof, and sets several tables on fire (“Definitely not unicorn hair then.”), before finally settling on a 14 inch blackthorn wand with silver coiled around the handle and a core of dragon heartstring (“Ah perfect! A bit on the inflexible side, and that was the dragon that nearly bit my head off!”). Charles only knocks over several shelves and breaks a vase before having a warm feeling toward a 11inch willow wand with a core of a phoenix feather (“Quite flexible, and that phoenix was the most polite I have ever met.”) Raven eyes the wands longingly before Charles quickly pays and ushers them out of the shop.

In Magical Menagerie, Erik picks out a stern eagle owl with curved black markings over its eyes (“I think I’ll call him Magneto”), Charles takes a liking to a friendly tawny owl that nips teasingly at his ear (“I think Hoot is a lovely name for you—” “You’re lame Charles, he totally should be called Professor X.”), and Charles caves to Raven’s pleas and huge puppy eyes (she had discreetly morphed into the form of a tiny girl with gigantically large golden eyes) and ends up buying her the light blue half-cat half-kneazle that purrs happily in her arms (“Her name is Mystique!”).

They end up eating ice cream at Florean’s, and Raven asks through a mouth full of Neapolitan ice cream, “Which house do you guys think you’re going to be in?”

Charles ponders the question, carefully eating his pistachio ice cream, “Most of the Xaviers have been in Ravenclaw,” he explains, “Curiosity and all that. But we’ve had a few in every house really, so I think I could go in any.”

“You’re going to end up in Ravenclaw,” Erik snorted, biting into his ice cream sandwich, “I don’t know which I’ll be in; all I know is that it can’t be Slytherin.”

“I don’t know about that,” Charles said contemplatively, “For all that Slytherin says it values supposed blood purity, there is no way that all of Slytherin house is pureblood; there simply aren’t enough of them. Besides, shrewd, cunning, and resourceful sounds a lot like you Erik.”

“But didn’t You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters all come from Slytherin?” Raven asked, wide-eyed.

“That doesn’t mean that Slytherin is a bad house,” Charles said carefully, watching Erik’s sudden stillness, “You-Know-Who probably just found it easier to recruit in his own house, which is why there are so many Slytherin Death Eaters. Every house has its share of rotten apples.”

“Perhaps,” Erik said neutrally, finishing off his snack.

(Charles knew Shaw had never attended Hogwarts; he had gone to Durmstrang, and Charles had to talk Erik out of going there for investigative purposes, pointing out that Durmstrang didn’t even take Muggle-borns, and yes he agreed, that it was a stupid, out-dated rule, no he couldn’t somehow forge the papers to get in, and Erik was still coming to Hogwarts with him.)

“I think I want to be in Gryffindor; I heard they have the best Quidditch team,” Raven decides, slurping up the rest of the melted ice cream.

Charles smiles and says, “Well whichever house we’re in, we must keep seeing each other.”

“Of course,” Erik agrees, eyes warm.

--

September 1986

“Charles! And Erik! Man, is it good to see you two!” the dark haired boy with sunglasses on yelled as he slammed open the door of the compartment.

Erik pinched the bridge of his nose. Tony Stark was loud, brash, and had an ego the size of Mars. He was also one of Charles’, and by extension Erik’s, oldest friend(although it was more like partners in crime since the only times they generally met was during long, boring pureblood parties). This didn’t mean Erik didn’t find him irritating at times.

“It’s good to see you Tony!” Charles exclaimed beaming up at him from his curled up position with a book, propped against Erik, “How have you been?”

“Great! Especially with all of the hotties I’ve seen on the train,” Tony replied, flopping down on the opposite seat and waggling his eyebrows, “There was this babe—”

“Excuse me, but can I sit here? The other compartments seem to be full,” a red-haired girl poked her head in and asked politely.

“Like this one!” Tony exclaimed dramatically, waving the girl in, “Sit! Sit! What’s your name?”

The girl sat down next to Tony and calmly introduced herself, “My name is Virginia Potts, but most people call me Pepper.”

Tony nodded seriously, “Pepper; it suits you. Pepper, if you were a Dementor, I’d become a criminal just to get your kiss.”

Charles put down his book to goggle at Tony, Pepper looked torn between laughing or leaving, and Erik broke the ensuing silence by incredulously saying, “Do you even listen to the drivel that comes pouring out of your mouth?”

Tony dramatically clutched his chest, “I’m hurt, Erik, really, I’m hurt.”

“Please don’t mind him,” Charles said, offering a placating grin at Pepper, “He’s harmless, really.”

“Unless you let him near mechanical things,” Erik mutters.

“The nice one there is Charles Xavier, heir of the Xavier family. The deadbeat is Erik Lehnsherr, a ward of the Xavier family” Tony says waving at the two of them, “And I am Tony Stark, heir of the Stark family.”

Pepper’s eyebrows shot up, “You’re part of the Stark family? The one that owns companies in the Muggle world as well?”

“Please don’t inflate his ego anymore,” Charles begged as Tony preened, “Yes, he’s the last scion of the Stark family, and yes, we know it’s all doomed.”

“Hey!” Tony protested, shoving his sunglasses down, “I built a robot this summer that can lift things mechanically and levitate them. What did you guys do? Did you ever finish that chess set?”

“It kind of blew up on us,” Erik replied dryly.

“We thought we’d try to see how it worked with wands, but we ran out of time. Mostly I read, and Erik and Raven played Quidditch,” Charles said absentmindedly, turning the page.

“Oh Raven,” Tony whistled obnoxiously, “Now there’s a hottie, and in a few years—”

“You are never dating my sister Tony,” Charles said sweetly while Erik forced Tony’s sunglasses to poke him in the eye.

Tony pouts as Pepper clears her throat, “So, Charles is the nice one, Erik is scary, and Tony is a womanizer. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Yes,” Tony said, grabbing Pepper’s hands emphatically, “My love for you burns like a dying phoenix.”

Pepper smiles tightly, “That means that it will go out soon, thank god.”

--

There are too many things he wants to research right now (the boats, how did they move on their own? How did the enchantment on the ceiling work? Was the Sorting Hat actually sentient, or was it just a charmed hat? Did it just sit around and come up with songs all year?), but when Erik gets called up to the Sorting Hat, he quickly slips into Erik’s mind (just to see what’s going on, he doesn’t actually go in through the gate).

Hm, interesting. Very interesting, the Sorting Hat muses, you have bravery, resourcefulness, cunning, and a protective instinct for a few. You would make an excellent Slytherin, if you do not mind some hard times ahead.

Charles feels Erik’s fingers clench around the seat of the stool and contemptuously say to the Hat, I will never be afraid of that.

“Good, then SLYTHERIN!” the Sorting Hat booms.

Very few of the Slytherins clap (the pureblood families all know about the Muggleborn boy the Xaviers took in, more signs of their blood traitor status), many of them are openly gaping at him, but Erik holds his head high (defianceanger, I am better than all of you) as he walks and sits down at the table.

An Armando Munoz is next sorted into Slytherin (there is more applause; he is presumably at least half-blood), and after a few more names, so is Pepper Potts (most likely also a half-blood). Tony is the next one to sit on the bench with a big grin, and after a few minutes, the Sorting Hat opens its mouth and yells, “RAVENCLAW,” in a slightly aggrieved tone.

He is the last to sit on the bench, and the Sorting Hat begins to murmur in his mind, Ah, an Xavier! Most of you go to Ravenclaw, and I see that you are as curious as the rest of your family. That would be the best place for you, but you would do well in Hufflepuff too.

Charles shakes his head, I think I would like Ravenclaw, he tells the hat politely, I want to research things, and I have a friend there.

“Alright, RAVENCLAW!”

As he sits down next to Tony (who grins and whispers, “The Hat said I was brave and smart, and I said of course I’m brave and smart, I’m Tony Stark, and I started listing all the stuff I’ve done, and it got kind of annoyed at me in the end, don’t know why.”) he catches Erik’s eye in the midst of the crowd, and knocks on the gate to his mind, projecting, We are always going to be together, no matter what.

Erik easily lets him in and replies, Of course we are.

Chapter Text

September 1986

Pepper had been half-joking when she had said that Erik was the scary one since really all the tall boy had done on the train was glower and make Stark’s sunglasses jab him in the eye, but now she was seriously reconsidering her opinion on him.

Erik didn’t seem to care or really even notice the way other Slytherins muttered, “Mudblood,” in his wake, or the way they glared at and shunned him, or even when they called him, “Xavier’s pet,” but when a sneering 6^th year had tried to cast a knee-reversal hex on him, he had pushed another Slytherin boy in front of him, pointed his wand at the chandelier, and caused the whole thing to come shuddering down as a huge metal spider that pinned the whimpering 6^th year boy to the ground.

A few other older Slytherin boys draw their wands at that point, and the spider turns and clicks menacingly at them. Ten minutes later, Professor Snape is glaring (much scarier than the other Slytherins) at a defiant looking Erik who is standing next to his metal spider, with the five older boys sprawled out on the ground around him in varying states of pain (Erik had been very quick in ducking, rolling, shoving his opponents into the line of fire, and directing his spider to bite and snap, and she wonders where he learned all of that).

“What is the meaning of this?” Professor Snape asked coldly.

The older boys groaned and looked away (it had to be embarrassing to be beaten by a first year), the other Slytherins were shuffling around nervously (since when could a first year do that?), and Professor Snape looked furious enough to go ahead and give everyone detention until the end of the school year. She was beginning to consider explaining when Armando suddenly spoke up.

“Sir, Capulet tried to hex Erik, so Erik was trying to defend himself, then Capulet’s friends got involved when it looked Capulet got trapped by the spider, and then Erik fought them off,” Armando said, stepping forward.

Professor Snape’s mouth curved into a sneer, “Is this true?” he addressed a miserable looking Capulet with a puffed up face (she thought he had been in the line of fire for a Stinging Hex), “Were you beaten by a first year?”

“Stupid Mudblood set some spider on me,” Capulet muttered angrily.

Professor Snape’s mouth tightened, “And with all of your prodigious skills, you couldn’t even beat a spider?” he drawled, “You couldn’t have perhaps vanished it? Transfigured it into something else? Levitated it elsewhere?”

“Well, yeah I guess—”

“But instead you cowered like a little girl confronted with a cockroach,” Professor Snape finished contemptuously.

Capulet flushed red and turned his head away.

“Detention for all of you every night with Mr. Filch for the next two months, and after that hopefully you will be able to show the basic competence of perhaps a fourth year,” Professor Snape declared, eyes sweeping disdainfully around the five older boys, “Any further trouble, and I will be forced to personally oversee your detentions, and I assure you I have better things to do with my time, and I will therefore be very displeased. Take yourselves to Madam Pomfrey for the time being. And as for you Mr. Lehnsherr, clean up this mess and report to my office.”

Professor Snape sweeps out of the room, the older boys sulkily limp out, and Capulet turns to glare at Erik only to be faced with the flashing pincers of the spider and runs away. Erik calmly points at the spider with his wand, and the spider skitters back up to the ceiling, settles in, and lights up.

“Aren’t you going to turn it back?” Pepper finally opens her mouth to ask as Erik turns to leave.

“I don’t know how,” Erik replies shortly and then turns to Armando, “Why did you talk?’

The other boy grins, “Not exactly fair is it, five sixth years against one first year?”

“If you cared about fairness, you should have gone to Hufflepuff,” Erik retorted.

Armando shrugs, “The Hat did consider putting me there, but in the end I thought I would do better here. I’m good at adapting to situations; my friends call me Darwin.”

“The Muggle scientist that studied evolution,” Erik said, studying Armando carefully, “You are a half-blood.”

“Mother believes in a balanced education; she’s a Muggle science teacher,” Armando said easily, “That’s not going to be a problem around here, is it?” he asks, pointedly looking around the room.

The other Slytherins refuse to meet Armando’s eye (blood purity is the basis of Slytherin house, but so is power), but Pepper has had enough of this (honestly, if he could do spells non-verbally as a first year, did it matter anymore where he came from?), and she snaps, “Obviously not; it’s magic that counts, not blood.”

Erik flashes a shark-like grin at everyone around the room as he waved at the chandelier spider that was clicking above them, “Then we’ll be fine.”

The next day, Professor Snape assigns Erik and her to be Potions partners.

While she is crushing the snake fangs, she asks, “How did your meeting with Professor Snape go?”

Erik gives her a long-suffering look, “Don’t start,” he mutters, measuring out the Flobberworm mucus.

“Because you already had a discussion with Charles Xavier about it?” she asks shrewdly, mixing the dried nettles into the potion.

Erik looks vaguely startled, “How—?”

She smirks, mixing in the snake fangs, “I don’t think anyone missed the sight of a Ravenclaw making a Slytherin sit down with him at breakfast and having a frantic conversation that involved a lot of gesturing toward Professor Snape and a few injured Slytherins.”

Erik nods grudgingly, lifting the cauldron up and adding the porcupine quills, “We talked.”

“He wasn’t happy?” she guessed, pouring in the stewed horned slugs.

“He’s Charles,” he replied dismissively, turning up the heat, “He doesn’t like fighting. Why do you want to know?” he asked suspiciously.

“I just wanted to make sure my potions partner isn’t distracted when in trouble with a professor or fighting with his best friend,” she replies lightly, leaning over to take the cauldron off the heat as the Boil-Cure Potion turned red.

He snorted, keeping the heat steady, “I’m not in trouble; I was just advised to talk to Flitwick about extra lessons. And Charles and I are not fighting; worry about yourself. If we continue to heat this until it turns pink, it’ll be more effective.”

She sits back and smiles at him, “I look forward to working with you, Erik Lehnsherr.”

--

It’s fun being at Hogwarts. True, Erik isn’t in the same house (and he had seemed to have some problems in Slytherin, but now everyone had learned to either tolerate him or was just plain terrified, and Charles should probably disapprove, but he prefers people to be scared of Erik instead of attempting to curse him), Raven’s not here (but like they promised they visit every weekend for at least an hour, and even if she seems lonely, she does seem unharmed), he has a tendency to fall asleep in Astronomy (it’s at midnight, he can’t help it), the Defense Against Dark Arts professor is odd (“Drippy,” Erik deems her, “Children, today we will be learning about the music of the night and how it affects us all!”), History of Magic was rather dull even for him (everyone needs his rather subpar notes), and flying lessons are a total disaster (he manages to figure out how to change directions slowly, but he had ended up in the hospital wing when Madam Hooch had insisted them on going faster. Professor Snape had evidently had to intervene before Erik had set his chandelier spider on the flying instructor), but everything else is lovely. Transfiguration and Charms are his favorite subjects, he’s learning so many new things in Herbology (they didn’t have half these plants in the mansion), and he really loves Potions (even if Professor Snape has a tendency to take points off for rather minor mistakes and seems to dislike experimentation).

“Can I see your star-chart Erik?”

“Hey Pepper, did you learn the Confundus charm today?”

“Stark. We don’t learn that until fourth or fifth year, I believe.”

“Well you must have learned it, and you must be using it on me, or are you just naturally mind-blowing?”

“…I think that was the most terrible one yet.”

“No, no, I thought the ‘Being without you is like being afflicted by the Cruciatus Curse’ was rather worse.”

In addition, he is meeting many new people, which considering how before the only people he had ever met around his age were pureblood heirs and Erik and Raven (and Cain he supposes, who he has heard is fitting right in to Smeltings), is nearly as exciting as the classes (and the library! He had not quite yet managed to charm or persuade Madam Pince to let him into the Restricted Section, but perhaps if he mastered Switching Spells soon, Professor McGonagall could be convinced to give him a permission slip).

Pepper Potts is an efficient girl, neatly making lists of assignments and homework and using different colored ink to carefully underline key sections of her notes. She is unflappably calm for the most part, casually blocking any spells thrown her way (it seemed that sneak attacks were still common in Slytherin) with a surprisingly vicious Tarantallegra, and is never fazed by Erik’s bad moods or sarcastic comments. (He’s a little amazed that she hasn’t run away screaming from their group, but Pepper simply raises an eyebrow and tells him that in terms of competition and insanity, Hogwarts had nothing on her old all-girls primary wizarding school) Plus, he’s never met someone who could completely ignore Tony before (unfortunately for Pepper, this only inflames Tony’s passion towards her, and Charles occasionally felt like stunning Tony so that he wouldn’t give them any more brain damage from terrible pick-up lines).

Armando Munoz, also known as Darwin (such an excellent nickname), is good-natured and seems skilled in every subject. He is absolutely elated when he finds out that Darwin’s mother is a Muggle science teacher; he’s never really been able to ask anyone about Muggle inventions and science before (Erik only has vague memories, Tony starts talking about semi-conductors and super-computers and eventually Charles can only understand every other word in Tony’s enraptured speech, and Pepper’s dad had been a Muggleborn wizard thoroughly entrenched in the wizarding world). Darwin can’t answer all of his questions, but he does promise to owl his mom for books, and he absolutely cannot wait until they arrive. (It’s also good that Erik has another friend in Slytherin; he did worry with all the rumors he heard. He feels reassured that someone else has Erik’s back besides Pepper, especially since Darwin can cast three Leek Jinxes in a row with his back turned).

Besides their odd study group, Charles had also met an interesting Hufflepuff named Logan Howlett. Although by met, it was more like he and Tony had been the only ones willing to partner with the wild-looking boy in joint Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff Herbology classes (Ravenclaws always had joint classes with Hufflepuffs, never Slytherin. Erik had suggested once that that was because the teachers were scared that with Ravenclaw intelligence and Slytherin cunning, the students would do a coup-d’état and take over the class). Everyone at this point had heard about the first year in Hufflepuff who had punched, kicked, and bit his way out of a group of bullying Gryffindors, shrugging off spells as though they were mosquito bites. The World’s Most Vicious little Hufflepuff still hasn’t spoken more than maybe thirty words to either of them, but Charles chalks that up to Tony being annoying (“If I built a flamethrower that used Incendio, do you think it’d do twice the damage? Do you think Pepper would be impressed?”). Logan seems to be a bit surly and taciturn (“A bit? Charles, I don’t think anyone has heard the Wolverine say anything besides, ‘Thanks,’ ‘Hey,’ ‘Back off,’ and ‘Fuck you.’”), and the one time both he and Erik had met in flying lessons had somehow resulted in Erik with a broken nose and Logan stuck in a tree (“Were you trying to send him into the Whomping Willow?” “Maybe.”), but he does his part of Herbology projects in a timely if terse fashion, so Charles is willing to cut him some slack.

All in all, he’s having a wonderful time.

--

December 1986

Erik is slightly annoyed, and he’s not entirely sure why, which only serves to make him feel more annoyed.

The first term had gone well; there is still the occasional insult and curse, but after he had transformed nearly all of the Slytherin common room’s chandeliers into metal spiders (he still doesn’t know how to turn them back, and Snape doesn’t seem to care), and Pepper and Darwin had hit a few people with their favored spells, the attacks have mostly laid off. Classes are fine; Transfiguration is a bit difficult with anything besides metal to metal (which is unfortunate when their main task is to change matchsticks into needles), Charms is interesting (and Professor Flitwick had been astounded over the spider chandeliers that Snape had shown him, so he got more advanced work to do, which had made Charles ever so pleased at him), Potions isn’t that bad since Snape will never take points off of his own house (which he acknowledges is a bit unfair given the amount of sheer effort Charles puts in that results occasionally in explosions and negative points but mostly results in innovations, such as a Boil-Cure Potion that also cures acne that Snape only grudgingly accepts), flying lessons are fun if not especially helpful, Herbology is dull but tolerable, History of Magic is his biweekly nap (supplemented by Charles’ hazy notes), although the less said about Defense Against the Dark Arts (“You have to believe in the power of love!”) and Astronomy (mostly spent prodding Charles awake) the better. Most of his free-time is spent exploring the castle with Charles, followed occasionally by Pepper (and therefore Tony) and Darwin (“Do you think we could install moving staircases in the Xavier Mansion?” “You and Raven would enjoy it far too much.”) He had spent most of the Halloween Feast talking Charles out of interrupting the band of dancing skeletons for research questions (“Charles, no one is going to appreciate you interrupting the skeletons.” “But Erik, think of the possibilities!” “I am, and they all end with you getting hexed by an annoyed fan.”), and when he had gone to watch some of the Slytherin Quidditch games, he is sure that he can make Beater next year given that their current ones only ever seem to manage to hit a Bludger at someone by accident. They’re on Christmas Break now, reunited with a joyful Raven, and they have no homework, and yet Erik feels slightly irritated every time Charles opens his mouth to talk.

“And so Tony and I tried to talk to Grey Lady, but she floats away any time we try to ask her questions,” Charles complains, regaling Raven with stories from Hogwarts, “Tony was thinking about building a machine that could trap ghosts, but I said that that was quite—Erik, my friend, is something wrong?”

Erik starts, focusing back on a confused looking Charles, “I’m fine, why?”

“It’s just you had the oddest expression on your face; are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Charles asks worriedly, reaching out to touch his forehead.

Erik lets Charles take his temperature and rolls his eyes, “I feel fine,” he replies shortly, batting Charles’ hand away, “Stop fussing.”

“Alright then,” Charles says giving him one more worried look before turning back to Raven and continuing, “Anyway, and then we went to go meet Logan, who everyone ridiculously calls Wolverine honestly, in the library to finish up the project for Herbology…”

(And there it is again, that stab of irritation, that thought of resentment, that feeling of Look at me look at me, which he thinks is childish. He spends nearly all of his time with Charles; it’s been that way for a long time. Why he feels annoyed cannot be because of jealousy because that is just stupid and childish and—)

“Are you done sulking yet?” Raven asks, leaning over his chair to peer at him.

“I’m not sulking; I’m thinking,” Erik shot back, well-aware that his argument was weakened by his pinched expression and moody crouch in the armchair.

Raven shrugged, “Well, whenever you’re done ‘thinking,’ come help me hide Charles’ present. I need to find a new hiding place.”

(It had been Charles’ idea the first Christmas, hiding the gifts around the mansion and then searching for them Christmas morning, mostly because the sight of six presents beneath the huge tree was just slightly pathetic. It always ends with Erik finding his presents first since Charles and Raven are easy to predict, Charles giving up and digging through Erik’s mind to find the locations, and Raven turning the house upside down until either she finds it or they are forced outside by either Sharon or Kurt, in which they tell Raven where the presents are and then promptly start a snowball fight.)

He sighs and stands up, “What did you get him?”

“A model of the universe since I keep hearing how terrible he is at Astronomy,” Raven said, lifting up the wrapped gift to show him, “How about you?”

He had gotten Charles a lavishly illustrated edition of Idylls of the King, and he had been sure that Charles would love it, but that had been before Darwin had given Charles a huge stack of biology textbooks right before they had left and Erik had thought Charles was about to have an epileptic fit of joy. (Should he even bother? It feels as though he is being replaced—)

“Ookay, you’re really out of it, so I’ll go hide your presents myself, and you can sit there and go brood at Charles’ gift,” Raven remarks, patting Erik on the shoulder before running off.

He considers the modestly wrapped package for a few more moments before sighing and walking up the stairs to discreetly tuck it into a bookshelf in the library. It was too late to try to go buy another gift; he’s not even sure what he could find to top a stack of biology textbooks. (And he’s still not entirely sure why this is so important, and he just feels out of sorts and annoyed.)

The next day, he’s in the solarium, shredding the wrapping paper of Charles’ earnestly but badly wrapped package to reveal Beater’s gloves, when he feels the familiar sensation of Charles giving up and walking through his mind to figure out where he hid the present.

You didn’t even last two hours this year, he remarks affectionately, trying on the gloves.

The mansion is too big, and you hide things too well, Charles protests, flipping through Erik’s memories of the past day, Oh you hid it in the library, honestly Erik how was I supposed to find it there—hold on, what’s this?

Too late, Erik realizes that he had forgotten to cover up his odd feelings (that are not jealousy because jealousy is stupid and childish) with the reflective metal that he used to close off the parts of his mind he didn’t especially want Charles stumbling into (Charles doesn’t need his nightmares), and projects frantically, Charles, wait—

You’re jealous! Charles exclaims, a feeling of delight (fizzy bubbles like a carbonated drink) bubbling through.

I am not! he protests, running down the hallway and up the stairs to the library, Jealousy is childish and dumb and I’ve just been feeling out of sorts—

Erik, we’re eleven, we’re allowed to be childish, Charles states with amusement, And you are! Jealous I mean. Just because Darwin gave me biology textbooks and Tony and Logan have more classes with me doesn’t mean that you are not my best friend.

I know that! Erik snaps as he steps into the library, It’s not that, it’s just—

“Erik, this is beautiful!” Charles exclaimed, running up to him and clutching his present, “You will read it to me, won’t you?”

“Aren’t you too old for that now?” Erik asks, feeling slightly off-balance and wondering when he’s ever going to be able to finish a sentence.

“I will never be too old for that,” Charles replies, hugging him, “You are the only one who reads Arthurian legends properly. You are also the only one who can keep me awake for Astronomy, the only one who listens to me talk about Muggle sciences and doesn’t fall asleep, and the only one who isn’t scared of my Legilimency. No one could ever replace you,” he tells Erik seriously.

Erik swallows (and he knows Charles can feel the warm feeling those words bring, which just makes it even more embarrassing) and mutters, “Happy Christmas Charles.”

Charles beams up at him, “Happy Christmas, my friend. Now, let’s go find Raven’s presents to us and then try making an abominable snowman!”

(Raven laughs until Erik wonders how she is not suffocating when Charles forces him to apologize and explain to her exactly why he had been so moody and irritable lately.

“That’s just rich!” she giggles, wiping away tears, “I should have gotten you a Best Friends Forever necklace instead of that deck of Exploding Snap!”

And while both he and Charles are unsuccessful in getting their snowman to do anything besides tip its hat, they do figure out how to enchant snowballs to zoom over and hit Raven and each other. Raven gets back at them by climbing up trees and shaking snow down onto their heads, and when they stumble back into the house, they’re all completely soaked, breathless, and agreeing that this was one of their best Christmases ever.)

--

February 1987

Tony was trying to add another foot to his Defense Against the Dark Arts essay by writing about how the Wand-Lighting spell symbolized light shining in the darkness as a beacon of hope that would inspire people to stand up to the dark (Professor Merryweather ate this stuff up) when Erik marched into the Ravenclaw common room, expression thunderous and holding a broomstick.

“Erik, my man! What are you doing here? Do you think if I call Lumos ‘the star that is the pinnacle of our hopes and dreams’ that Merryweather will realize that I’m completely making this shit up?”

“Merryweather will love it,” Erik snapped, eyes scanning the circular room, “Where is Charles?”

“He’s probably down at the library,” Tony replied, scribbling away, “Why? Don’t you guys have some psychic mind connection that lets you know where the other one is?”

“That is utterly ridiculous Tony,” Charles commented, stepping through the door with a stack of books, “Legilimency is very different from the Muggle idea of a psychic, and there is no such thing as a mind connection—”

“I can’t take this,” Erik interrupted, brandishing the broomstick in front of him.

Charles frowned, setting the books on the table, “Why not? Is there something wrong with it? Raven assured me that this was a pretty good broom, but if it’s actually not—”

“You can’t just buy me a Cleansweep 7!” Erik said angrily.

“I don’t see why not,” Charles calmly stated, sitting down at the table, “It is your birthday, and next year you will be playing Beater, and frankly the brooms in the Xavier Mansion are only meant for practice and not for an actual match—”

“I was going to buy my own broom!” Erik cut in furiously, stalking forward to the table, “Just because you have more money than me does not mean that I’m your poor friend that you have to pay for with your family’s money—”

“First of all,” Charles interrupted, blue eyes blazing in a way that kind of made Tony want to quietly leave and go bother Pepper, but Starks don’t run, “I didn’t use the family money. It turns out that Madam Primpernelle’s at Diagon Alley is extremely happy to buy my Boil-Acne Cure Potions, and she paid well for them. Second of all, Raven and I bought you a broom not out of pity or anything like that, but because you need a good broom if you want to play on the Slytherin Quidditch team next year, and I want to see you play as well as you can. And third of all, it’s your birthday, and I am perfectly allowed to give you a broom for your birthdays.”

“Yeah dude,” Tony butted in, seeing that Erik seemed to be at a loss for words, “Just accept the gift already! It’s rude to do anything else.”

“You have your own money from selling potions?” Erik asked confusedly, ignoring Tony, “Why didn’t I know about this?”

Charles quirked his eyebrow, drawing out some parchment, “We wanted to surprise you. There’s not enough money lying around the mansion to buy a broom, and we couldn’t access Gringotts without mother’s wand, and then I got an owl from Madam Primpernelle telling me she would pay for the potions, so I sold her a few batches over the course of this term. We were worried that we wouldn’t make enough for the broom before your birthday, but we managed. Raven was the one who picked out the broom, if you have a complaint there.”

Erik opened and closed his mouth a few times, before saying tightly, “It’s a good broom. Thank you Charles.”

“Make sure to thank Raven as well,” Charles replied, smiling at him, “Although I’m sure she’ll be expecting an appropriate gift as well next year for all her efforts.”

“You Xaviers are so spoiled,” Erik said heavily before gesturing out the window, “Want to come with me to the Quidditch pitch and see how well this flies?”

“Please go,” Tony quickly said before Charles could open his mouth, “This essay is due in an hour, and I need another foot, and you guys can go kiss and make up somewhere else.”

Charles rolls his eyes as he walks out with Erik, “See if I ever tell Pepper to not hex you anymore.”

Tony snorts as he attempts to finish the stupid essay. One day Pepper will bend to his charms, and then he’ll smugly rub it in Charles’ disbelieving face. Or Raven will agree to go out with him, and then he’ll probably have to use one of his robots to block Erik’s rage, unless Erik and Charles confess their undying love to each other around the same time, and then he can finally collect the running bet that he so sneakily, with the help of Raven and an amused Pepper, set up in the various houses. Either ways, he wins.

--

June 1987

Erik kept telling him that he didn’t have anything to worry about, but Charles was adamantly disagreeing with his friend’s opinion. He hadn’t memorized all of the goblin rebellions yet, the Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions exams could be on anything, his Knock-back Jinx was still weak (this could be because Professor Merryweather never actually let them practice spells on anything, but that was besides the point), there were too many plants that looked alike in Herbology (especially when you were studying at 1 in the morning), and he was going to utterly fail Astronomy because his star charts were always inaccurate.

“You’re not going to fail Charles, keep breathing,” Erik replied, frowning at his own Transfiguration notes.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Charles snapped, turning the page of his Herbology book, “You don’t even have to worry about Charms with all the extra credit you have, and Transfiguration will most likely involve something metal, and Professor Snape is hardly going to fail a Slytherin in Potions, and Professor Merryweather is too scared of you to fail you, and you’re actually awake in Astronomy and—”

“And if you don’t take a breath soon I’m going to have to take you to the Hospital Wing,” Erik said, patting Charles on the back, “Like I said, I think you’re going to be fine. The only person with more notes than you is Pepper, and that’s only because she’s busy copying things out of textbooks.”

“My god, I should be doing that as well!” Charles said frantically, grabbing the nearest textbook, “Erik, hand me that—”

Erik put a hand on top of Charles’ book and carefully tugged it out of his grasp, “Tomorrow is your first exam, and it’s late. Go to bed.”

“But Erik!” Charles complained, standing on his tip-toes to try and reach the book that Erik was holding over his head, “Herbology is tomorrow, and if I don’t go over the plants again—”

“You’ll still know all of them by sight tomorrow morning, and you’ll still be reading your notes at breakfast while I force you to eat,” Erik responded, levitating up all of Charles’ study materials and packing them in his bag, “Bed, now.”

Charles grudgingly takes the bag from Erik and then asks pointedly, “Aren’t you taking your own advice?”

“Some of us never actually heard Professor Binns lecture,” Erik replied drily, waving his sheaf of copied History of Magic notes, “I better stay here and memorize the rest of this.”

Charles considers protesting but he is tired (he’s been studying non-stop for the past two weeks, and he can’t actually remember when he last saw his bed) and he probably should get some rest before all the final exams start, so he yawns and asks, “But you will sleep soon?”

“Eventually,” Erik says, waving him away, “Go.”

When all the exams are finally over, and he is sitting with Erik by the lake with a book after the end-of-year feast (Gryffindor had won this year, since Slytherin had Erik who almost always talked back to the professors, Hufflepuff had Logan who was a little terror, and Ravenclaw had him blowing up things in Potions and making Professor Snape extremely displeased), he is willing to perhaps admit that he had been overreacting just a tiny bit. Transfiguration and Charms had been simple affairs (he was very proud of his ornate mouse-turned-snuffbox, and he had made the pineapple do a can-can), Herbology had been easy, he had written pages for History of Magic, Professor Merryweather had seemed to be grading on some sort of scale involving how sparkly the spells were, and his star-charts for Astronomy had been if not entirely accurate, at least close.

“Read me the story of Gareth and Lynette?” he asked Erik, pushing Idylls of the King into his lap and settling into Erik’s side.

Erik gave him a long-suffering look (Such a brat, his mind whispers warmly), but still proceeded to open the book and begin, “The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, and tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring…”

Chapter Text

September 1987

Raven is nervous, but she cannot wait. She has her wand (9 ½ inch aspen wand with a unicorn hair core), Mystique (whose latest goal seems to be managing to pounce on Professor X), her supplies and books (dragging Charles out of Flourish and Blotts had been a team effort with Erik), and her uniform. She’s been waiting to stand here with her brothers since she waved them off last year (smiling because they hate to see her cry), but now that she is here, she’s conscious that she’s never actually been in her true form around this many people before.

“Back straight, chin up, let them see who you are,” Erik whispers to her encouragingly as they step onto the platform.

Charles squeezes her hand and smiles at her reassuringly as she takes a deep breath and lets the blue ripple out. She gets a few odd stares, but nothing like the screams that she had been expecting (that she had been told).

“See? Everything’s fine, and now you must meet everyone!” Charles exclaimed, as they walked into a compartment with a Slytherin boy and Tony.

“Looking good Raven!” Tony grins at her salaciously, “Only a few more years, and we can start dating!”

“Never,” Charles and Erik say simultaneously as a red-haired girl walks in and raises an eyebrow.

“So obviously all those letters you sent me over the summer that sang and woke me up every morning, proclaiming me as your one true love were a result of a flight of fancy that has ended its course?” she asks hopefully.

Tony kneels on the ground before the red-headed girl and clutches her hands, “Pepper! I’m devastated that you would think that! You know you have the portkey to my heart—”

“Hi, I’m Pepper Potts, and you must be Raven?” Pepper asks, introducing herself while discreetly slipping her hands out of Tony’s grasp and stepping on his foot.

Raven grins as she shakes Pepper’s hand, “Yeah, I’m so glad to finally meet you! I’ve heard so much about you; did you really use Tarantallegra on Tony and make him tango across the Great Hall?”

“That was once after an extremely trying day, but yes,” Pepper replies sweetly, sitting down.

“It’s how she shows her love for me,” Tony said confidently, plopping down next to Pepper, “Isn’t it honey?”

“Please never refer to me as that again, or I will try casting a Bat-Bogey Hex on you, and it will be disgusting,” Pepper replies calmly, scooting away from Tony.

“How about sweetums? Baby? Darling—?”

“So Raven,” the Slytherin boy cuts in before Pepper could draw out her wand, “I’m Darwin. What house do you think you’ll be in?”

“If you were in Ravenclaw, it’d be too funny,” Tony snickers, “Raven in Ravenclaw where everything is blue.”

“Tony,” Charles snaps, drawing a chess-set from his bag, “Don’t mind him Raven, I would love to have you in Ravenclaw.”

“I would look out for you in Slytherin, but that’s not where you want to go is it?” Erik asks, leaning against the window as Charles sets up the pieces.

Raven shakes her head, “I don’t think I’d fit into Ravenclaw or Slytherin; I think I’m going to end up in Gryffindor.”

“Won’t the colors clash with your skin though? Joking, joking!” Tony yelps as Charles glares at him and Erik makes the luggage rack rattle menacingly, “You know, that’s what the Sorting Hat considered me for for awhile, until I amazed it with my brilliance,” Tony commented, trying to steal part of Pepper’s Daily Prophet.

“You mean when you annoyed it half to death with your bragging,” Pepper retorts, twitching her paper away and kicking him in the shin.

As Tony and Pepper snark at each other and Darwin attempts to distract them by drawing them into a game of Exploding Snap, Charles looks up from the board and grins ruefully at her, “Why don’t you go and buy some food? You can meet some new people instead of being stuck in this bedlam.”

She nods (because while Charles’ and Erik’s friends are fun, she does want to meet some people who are her own age and she’s hungry) and scampers off to where the trolley witch is calling out her wares. She buys an armful of Chocolate Frogs (it’s another one of Charles’ many projects, to have a complete collection of the cards), a box of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans (it was always fun to trick Erik into eating something like snot), and a few dozen Pumpkin Pasties and Cauldron Cakes (her favorite). She’s attempting to get back to the compartment with her giant load (the first thing she had to learn when she got to Hogwarts was levitation; it was going to make life so much easier) when she bumps into someone and spills half of the food.

“Sorry, sorry!” the dark haired boy with large glasses apologizes, as he helps her pick up the packets of food.

“It’s alright,” she replies, gathering the rest of the snacks into her arms, “I’m Raven, what’s your name?”

“Hank,” the boy stutters, peering at her curiously, “Are you a metamorphagus?”

“No, I just happened to have an unfortunate accident that turned me blue,” she deadpans before quickly reassuring Hank when his face falls, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Yes, I’m a metamorphagus.”

“That’s fascinating,” Hank replies, his eyes gone huge behind the glasses, “Can you turn into anyone? Are you limited to only human features? Is there a conservation of mass principle—”

“You sound just like my brother,” Raven comments as they walk up to her compartment, “I think you two will get along splendidly.”

(She’s right; Charles and Hank start babbling at each other about Potions theory to the point that she begins to feel sleepy until Erik thankfully drags Charles’ attention back to their chess game. She does get sorted into Gryffindor (“You have courage in you,”), and she loves the loud laughter and compliments, and she gains someone to fangirl over Quidditch with in fellow first year Oliver Wood. Hank gets sorted into Ravenclaw where he and Charles and maybe Tony depending on his mood probably stay up all night nerding out at each other, and they do run into each other since Charles seems to have taken the stuttering boy under his wing, to Erik’s distaste. She thinks he’s kind of cute.)

--

October 1987

It’s not a very long article, and it’s buried between articles on the latest rumors about Fudge’s incompetency and paranoia, but Erik has been keeping an eye on the news for six years now, so to him it couldn’t have been more obvious had it been printed in giant, blood-red letters.

Rare Book Dealer Janos Quested Disappears With Prized Demonology Text

by M. Caneirus

Janos Quested, owner of Riptide Books in Knockturn Alley, has been missing for four weeks. There is no sign of struggle in the bookstore, but the borrowed text of Paths and Portals has also disappeared with the shopkeeper. Being a rare demonology text with actual summoning rituals, the Ministry has dispatched several Aurors to investigate. Currently, neighbors have informed Auror Dawlish that a tall blonde woman who called herself Snow and a dark-haired man who called himself Schmidt had been paying Quested repeated visits prior to his disappearance. If anyone has any further information, please contact…

It was enough. (“You may call me Herr Dokter, Herr Schmidt, or Mr. Shaw, and this is my lovely assistant, Ms. Frost or Ms. Snow. You’re going to be with us for a long time Erik, we must get to know each other.”)

It was time. (He’s waited six years for his revenge.)

He’s already packed a few essential belongings (clothes, his broom, his wand, and a photo of last Christmas in front of the fire) and is gathering the Floo powder to head off to Knockturn Alley (he has a few questions of his own to ask), when the wall swings open and Charles angrily bursts into the Slytherin common room.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, dragging Erik back from the fire.

Erik jerks his arm back, “Don’t you have Astronomy tonight? How did you get in here?” he asks furiously (How did Charles know? He had been so careful to drape his plans in muted sheets of silver, and he had been sure to act as normal as possible—).

“I skipped. It’s easy to get in here; even if I didn’t know the password from your mind I could probably stand there and guess pretentious pureblood phrases until it opened, but that’s beside the point,” Charles snaps, hands on his hips, “You might think you were acting normal, but you made some very amateur mistakes in our chess game tonight, you barely made any sarcastic comments, and your goodbye seemed…odd and rather final. And I kept seeing something from the Daily Prophet flash through your mind, so I went and got the paper and found the article.”

“Then you know why I have to go,” Erik said, motioning for him to be quieter.

“I know no such thing!”Charles fumed in a harsh whisper, “All I know is that you’re going to a dingy, back-alley sort of place where you’re going to get yourself killed—”

“I can handle myself,” Erik retorts, jerking his head up at the quietly clicking chandelier-spiders.

“You’re running after a madman who has killed every Auror that was sent out after him,” Charles shoots back, grabbing his pack of belongings, “Erik, you’re powerful, yes, but you’re still twelve.”

“He killed my parents,” Erik says stonily, glaring at Charles.

Charles glares straight back, blue eyes cuttingly intense, “And your parents wouldn’t want you throwing your life away on revenge.”

You have absolutely no idea what my parents would want, Erik lashes out angrily with Legilimency (knives knives knives), the metal spiders above gaining a sudden eerie stillness.

Charles easily dodges his attack and curls around his mind (waits at the gate), and replies stubbornly, I know that they would not want you dead. Why are you leaving me?

Erik grimaces, pulling a frustrated hand through his hair, “I’m not leaving you,” he protests out loud, “It’s just—I need to get revenge Charles, why don’t you understand that?”

“I know that,” Charles replied softly, running a hand down his arm, “And in some ways, I understand that. My father, remember? But going now, god Erik, that would be suicide.”

“But I could—”

Charles presses a hand against his mouth and shakes his head, “Let me finish. You’re out of control; you’re lashing out at me like you haven’t done since I met you, the ceiling spiders are growing spikes and melting at the same time and you haven’t even noticed, and I can feel your mental defenses developing traps but they’re full of holes. Your plan, if it can even be called that, is rash and stupid, and more characteristic of a Gryffindor than a Slytherin. How are you supposed to face Shaw like this? How are you even going to face Frost?”

(He wants to knock Charles’ hand away, leap into the fireplace, and disappear in a flash of green fire, but Charles is staring at him, Charles is clutching at his sleeve, Charles is stubbornly waiting at the gate of his mind for permission to go in, and Charles, in the end damn him, knows him and has a point. )

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he finally whispers back (reaching out tentatively from behind the gate in his mind), “Do I just wait and let him ruin more lives?”

Charles grasps his hand tightly (in real life and in his mind), and replies gently, “We cannot do anything about that, if it does happen. All I know is that he nearly completely ruined your life, and I will not stand by to see him succeed. You belong here, with us, with me. Stay until you can truly defeat him, stay until you have learned how, and then I promise I will let you go because then I know that you will come back when you are done.”

“You will ‘let’ me go?” Erik echoes, half-amused and half-irritated by the Charles’ word choice.

Charles flushes, “I won’t come chasing after you begging you not to go like now anyway,” he says wryly, but his expression is still serious, “Promise me you won’t go after him until you’re ready? I’ll even help you train, if you like.”

(Charles is unconsciously presumptuous and arrogant at times, but that is what makes him who he is, makes him the only person who he will let into his mind, and the one person who could have talked him out of this plan. He would have been sad to hurt Raven, but she couldn’t have changed his mind because she wouldn’t have dared to say some of the things Charles did tonight, and he supposes that is the whole point.)

“Fine,” he breathes, waving at the dripping spiders to reform and shine, “I’ll be holding you to that then.”

Charles gives him a wide-eyed look of happiness (sunlight on skin and wind running through his hair) and hugs him tightly, “I promise. I’ll even start looking for a classroom for us to practice in right away!”

“Alright. Although, did you honestly just insult Gryffindor? Raven would be so angry,” Erik says lightly, running a hand down Charles’ back.

“Gryffindors are notoriously rash,” Charles sniffs, drawing away slightly to look Erik in the eye, “Raven would understand that.”

Erik gives a small smile to Charles (how is it that this boy could always chase away his darker thoughts and plans?) before pushing him towards the door, “You better head back; how you even got here without Filch noticing is a miracle.”

“I kept casting rather poor Disillusionment Charms,” Charles admitted, tapping his wand against his hand lightly, “I was certain I was going to get caught at any moment. Why don’t I just stay here with you tonight?”

Erik raises his eyebrow, gathering up his stuff, “There aren’t any extra beds in my dorm.”

Charles shrugs, “Then I will just share yours. Let me stay?”

And Erik knows that Charles is really only staying because he wants to be reassured that he won’t suddenly up and vanish because Charles is fully capable of casting more Disillusionment Charms (and besides being unconsciously presumptuous and arrogant, Charles is also quite clingy at times), but they have really argued enough for the night (he can’t believe they didn’t wake anybody up), and Charles’ eyes are huge, and he’s tired, so he gives in, and Charles curls up against his side with a sleepy, “Good night Erik.”

(Marcus Flint doesn’t notice since both Charles and Erik wake up long before him. Darwin also doesn’t say anything at first, just raising his eyebrow at the sight of both of them crawling out of the same bed, but he had to have told someone because Raven and Tony are arguing about some bet about them later at lunch.

“The terms were when they confessed their undying love to each other Tony! The two of them sleeping in the same bed doesn’t count!”

“Are you sure there wasn’t something like kissing involved? Because—”

Charles sends a murderous, pounding headache into Tony’s mind at this point, and Erik is attempting to stab Raven with her fork without attracting the notice of any of the professors. They never do manage to get all the details of the bet out of either of them that day, and the next day Erik makes it onto the Slytherin Quidditch team as Beater, and so the matter is promptly forgotten.)

--

December 1987

Hank had been worried that he would be the only one left in Hogwarts over Christmas Break, but thankfully he was wrong. Charles and Raven were also staying (“I’m sure it’ll be more cheery here than back home,” Charles reassures him as Raven pipes in, “Yes, and there’s going to be Wizard Crackers! We never get to play with those at home!”), so he would at least have some friendly faces to look at during the break. Unfortunately, Erik and Alex were also staying.

He absolutely loved talking to Charles (who would actually lend him books, notes, and suggest more experiments he could do), but he was quickly realizing that wherever Charles was, Erik wasn’t far behind, and Erik Lehnsherr was scary.

“Erik Lehnsherr…how do I begin to explain Erik Lehnsherr?”

“Erik Lehnsherr is terrifying.”

“He has seven giant metal spiders and a knife.”

“I hear his wand is insured for 10,000 galleons by the Xaviers.”

“I hear he does spell invention…in Germany.”

“His favorite book is Frankenstein.”

“One time Professor Snape caught him fighting in the halls—”

“—And he told him to carry on!”

“One time he hexed me—it was awesome.”

In other words, there were a lot of rumors and speculation about Erik Lehnsherr, and it didn’t matter how much Charles laughed off the rumors (“Spell invention in Germany? When would Erik ever have the time? And Erik’s favorite book is not Frankenstein.”), or Raven reassured him( “Look Hank, I pushed Erik into the lake once, and I make fun of him all the time, and I’m still alive, aren’t I?” “But you’re like his sister.”)Hank was still certain every time Erik gave him a decidedly cool glance that he was going to be murdered in his sleep by the giant metal spiders (that he had been interested in seeing at first because the charmwork and transfiguration involved sounded highly unusual and interesting, but that had been before Charles had taken him into the Slytherin common room to see them where Erik had glared at him and the spiders had begun to make an ominous whirring noise. Raven pointed out later that Erik was never happy about an interrupted chess game, but how was he supposed to have known?).

Alex Summers on the other hand was not scary, but he sure did not make life easier. Hank wasn’t sure exactly what he had done to offend the blonde Gryffindor, but every time he met him, Alex would sneer, “Bozo,” and shove past him. Raven suggested that he was mad about that time during flying lessons where he had accidentally thrown the Quaffle into Alex’s face, but that had been an accident, and he had apologized, and surely that was taking a grudge too far for something that had happened in September?

“Hank, Hank, pull this Wizard Cracker with me?”

On the other hand, Raven was great. She was friendly, smart, and she could change her appearance to whatever she wants (he still wasn’t sure why she almost always chose her blue form though. He had tried asking once, but Raven had developed such a stormy expression that he just backed off). He’s actually not certain why she likes to hang around him so much, but that’s probably less because she’s actively seeking him out and more because he’s often with Charles, and Raven is Charles’ sister.

The cracker explodes with a crack of blue smoke, and Raven eagerly snatches up the meowing cat hats and places one on Hank’s head and the other on hers.

“It’s so cute!” she laughs, steadying the hat on her head and calls out, “Don’t you think it’s cute, Charles?”

“Quite,” Charles replied, grinning as the mice from his cracker ran around his shoulders, “We should get a picture! Let me go and get the camera—”

“Hehe, wee Charles has to kiss wee Erik!” Peeves cackled, as he suddenly appeared floating above Charles and Erik with a sprig of mistletoe.

Charles gave Peeves a decidedly unimpressed look, “Really, did Tony or Raven put you up to this?” he asked, casting a look at a Raven who was grinning widely but quickly shook her head.

He sighed and pecked Erik on the cheek, “Can I go now?” he asked as Erik turned an alarming shade of red that was making Hank start to reconsider his reputation as the next Bloody Baron (it was the chains that would just appear if he grew really angry, but could anyone that looked like he was about asphyxiate from a kiss on the cheek really be as terrifying as the rumors?).

“What was that? No, no wee Charlie must actually smooch wee Erik on the mouth! Go on, smooch, smooch, kiss, kiss—”

Actually, as Erik pointed his wand at the suits of armor lining the wall and the suits of armor grew progressively spikier and were now holding huge axes, and then all of them went chasing after a squealing Peeves who was holding a white-faced Alex hostage (that part was actually kind of funny) while Charles sighed and patted Erik on the back, Hank stood by his original opinion. Erik Lehnsherr was scary.

--

March 1988

Despite the fact that technically all the houses had their own individual stands that they were supposed to sit in, Raven had dragged Oliver to come sit at the Ravenclaw stands with him.

“All the Gryffindors want Slytherin to lose,” Raven explained, her hair loyally turned green with streaks of silver, “I am alone in my support of Erik’s team, so I thought I better sit here with you. But I brought Oliver along so that I can talk about to Quidditch to someone and not have their eyes glaze over. Where’s Tony and Hank?”

“Tony suddenly came up with another idea for a robot, and Hank is watching him. My eyes do not glaze over,” Charles protested, scanning the field for Erik, “I fully support your love of Quidditch—”

“Yeah but you don’t want to talk about it,” Raven replied and then started cheering as the players rose into the air, “Yeah, go Erik! Beat those Hufflepuffs!”

“Go Hufflepuff!” Oliver cheered next to her, as Erik batted the Bludger at Logan and Logan batted it straight back, “Beat those Slytherins so Gryffindor can win the Quidditch Cup!”

“Is that supposed to happen?” Charles asked worriedly as Erik and Logan began to hit the bludgers at each other at an increasingly furious pace, “I thought they were supposed to focus on attacking the Chasers and Keepers, and occasionally the Seekers, not each other?”

“That’s right,” Oliver replied, drawing out omnioculars to get a closer look, “But it looks like they’re fighting anyway! This might actually be an exciting match!”

As Erik and Logan continued their frenzied battle across the skies, Charles glanced down at the Astronomy notes he had brought up (he knew he would get bored even if it was Erik playing, and really, finals were coming up soon, so he should start brushing up on his weakest subject). Glancing up to make sure Erik wasn’t in any immediate danger (he looked from this angle as though he wanted to bludgeon Logan to death, but this was generally how he looked around Logan. Their personalities just seemed to clash badly every time they met unfortunately), he started to go over the star charts.

(He still usually ended up copying Erik’s start charts because it was really hard to concentrate at midnight in the breezy Astronomy Tower. He highly disliked that class, so it had been no trouble that day that he had actually skipped it to find Erik about to run off to Knockturn Alley. It had pained him to promise him that he would not beg Erik to stay when he was ready, to promise that he would actually let Erik go and kill another person, even if that person was a madman, but he knows Erik. He knows that Erik will not rest until he has his revenge, and he knows that the only thing he can do is make sure that Erik will walk away alive from it. They managed to find an abandoned classroom on the fifth floor to practice spells in, and Charles has dragged out all the Defense Against Dark Arts books he can find to find new spells. He’s not sure that it’s right for him to be helping Erik train when Erik should be running around and playing like any other child, but then again, Erik has never really been a child for as long as Charles has known him—)

“Charles! Charles!” Raven yelled, shaking his shoulder, “Slytherin won! And Erik and the Wolverine haven’t managed to kill each other, although not from lack of trying!”

“But it was really exciting!” Oliver bursts in, waving his arms around, “An epic Beater battle! Even if Slytherin won!”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” he beams as Oliver draws away when Erik flies over, grinning as widely (as brilliantly, as happily) as Charles has ever seen him.

“Studying Astronomy instead of watching me play?” Erik teases, gesturing at Charles’ notes.

Charles laughs, shuffling his notes back together, “Well if you had been more interesting…”

Erik quirks an eyebrow at him, “I’ve been assured by several people that future Slytherin-Hufflepuff matches will be highly watched,” he commented dryly, ruffling Raven’s hair, “Come to the celebrations? I’ll make sure no one slips you too much Butterbeer.”

“That was once when we were six!” Charles protested as Erik grins and flies off.

“But what about that time after my ninth birthday party?” Raven asked innocently, her gold eyes glittering with mischief, “Or New Years when you were ten? Or last summer—”

“Quiet you,” Charles grumbled as they walked toward the Slytherin common room.

(The Slytherins don’t pay much attention to either him or Raven, too used to the sight of the two of them popping in and out, which is thankful because at this point he feels decidedly tipsy.

“You’re such a lightweight Charles,” Raven complains as she hauls him to Ravenclaw Tower, “Who gets drunk off of Butterbeer anyway?”

“He keeps telling me that no one does, and yet he was singing ‘You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me,’” Erik replies wryly from Charles’ other side, carefully keeping him upright.

“Charles, you actually listen to Celestina Warbeck?” Raven asks delightedly, “Go on, sing us some more!”

And Charles thinks this is an excellent idea and so he sings all of ‘A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love,’ and Raven mercilessly teases him the next day, and Erik smirks at him, and he thanks God that neither of them had had a camera that night.)

--

June 1988

“You can’t take all the classes Charles,” Erik patiently.

“I don’t see why not,” Charles complains, filling out the list of extra classes, “Everything looks so interesting!”

“Yes, but there’s no room in your schedule for all the classes,” Erik points out, finishing his list.

Charles leans over to look at Erik’s list, “Why don’t you also take all of them with me?” he suggests, tapping the list with his quill, “Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies would be fun!”

“I don’t want to feed flobberworms, and I don’t need Muggle Studies,” Erik replies, rolling up the form.

Charles rolls his eyes, “You don’t need Divination either and you’re taking it,” he mutters, stretching in his chair.

“Could come in handy,” Erik says mildly.

(It’s a long shot, since he had always heard that either you were born with the Sight or you weren’t, but he doesn’t want to see the future, he just wants to find out where Shaw is. Charles probably already knows this since while he has grown better at shrouding his thoughts, around Charles things just tended to open up. He will keep his promise, but when he’s ready, it will be important to figure out where Shaw actually is.)

Charles sighed as he stood up, “Come help me convince Professor Flitwick to let me take all the classes?” he asks Erik hopefully.

“Why me?” Erik groans as he follows Charles to Flitwick’s office.

“You’re his favorite student! He was so pleased when you animated all those suits of armor at Christmas!” Charles exclaims.

Erik flushes. That had been embarrassing. He swore he had seen Snape smirking at him and McGonagall giggling after the whole incident, but Charles had been too busy trying to calm him down (“Erik, Peeves is very important to the castle! And if you throw an axe at him, you may hit Alex instead!”) and Raven had been laughing too hard to notice, and Hank McCoy had been too terrified to talk to him (that boy got Charles involved with more stupidly dangerous experiments than he had ever managed to before on his own and he had had interrupted far too many of their chess matches).

“I’ll try, but I still don’t see why you’re taking all these classes,” he grumbles.

“Because they’re all so intriguing!” Charles declared, happily latching onto Erik’s arm, “Divination holds so many possibilities, even if most wizards believe it’s a fraud, and Arithmancy does as well, and it is seen as more reliable! Study of Ancient Runes is essential for inventing complex spells, Care of Magical Creatures introduces one to actual magical creatures that you’d never see usually, and I’m hoping that they will do something on genetics in Muggle Studies.”

“I get the impression that they start with electricity,” Erik said as they reached Flitwick’s office, “Considering they were reading Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles, which I remember you already reading.”

Charles frowned and then perked up again, “Perhaps Professor Burbage could give me extra material then?”

Erik sighed. He was never going to convince Charles to give it up. “Maybe,” he grudgingly admits as he opens the door.

(Flitwick is all too happy to give Charles special permission to take all of the extra classes, despite Erik pointing out that Charles simply doesn’t have room in his schedule.

“We’ll just apply for a Time-Turner then,” Flitwick says cheerfully, signing off on Charles’ schedule, “With your grades and standing, it should be fine.”

Charles is bubbling over with excitement on the entire train ride back, projecting and chattering about all the information he knows about Time-Turners until Raven hits him with a pillow and Erik convinces him to play chess.

Another year has gone by, and even though Erik knows Shaw is out there somewhere, right here, right now he’s content to keep his promise and help Charles get books about time travel off of the higher shelves.)

Chapter Text

September 1988

Raven doesn’t think she’s ever met anyone as fun as Fred and George Weasley before. Hank disagrees because the twins had given him a potion that had exploded and turned him blue, but Hank has tons of issues with pranks so his opinion on this is invalid.

The twins like to run around the school wreaking chaos in their wake, but the first time they had met her, they had goggled at her and then said simultaneously, “Wicked.”

“You’re a metamorphagus!”

“We thought Percy was joking!”

“Well, not joking since Percy never jokes—”

“—just severely mistaken. We had put a charm on his new glasses before he left, so—”

“—we thought it could have been that. But you’re real!”

“Do you think you can help us with these potions we want to make? They’re supposed to—”

“—turn someone’s hair pink, but we keep hitting fuchsia instead.”

She laughs as the twins look at her expectantly, “That sounds great, but I’m really not the person for experimental potions. Do you want to talk to my brother instead?”

And this is how Fred and George meet Charles, and Erik gains a new headache.

Charles is all too happy to assist the Weasley twins in their experimental joke devices (“A potion that when consumed turns a person’s hair pink? Well, I suppose that a variation of the Beautification Potion with perhaps some demigauss hair would….”), and the Weasley twins are delighted to have gained an advisor and sponsor (“We like you! We’ll call you—” “—Professor X! Like your owl!”). Erik is less amused, especially after the twins managed to charm his robes pink and fuchsia (“It was practice! We are now—” “—One step closer to turning hair pink! See you Magneto!”), and Raven knows she has met a pair of kindred spirits.

“That was awesome!” she grinned and clapped her hands as the twins told her how Erik had fumed and the fire pokers sharpened themselves and began to hang around menacingly, “You have to get that potion done and then use it on Erik! Charles will make sure Erik doesn’t kill you, and I’ll take the pictures!”

The twins happily agree, and the next few weeks are filled with explosions, Snape yelling at them, Charles expounding on the importance of “scientific method” and “hypotheses,” and all the metal fixtures around the school gaining spikes as Erik’s scowl grows more and more pronounced, and Raven is never prouder to be part of Gryffindor House.

--

November 1988

Normally, Tony barely pays attention to the Quidditch match in favor of admiring the lovely ladies who flocked to the games (Pepper unfortunately didn’t come to any game besides Slytherin-Hufflepuff, which everyone went to since it had the Wolverine vs. Erik epic Beater showdown, but that was okay since if Pepper was here he wouldn’t be able to devote the proper amount of attention to the other ladies), but today Raven was playing against Erik, and even Charles was paying attention.

“Oh!” Charles exclaimed, clutching Tony’s arm as a bludger narrowly hurtled past Raven, “Erik, keep that other Beater in line! That could have hit her!”

“That’s kind of the point Charles,” Tony pointed out dragging his arm away, “Check out that girl with the snake hat, she’s kind of cute—”

“Raven, don’t make such dangerous spins!” Charles yelled, grabbing onto Tony’s arm again as Raven executed a series of spiral spins to avoid the Slytherin Chasers and then threw the Quaffle only for it to be knocked off course by a Bludger sent by Erik, “Erik, don’t aim your bludgers that close to Raven!”

“It’s not like they can do anything else Charles,” Darwin said diplomatically, having come to the Ravenclaw stands where he said there was less murderous intent all around, “How about you cheer for them instead?”

Charles gave Darwin a miserable look, “But who do I cheer for?”

“Both maybe?” Darwin suggests as Raven scores Gryffindor’s first 10 points and the Gryffindor stands erupts in cheers, “Ravenclaws aren’t likely to lynch you for cheering for either?”

“But if I cheer for Slytherin, Raven will pout at me and convince the twins to try putting Chocolate Frogs in my bed,” Charles said worriedly, “And if I cheer for Gryffindor, Erik will send even more Bludgers at people.”

“And I keep telling you that that’s his job, but you won’t listen,” Tony complained, trying to jerk his arm away but Charles clutched on even tighter when Erik swerved past an incoming Bludger, “Let go Charles, I want to go talk to—”

A Bludger hurtles toward the Ravenclaw stands and only narrowly misses hitting Tony in the head, and Erik is swinging his bat around nonchalantly as Madam Hooch screams at the Slytherin team about his foul. Charles has a distinctly pinched expression on his face that Tony associates with him arguing with Erik through their mind-soul bond, but he is not taking any more chances so he quickly scoots as far away from Charles as possible.

“I am so commentating the games from now on,” he yells at a puzzled looking Charles, “The girls will fall in love with my dry wit, and I’m less likely to be murdered by your jealous boyfriend!”

“You have no dry wit, and Erik is simply my best friend,” Charles replies in a slightly irritated tone as the Slytherin stand jeers when the Gryffindor Chaser fails to make the bonus shot.

“Whatever you say, but Pepper needs me to stay alive so I think I’ll just sit over here,” Tony yells back as he sidles up to a pretty brunette Ravenclaw fifth year (some people said that all Ravenclaws, besides being smart were also beautiful, and Tony was inclined to agree, which was why obviously the Sorting Hat had made the right decision, no matter how much Pepper wondered out loud otherwise) and said, “Hi, you must be magical, because I have fallen under your spell.”

The older girl gives him a decidedly unimpressed look, but Tony keeps talking to her. Persistence is key in picking up girls.

--

December 1988

Charles absolutely loves being able to take five new classes (he did manage to convince Professor Burbage to give him more advanced material after basically giving a lecture to the class about Muggle sciences and the underlying relationship it has to magic, he actually got to see a kappa and a niffler in Care of Magical Creatures, and Arithmancy relates to genetics so well that he almost forgets to eat when he does Arithmancy homework. Of course, some of the classes are not quite as exciting, with Divination seeming to be somewhat of a dud and he had to ask Erik for help so many times with memorizing words for Ancient Runes), but keeping up with the intricacies of using a Time-Turner (it’s truly an honor, but making sure that he didn’t cross paths with himself at any given time had grown so complicated that he had created a chart that mapped his course throughout the day) was quite tiring, especially when it was close to Christmas Break and all the professors had decided to jam in one last cascade of homework.

“Is there only one of you now, or are there multiple ones of you running around, and I should come back later?” Erik asked, standing at his table in the library.

Charles squinted over his Arithmancy textbook at the clock, “I think we’re fine; Care of Magical Creatures just ended, so I’m done with all my classes for the day.”

“Good,” Erik replied, sitting down and getting out his Ancient Runes chart, “It’s confusing having so many of you running around; every time I turn around it seems like you pop up.”

Charles snorts, massaging his temple, “I still don’t see why I can’t use it for extra studying time,” he complains, setting aside his textbook, “I am taking more classes after all.”

“That I told you was a bad idea, but would you listen to me?” Erik idly asked, “Anything that involves time travel gets much too complicated in the end.”

Charles groans as he looks at Erik’s chart, “I’m never going to be able to memorize all of that, and we have a test in two days! Two days! And Professor Snape wants a four foot long essay on elixirs that I have barely started, and my tortoise still looks oddly ceramic and—”

“When was the last time you slept, Charles?” Erik interrupted, giving Charles a sharp look that took in his tousled curls, rumpled uniform, crooked tie, and ink smudges on his hands and face, “Or the last time you ate for that matter?”

“Hm? I’m sure it was recently,” Charles fretted as he drew out his Ancient Runes textbook, “Do you think that Professor Flitwick is likely to make us write any more essays? Because if so I need to—”

Erik pointed his wand at all of Charles’ study material, and the books and notes carefully stacked themselves, zoomed away, and settled on top of the highest bookshelf in the library. Charles gave an irritated sigh, “Was that really necessary, my friend?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“This is like you during finals all over again, except worse because there’s more classes and the year isn’t even done yet,” Erik snapped, pulling Charles up by the arm, “You need to eat and then go to bed. Now.”

Charles began to protest, “Erik, I haven’t even finished memorizing—”

“Is all your homework for tomorrow done?” Erik asked, neatly draping Charles’ blue and white scarf around his neck and tying it securely.

“Well, yes but there’s still so much that has to be done—”

“And you’ll be able to finish it up much better when you’re not hyped up on tea and Pepper-Up potions. Besides, I bet you can’t even aim a spell properly right now, and if you tried to get the homework down without a wand at this moment, I think you would topple over and break your neck,” Erik replied ruthlessly, marching Charles out of the library.

I can walk myself you know, Charles projected sulkily, fully aware that he sounded like a petulant child.

I know you can, but given your amount of sleep deprivation I’m worrying that you’re going to somehow walk yourself off the Astronomy Tower, Erik projected back, turning Charles toward Ravenclaw Tower.

I’d never go up there outside of class, you know that. Didn’t you want me to eat something first? Charles yawned (there had been perhaps a bit more tea and Pepper-Up Potions than was strictly healthy, and he had sort of lost count of how many he had taken when factoring in all the time travel he had been doing).

“What is the one rule that can never be broken?” the eagle knocker asked as they approached.

“Death,” Erik replied, and then pushed Charles through the door, I’ll be back with food; you try to actually get some sleep.

The question this time is so morbid, Charles muzzily projected back as he walked to his dorm room, you don’t have to do that Erik, don’t you also need to study?

You forget that I’m much better at Ancient Runes than you, Erik said dryly (like a warm summer breeze), and I have less classes. Sleep; I’ll get you some food, you can rest some more, do the rest of your homework after that, and then you can go to Honeydukes and buy ridiculous amounts of candy for Raven and your minions.

The Weasley twins are not my minions, Charles protested, slipping under the covers of his bed, and I have to buy something for Raven after all the Bludgers you sent after her.

After her Quaffle, Erik corrected, you give me headaches if I send it after her. And we’ve been over this; it’s my job as a Beater to beat Bludgers at different players.

I’m fairly sure that the job was formally defined as beating back Bludgers from your own players, and that still doesn’t explain your ridiculousness with Tony, Charles murmured, clutching his pillow.

I told you that was an accident; my hand slipped, Erik replied, but not without a hint of smugnessamusementmine.

Doubtful, I’ve never seen you ‘accidentally’ hit a bludger anywhere, Charles shot back and then asked hopefully, You couldn’t bring me up a nice hot cup of tea with milk, could you?

No caffeine until you’ve actually slept, Erik said adamantly, I’ll get you some warm milk if you like, and sometime over Christmas Break we are going to talk about the ridiculousness of you taking enough classes to warrant time travel.

Mm, warm milk sounds nice, Charles sleepily replies, feeling his eyelids grow heavily.

Good night Charles, Erik says fondly (a warm pat on the head), Sweet dreams.

--

February 1989

Darwin quite likes Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks serves excellent Butterbeer, Honeydukes is like heaven, Zonko’s has tons of fun things (that he knows the Weasley twins will somehow get a hold of and cause chaos with unfortunately), and Dervish and Bangs is interesting.

It would be quite nice though if Tony would stop pestering Pepper to go to the Shrieking Shack or Madam Puddifoot’s with him.

“Come on Pepper, it’ll be fun!”

“No, Stark.”

“But it has excellent tea! Doesn’t it Charles?”

“Hm?” Charles said, turning around with a stack of cauldron cakes, exploding bonbons, fizzing whizzbees, jelly slugs, sugar quills, and cockroach clusters in his arms, “I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been there.”

Tony gaped at Charles, “You’ve never been to Madam Puddifoot’s?” he asked incredulously, “I thought you would have tried every single tea place!”

Charles shrugged, dropping a few packages, “It seemed rather…kitsch,” he said distastefully, “I do not imagine the tea would taste very good.”

“You are not being a good wingman,” Tony complained as Erik helped Charles pick up the packages.

“Why are you buying cockroach clusters?” Erik asked, eyeing the brown package dubiously.

“Raven and the twins insisted,” Charles sighed, dumping all of it on the counter, “They heard about them and begged me for them.”

“They’re going to be sneaking it into our food for the next month, aren’t they?” Darwin asked gloomily (the Hufflepuff-Slytherin match was coming up, and Raven and the twins, along with perhaps Oliver Wood, were obsessed enough with the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup to probably try sticking things in Slytherin food in a roundabout attempt to help Gryffindor).

“They try that, and I’ll be forcing them to eat these things until they puke,” Erik growled as Charles rolled his eyes and paid.

“Why don’t you let me taste-test everything for you Pepper?” Tony piped up, “I could feed you all your food—”

“I’d rather starve, Stark.”

And then Darwin has to run damage control (again but he’s kind of used to it, hanging around with Pepper, who is cool and all but Tony Stark had a tendency to bring out the crazy in anyone, and Erik, who is brilliant but there’s a reason that half the school is in terrified awe of him), distracting Pepper from attempting to Jelly-Legs Jinx Tony into the remaining February snow by suggesting building snow men in front of the Shrieking Shack.

The snow-men are, well, inventive to say the least (Tony’s is a robot shooting lasers, Pepper’s is a ghost that floats around and occasionally kicks Tony’s robot in the head), and Erik and Charles didn’t even finish making snowmen before they turned the whole outing into a snowball fight.

(A week and several disgusting cockroach clusters later, Tony is commentating a Quidditch match for the first time, and proclaims his love to Pepper several times throughout the game. It takes Darwin, Charles, Hank, Raven, and a well-timed Bludger from Erik at Tony to restrain her from hexing him to kingdom come.

She still manages to hit him with a Bat-Bogey Hex followed by a Tarantellagra the next day though. It’s rather unpleasant, with snot dripping all over the place, Filch is furious, and Darwin thinks this is the first time Pepper has ever gotten detention.)

--

May 1989

Erik doesn’t think there is any subject more useless than Divination at this point. He had tried being patient, gritting his teeth through Trelawney’s prattling mumbo-jumbo (she had predicted the first day that he was the one who was going to die this year, and she would have relished giving more dire predictions except she had been cowed into stammering silence by his glare), squinting at tea leaves (Charles had insisted upon “practicing” later on, which had just led to him being hyped up on caffeine, practically bouncing off the walls, and going ErikEriklookatthatisn’tthatsocooldoyouthinkwecoulddothat? in his head for the entire day), and peering into crystal balls, but he had absolutely had it.

“There is nothing here, and this is ridiculous,” he hissed at Charles, shoving the crystal ball away from his face.

“You never know Erik, you might be able to see something,” Charles replied, still intently staring into his crystal ball.

“You were the one who read all those books saying Divination is pure bunk,” Erik muttered, considering levitating the crystal ball and throwing it against the wall.

“Don’t you dare throw it; you already nearly give Professor Trelawney hysterics every time you look at her already, and she was nice enough to lend us these,” Charles said quickly, giving Erik an accusing look while casting a sticking charm to the crystal ball.

“If she would do something besides predict ways that I’m going to horribly die and actually teach, perhaps that wouldn’t happen,” Erik replied, grimly staring at the crystal ball again, “After this year, I am dropping this subject, and you should as well.”

Charles sighs, slumping back in his chair (and Erik really does not like how Charles’ mind pulses with tiredtiredtired), “Perhaps I should,” he admits, stretching, “I thought that Divination could perhaps have some sort of technique involved in it because it can’t be entirely bunk when the Ministry has a whole department on prophecies, but perhaps people who are not born seers are truly incapable of seeing into the future. Of course, that brings up the question of how centaurs are able to divine the future and if they are all born seers—”

“The better question is how we are not going to fail the Divination final,” Erik interrupts, pulling out a piece of parchment, “So far I think our best bet is to write down as many horrible things that can happen to us as possible, look up the symbols that go with it, and then convince Trelawney that that’s what we see during the test.”

“Erik, that’s cheating,” Charles scolds lightly, drawing out the Divination textbook.

“I don’t see how so; we’ll actually be memorizing the symbols, and if Divination cannot actually be used without being born with the ability, there’s no point in testing us to see if we can see things that we can’t see,” Erik replied, scribbling on his parchment, “Do you think being savaged by a shark is too much?”

“We barely go to the beach, and sharks generally don’t attack humans,” Charles huffed out a laugh, “Yes, it’s too much.”

“What about being blown up by the twins or getting stuck in a Muggle prison?” Erik suggests, flipping through the Divination textbook, “I can also mention seeing a Grim stalking my path.” (It wouldn’t be too far from the truth anyway).

Never say that, Charles intones suddenly, looking Erik in the eyes, You are going to live to a ripe old age with me.

(Charles isn’t always consciously in Erik’s mind; he knows that his friend does keep tabs on him (a long slender thread tied between the two of them), but Charles generally just flits in and out like he has done since they were children, seeing some thoughts (and memories, the ones that Erik doesn’t bother to shield anyway) but mostly happy to just be there (Erik thinks that this is because Charles’ magic just needs to be able to peer into other people’s minds, but Charles claims that Erik’s mind feels like home, which Erik scoffs at because only Charles would think that a fortress “feels like home”), and with the punishing work-load of twelve different classes, Charles has been even less likely to catch an individual stray thought, preferring to curl up in Erik’s mind to rest. But Erik only took Divination in a desperate attempt to be able to one day find Shaw, and he knows that his frustration bleeds over as acid that Charles gingerly steps around, but Charles in the end, will not ignore anything that could end with his death.)

I am going to pass Divination, drop this moronic class, learn more spells, hunt down Shaw, and kill him, he carefully replies, still writing horrible fates down, Whether or not I come out alive from that is—

If you say it’s immaterial, irrelevant, insignificant, unimportant, meaningless, or any other synonym thereof, I swear I will hex you and then I’ll punch you in the face, Charles glared, eyes like ice.

“Fine, what would you like me to say Charles?” Erik asked silkily, “That I’m going to stay with you at your mansion like a good little boy, like a good pet and never do anything dangerous?”

“That’s ridiculous Erik, and you know it,” Charles bites out, hurt feelings lashing around Erik’s mind (like the slap of cold water in the face).

He already feels bad, but he still presses on (because this is their core conflict, the one thing that he refuses to give up despite Charles’ disappointment, the desire that makes his magic sing and blaze, and the one thing that Charles will probably never be able to understand), “But you would like it if I never even tried to get revenge.”

“I would,” Charles admits quietly, “I would prefer you safe. But I won’t stop you when you’re ready.”

“And who gets to decide that then, you?” Erik asks dangerously (voicing the question that he has been wondering about ever since they started their training lessons and Charles had picked out the spells) clutching his quill so hard that he’s surprised it doesn’t snap.

“No,” Charles snaps angrily (bees buzzing wildly), “You’ll only be able to come back alive if you’re better than all those Aurors they sent after him that came back dead, so I guess whoever is in charge of you in the Auror Office will decide that.”

“You’ve already decided that I’m going to be an Auror?” Erik demanded, torn between feeling pleased that Charles was so sure he could be one and irritated at Charles’ presumption.

“Would you rather be a Hit Wizard?” Charles snaps, “You don’t take orders or authority very well, considering how many points Slytherin loses every time you open your mouth in class. Besides, Aurors do investigative work while Hit Wizards are just called in for dangerous criminals and since you’re the one who wants to investigate, to the point that you took Divination and you keep a chart in your trunk about Shaw—”

“How do you know about that?” Erik cuts in (he had buried that chart made of newspaper clippings and photos at the bottom of his trunk and had shielded most thoughts about it the same way he did most of his thoughts involving Shaw)

Charles snorts, “Erik, I know everything about you. Besides, why else are random articles and pictures cut out of your Daily Prophet?”

(It’s disconcerting really, to think that someone would know everything about him, but he’s sure Charles is exaggerating. He has never let Charles walk some of the darker corridors of his mind, making sure that they are gated, locked, shut, and barred from entry, but on the other hand, Charles has woken him up from his screaming nightmares before and is well-aware of his plans, so perhaps he is fooling himself with that belief. However, who would ever want him to stay so badly if they knew everything about him?)

“Alright,” he says finally, “So you’ll ‘let’ me go if I become an Auror?”

“If you become an Auror who is better than all those Aurors they sent after Shaw before,” Charles replies, stressing the last few words (and echoing them in his mind), “I won’t be forced to try to immobilize or follow you.”

(And if there is one thing that Erik never wants, the nightmare that can still wake him up screaming, the fear that he keeps carefully buried, is Charles somehow getting into Shaw’s hands. He can imagine all too vividly how very fascinating Herr Dokter would find his friend who is so gifted at Legilimency, and he swears that that will never happen.)

“Then I’ll be sure to become an Auror then,” Erik quietly says, trying to project conciliatory feelings (the reassuring weight of a metal watch which is met by Charles’ familiar soft touch because all their arguments generally end something like this), “Which means I have to at least pass my exams, which unfortunately include Divination. The twins or Muggle prison?”

“The twins are unfortunately more likely,” Charles smiles (as he steps through his mind and leans against the walls, happy that they are no longer arguing), “They mean well of course but—”

“Don’t you start, you encourage them,” Erik muttered, scribbling away, “And I still have no idea where Raven hid the photographs.”

“Indeed, and I so wanted to see them again. You looked lovely with pink hair,” Charles said innocently, eyes dancing with mirth.

“Oh, I was nothing compared to your hair that time you broke Raven’s doll,” Erik shoots back, “Remind me, how many different colors did you turn it, trying to make it go back to normal?”

“I was nine, and I didn’t have a wand yet, and you didn’t help the way you were about to suffocate from laughing,” Charles laughingly protests, “Wait, are you seriously going to tell Professor Trelawney that you see yourself getting blown up by the twins?”

“Perhaps they’ll be caught in the explosion as well,” Erik muses, staring at his parchment, “You should tell her that you see yourself getting crippled somehow, and then stare at her with your big blue eyes until she feels sorry for you and caves.”

“That generally only works with you Erik,” Raven comments, plopping down in a chair at their table, “What’s this I hear about the twins blowing you up?”

“Fake dire predictions,” Charles explains as Erik continues to flip through his Divination textbook, “Erik thinks that if he predicts enough horrible things happening to himself, he’ll pass his Divination final.”

Raven tilts her head, “Sounds like a solid plan. So, how much are you guys willing to pay me for pictures of Erik with pink hair? I feel like I should try auctioning it off between the two of you.”

(Charles wins unfortunately, beating Erik’s bid of, “Daily Quidditch training for the entire summer and the promise of no bodily harm” with “a new Nimbus 1700 bought with my money made from Beautification Potions, and honestly Raven what’s wrong with the refurbished Nimbus 1500?” He tries to steal the photos away from Charles, only to find that he had placed a permanent sticking charm on them to his planner. He takes some heart in the fact that at least his photo-self has the good sense to hide and refuse to be seen without a lot of gentle coaxing from Charles.)

--

June 1989

The Weasley twins had claimed that very weak love potions would sell like Cauldron Cakes (“Seriously, girls will fall over themselves to—” “—hand you money if you could make those!”), and Charles has always wanted to try a variation of Amortentia, so he had happily agreed to see what he could do.

Then finals had happened, and he had nearly died (he absolutely agreed with Erik now; he had to drop some subjects, or he really was probably going to die of sleep deprivation if that was even possible. Divination had to go; it was just terrible, and if Erik was dropping it, he wouldn’t even have anyone to complain to about it. He was probably going to have to drop Ancient Runes as well because even though spell invention sounded enthralling, he knows he barely passed the final and that was after all the charmed flashcards), but now that that hell was over, he thought he could try his hand at it.

Hank helped him add in half an Ashwinder egg, “Are you sure this isn’t going to explode?” he asked nervously.

“Of course not; we only added half an egg, and it was frozen,” Charles said confidently, stirring and making a few notes in his Potions textbook, “Hand me the rose thorns, peppermint, and powdered moonstone and…and some Flobberworm Mucus to balance it all out.”

“People are supposed to drink this, right?” Hank asked disgustedly, but still obediently handed the ingredients over to Charles.

“Flobberworm Mucus is perfectly healthy!” Charles reassures Hank, adding in the ingredients, “This is to make sure it won’t last more than an hour. I’ve hypothesized that there is an inverse relationship between the amount of Flobberworm Mucus in a love potion and the duration of its effect.”

“Have you actually ever brewed a love potion before?” Hank asked curiously, avidly watching as the potion bubbled and developed a mother-of-pearl sheen.

“No, but I still think this should work,” Charles replied, his eyes darting between the wavy steam of the potion and the illustrations in the textbook, “Amorentia has spiraling steam, but we don’t want anything as strong as that, so this might be what we’re looking for. Go on Hank, take a sniff. What do you smell?”

“I-isn’t that a rather personal question?” Hank stuttered, pushing up his glasses and flushing.

“I suppose so yes, but how else are we going to be able to know if we succeeded or not? We can’t just feed it to someone; that would be highly unethical,” Charles said virtuously, quill poised to take notes.

“Like that would stop the twins,” Hank muttered before taking a sniff, “I smell the potions storehouse, ink, and…and something flowery. Kind of like perfume.”

“Any specific perfume?” Charles asked, frantically taking notes, “Pepper’s? One of your classmates? Raven’s perhaps?”

Hank turned red enough that Charles worried that he was about to spout steam from his head, “N-no! No! Just perfume!”

“Alright, alright,” Charles said, amused, stirring the potion some more, “Although, you do realize Hank that if you do wish to go out with my little sister, I will be forced to give you the overprotective big brother speech even though I like you? And most likely Erik will have to as well?”

Hank paled, “It’s not like that! I think.”

“Raven is quite fond of you, you know,” Charles continued earnestly, “She always looks for you during Quidditch matches, and she is ever so happy when she sees you—”

“What do you smell, Charles?” Hank frantically interrupted, once again as red as the Gryffindor common room.

“Me?” Charles asked surprised, temporarily derailed, “Well, let’s see. I think I smell the library, a kind of musty old book smell, tea, lemon, and a…vaguely metallic, vaguely musk-like scent. It seems familiar, but—no, I can’t seem to place it,” he mused, writing down more notes.

Hank peered closely at Charles, “Maybe it’s—”

“Why are you two brewing a love potion like giggling first year girls, Mr. Xavier, Mr. McCoy?” Professor Snape coldly asked, suddenly swooping into the dungeons.

Charles gave Professor Snape a winning smile (one that usually had served him well anyway) while Hank cowered behind him, “We were experimenting on the relationship between the duration of a love potion and the amount of Flobberworm mucus, professor! If our calculations are correct, this love potion should last no more than an hour and provide perhaps an intense infatuation—”

“You may take your infantile experimentation elsewhere,” Professor Snape snapped, summoning a box of flasks, “I have work to complete.”

Charles considers arguing to stay (Professor Snape is the Potions Master after all, and they could learn so much from him), but Professor Snape’s glare has already sent Hank frantically stoppering their potion into the flasks, and Ravenclaw is so close to the House Cup that he will be murdered if he loses them points now, so he sighs and follows suit.

They’re halfway up the stairs and arguing about how safe it would be to levitate the whole box to the Gryffindor common room to give to the twins (Charles thinks they should carry it there in case of crowds while Hank is maintaining that giving the twins access to love potions is the most terrible idea ever), when Erik catches up with them.

“You’re brewing love potions Charles?” he asks incredulously, quickly walking over to help them.

“It’s an experiment,” he replies haughtily, leaning back as Erik moves forward to heft up the box, “It was actually quite informative—”

And he suddenly knows why that metallic-y musky scent had seemed so familiar as Erik brushes against him to take up the box. It’s the smell that he had curled up with in Erik’s bed, the smell that he associates with comfort and laughter, the smell of his best friend, and evidently the smell that represents “while different to each person, reminds each person of the things they find the most attractive, even if the person themselves don’t acknowledge their fondness for the object of their affection.” (And he knows he’s freaking out when he starts reciting his Potions textbook in his mind, but this is kind of a big deal and he’s quite entitled to freak out right now if he wants to—)

“Charles are you alright?” Erik asks in a slightly amused tone, cutting into his thoughts, “You’ve been staring off into space with a panicked expression for a while now. Did you forget to add some crucial ingredient, and this box is going to explode any minute now?”

“No, no, I just-I left something in my dorm room,” Charles replies distractedly, backing away, “You two go and give that to the Weasley twins, and I’ll-I’ll join you in a bit.”

He runs off (and he mentally apologizes to Hank who has this irrational fear of Erik and Erik who doesn’t enter the Gryffindor common room if he can help it since he is Slytherin’s ace Beater), and tucks himself into a corner of the library (the most comforting place he can think of outside of Erik’s bed, which suddenly makes a lot more sense).

He has to think this through. Amorentia puts off smells that attract a person, for him it smelled like Erik; ergo he is attracted to Erik. But he couldn’t be, could he? Erik was his best friend, almost like his brother, and shouldn’t it be like the thought of dating Raven? (She had suggested this idea once to him and Erik, in hopes that she could make Hank jealous, but both of them had shuddered and refused. They had then to ply Raven with sweets and compliments to get her out of her sulk, assuring her that if she wasn’t like a sister to them, they would go out with her in a heartbeat, they swear, blue form and all, but since she was like their little sister, it would feel too vaguely incestuous and creepy.)

And yet, the thought of going out with Erik didn’t feel the same way. It made a warm feeling settle in the pit of his stomach, his cheeks start to flush, and his heart start erratically beating—

And now he sounded like one of those bosom heaving heroines in some of the trashy novels Raven kept borrowing off of that Slytherin second year Angel (and the novels he knew were Pepper’s guilty pleasure). This was ridiculous and not helping.

He ran his hands through his hair and pinched the bridge of his nose. Okay, here were the facts as far as he knew them. He had been unconsciously attracted to Erik, and now he was conscious of it. Erik, as far as he knew, had absolutely no thoughts about such relationships beyond the fact that they were distractions to his purpose (but there were many things that Erik counted as distractions to his purpose that Charles had convinced him to do, and this could be the same—)

No. He couldn’t risk it; Erik was his best friend. If he told Erik, and Erik did not feel the same way, or worse, if Erik was disgusted—

It didn’t bear to think of. Erik’s friendship was the most important thing after all, wasn’t it? So he could just act normal, just act the same, just remain Erik’s best friend. That would be easy enough to do wouldn’t it? He could do that, couldn’t he?

“Why are you in the library?” Tony asked, popping up from behind the bookshelf.

“Why aren’t you following Pepper around?” Charles asked irritably, neatly diverting Tony’s attention to his favorite topic.

“She’s helping Erik block the twins from spraying love potions all over Hogwarts,” Tony complained, sprawling in the chair next to Charles, “I ask her for help with Potions homework and she says no, but if Erik needs help, off she goes. You don’t think the two of them are going out, do you?”

“First of all,” Charles bit out, ignoring the queasy, rolling sensation in his stomach (Pepper had a lovely example of a mutation in the MC1R protein, and was one of the few people who Erik respected, and why wouldn’t Erik want to date her?), “You ask Pepper for homework help by saying, ‘Ready to make some magic together?’ Secondly, I think we would notice if Erik started going out with anyone.”

Tony held up his hands in mock-surrender, “Sorry, sorry. Touchy today aren’t you? Did you and darling Erik have a fight? Did he leave you for Pepper? If he did, don’t worry, I’ll steal her back with my latest robot and you can comfort Erik with your body.”

“Shut up Tony,” Charles replied, standing up as he heard the screams of fear and skittering sound that always accompanied Erik on a rampage with his spiders, “I better go handle this.”

(He manages to sternly lecture the twins into a state of contrition where they promise to not spike any more drinks with love potions (there had been a slightly mind-scarring incident with Mr. Filch and Madam Pince that he was never going to think about ever again) and agree to carefully research the potions over the summer. Pepper finally takes the Tarantellega curse off of them at this point, and Charles pushes and pleads with Erik until he agrees to not attempt to disembowel the twins with his spiders for turning his robes into a clingy, short, sparkly, blue dress during the chase.

The fact that he is uncomfortably attracted to Erik in a dress is a terrible, terrible state of affairs, and as Erik stomps around changing his clothes, he feels his mouth go a little dry.

He is so screwed. )

Chapter Text

July 1989

Raven thinks something is really wrong with her brother. Charles has been acting weird all summer. He refuses to come swim with them, citing urgent research (never mind the fact that it’s a holiday, boiling, and Charles has never refused a swim before), he nixed their traditional night of camping out on the grounds saying that he’s worried the gnomes may gnaw through their tent (which is utter nonsense because the most the gnomes have ever done is stumble in, in which Erik always sends them flying), and every time Erik leans over him to help him get something down from one of the shelves (Charles claims that the only reason Erik is taller is because Erik managed to hit his growth spurt first, but Raven is fairly sure that Charles is always going to be the shorter one) he squeaks, flails, flushes, and runs away.

It’s making Erik brood more than ever, and it’s not nearly as fun to play Quidditch with him (even with her brand new Nimbus 1700, courtesy of blackmail photos and Charles’ generosity) when he keeps shooting aggrieved looks at the window of the library where Charles is holed up (yet another weird thing, usually he would read outside while they practiced Quidditch) and hitting the Bludgers with greater and greater ferocity.

“Seriously, has the Wolverine snuck in?” she demands after a Bludger nearly took off her head, “Or do I look like Tony snuggling up to Charles all of a sudden?”

“You need to fly higher,” Erik snaps angrily as the Bludgers around him whirled faster, “You fly like that in your next game and you’ll be crushed.”

“Did you and Charles have a fight or something?” Raven asks curiously, carefully floating out of range.

Erik let out an angry breath, “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Raven frowned, flying closer, “What do you mean you don’t know? Did you guys argue about anything recently and not make up? Did you mess up one of his books on accident? Did he get you involved in one of his experiments that went horribly wrong, and you resent that?”

“I don’t know because he runs off and hides somewhere every time I’m about to ask, and he hasn’t been in my mind since summer started,” Erik ground out, glaring at the ground.

(And now Raven knows something is really wrong with Charles because Charles walks in and out of minds like breathing, and he had once described Erik’s mind to her as “like coming home.” When she had given him a doubtful look, because while she loves Erik she knows how spiky and dark Erik can get about certain things and she’s sure his mind reflects that, Charles had laughed, patted her head, and said quietly, “There’s more to Erik than just his nightmares, you know.” If Charles is staying out of Erik’s head on purpose…well, it could be for a number of reasons, all of them having the common theme of the fact that her brothers are stupid.)

In the afternoon, she manages to confront Charles in the library.

“What is wrong with you Charles?” she demands, sitting on top of the table and swinging her legs back and forth.

“I have no idea what you mean Raven,” Charles replies stiffly, turning a page.

“You’ve been acting weird all summer,” she accuses him, “You won’t hang out with us; you’re always in this stuffy library!”

“I like the library,” Charles mutters.

“And you’ve been avoiding Erik! He says you haven’t even been inside his head for awhile!” she says, throwing down the last fact like a gauntlet.

Charles flinches, still staring down at his book, “It’s for the best really,” he said softly, “It was kind of…childish, wasn’t it? Always slipping into his mind whenever I wanted to? Besides, I thought Erik might appreciate the privacy.”

Raven stares at her brother incredulously, “Who are you and what have you done to Charles Xavier?”

Charles bites his lip, hesitates, and then asks quietly, “Is Erik really upset?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Raven asks, frowning.

“I don’t think I should,” Charles says sadly, staring longingly out of the window.

Raven sighs (boys are so dumb sometimes) and asks again, “What’s wrong Charles? And stop saying nothing is wrong, something is, and you’re going to tell me or I’m going to owl the twins and Tony to pester you.”

Charles pulls on an expression of vague horror but still stubbornly maintains, “Nothing is wrong Raven. And don’t bother the twins or Tony; I’m sure they’re very busy.”

“Busy blowing things up maybe,” Raven snaps, “Did you fail all your classes somehow? Are you terminally ill? Did Professor Burbage ban you from ever speaking about genetics again? Are you secretly in love and pining away—?”

Charles chokes and says quickly, “No! None of those.”

She stares at Charles with wide eyes, “Oh my god,” she breathes, “You are. You’re secretly in love and pining away!”

“I am not!” Charles protests, waving his hands around.

“But with who?” Raven continues, ignoring her increasingly frantic looking brother, “You weren’t acting weird until pretty much right before summer, but we haven’t met anyone new since then. Maybe your hormones finally kicked in, and you decided you like someone we already know?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Charles says frantically, but Raven bulldozes on.

“It’s not Tony is it? Because that would just be terrible. Or Hank? Because you know he’s mine. The Weasley twins are too young. If it’s Pepper, Tony will kill you. Darwin’s nice, but I think he has an eye on Alex. It’s not me because that would just be weird. Erik wouldn’t be too bad though, you two would look cute together,” she muses relentlessly, and then she notices that Charles’ face is red enough for his head to resemble a Quaffle.

“It’s Erik,” she crows, pointing at him, “Why didn’t I see it sooner? Oh my god, I have to tell Tony—”

“Be quiet!” Charles hissed, casting silencing charms around them, “And you’re not going to tell anyone!”

“Why not?” she asks curiously, tilting her head to the right, “So this is why you’ve been acting so weird, especially around Erik. When are you going to tell him?”

“Never,” Charles snaps, turning the pages of his book with much more violence than the poor book probably deserved.

“You can’t be serious,” Raven said disbelievingly.

“Deadly serious,” Charles replied, not looking up.

“But why Charles?” she complained, “You’ve been freaking pining and—”

“Raven,” Charles interrupted, looking up at her with tired eyes, “Do you remember what Erik said, the one time you asked us when we were ever going to start dating someone?”

“That was last year, right? He snorted and said never—oh. But Charles, he didn’t mean you!” she exclaimed, “All you have to do is blink your big blue eyes at him and—”

“He’s my best friend Raven,” Charles cut in tiredly, “What if he says no? What if he only goes out with me because I want to? What if he’s disgusted with me?”

“He’d never be that,” Raven replies fiercely, grabbing onto Charles’ hands.

“But too many things could go wrong,” Charles counters, pulling back, “I’m not risking Erik’s friendship on—on whatever this is.”

“So what, you’re just going to sit here pining and avoiding him?” Raven asked incredulously, hands on her hips, “How is this the better solution?”

But Charles glares at her stubbornly, and no matter how much she pleads and argues with him, Charles refuses to talk to Erik about it, and in the end she grudgingly promises to not reveal his secret to Erik for now (she tells Charles after their long argument that only really ends because they hear Erik coming that it’s because she can sort of see his point about the problems it could cause, but really she agreed because these two idiots have to figure it out themselves. Yeah, it’s true this sort of thing could screw up their odd little family unit, but Raven doubts that. There’s a reason they’ve been running a bet for years now about when Charles and Erik would finally wise up, even if Erik is obsessed with revenge and Charles is oblivious, except now he’s not, and she really wants to know why, but he’s being emotionally constipated, and this sucks) in exchange for him to stop avoiding Erik and trying to act normal again.

He does at least stop running away from Erik and judging by the decreasing number of spikes on the armor and more normal Quidditch games, he’s at least occasionally going into Erik’s mind. Erik seems a bit confused (and a little suspicious because that’s Erik), but he accepts Charles’ explanation about worrying about his marks and not wanting to project the stress into Erik’s mind with a look of happy relief (that Raven adds to her mental list of Reasons Why Charles Is Being an Idiot and God Will They Just Get Together?).

Somehow she manages to restrain herself from telling anyone or knocking her brothers’ heads together throughout the awkward summer, but thankfully she can tell from Charles’ long, lingering looks and Erik’s growing irritation whenever Tony or Hank gets too close to Charles once they get back to Hogwarts that hopefully, it won’t be too long now.

--

September 1989

Supposedly unicorns were pure creatures that would bring happiness to anyone who saw them, but so far Charles still felt gloomy even with the silver and gold foals prancing around him. It was hard acting normal. He didn’t remember how to not notice how close Erik was to him anymore, how to not to look at his best friend and want to kiss him (Snog him, his traitorous mind helpfully supplies), and how not to flood Erik’s mind with affection every time he went in.

(He hadn’t been exaggerating when he had described Erik’s mind as coming home; it was the first mind that he had been willingly let into, the only one where there is a special gate made specifically so that he could go in, the only mind that he has explored so many times and yet still, Erik manages to surprise him. It’s the place that he goes to when he feels happy, excited, sad, angry, frustrated, or just tired, and it’s really really hard to stay out now, but he can’t risk more than a cursory trip to allay Erik’s worries because he knows that if he lets himself sink in, he won’t be able to hold back his thoughts and feelings of loveyouloveyouloveyou, and then Erik will know.)

It’s also thoroughly depressing that he’s turning into a lovelorn thirteen year old girl, and Raven keeps telling him to “man up, god Charles!”, the twins seem to think pranking everyone in sight with their new and improved toilet plunger wands will cheer him up, Tony keeps cracking dirtier and dirtier jokes (“—and then he said, ‘Have you heard of Platform 9 and ¾? Well, I can think of something else with similar measurements!’” “Please shut up Tony, Hank is going to die of embarrassment if you keep talking.”), and Erik keeps looking at him and asking if something is wrong.

He wants to tell him (just confide in him like he has always done), but he can’t. And he feels like tearing his hair out sometimes because the one person he’d talk to about something this serious was Erik (he never would have voluntarily talked to Raven about this, but she’s too good at guessing) but Erik was the one person he couldn’t tell. He’s going to go insane—

“Charles?”

He turns around to smile weakly at Moira MacTaggert, a Gryffindor fourth year in his Care of Magical Creatures class, “Yes Moira?”

“Do you have the notes on the hippogriffs? I was out last week, caught a cold,” she explained, leaning down to pat one of the unicorn foals.

“Oh yes, here you go,” he replied, digging out his notes and handing them to her.

She takes the notes, and then stares at him, biting her lip. He wonders if there’s ink on his face again (he’d been throwing himself at his schoolwork to avoid thinking about his problems. It was only partially working.)

“Is there something else I can help you with, Moira?” he asks gently, rubbing at his cheek.

She flushes and blurts out, “WouldyouliketogotoMadamPuddifoot’swithmenextweek?”

He blinks, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” he asks, as he carefully probes her mind.

“Um, I mean, do you want to go to Madam Puddifoot’s next weekend with me? When we go to Hogsmeade? Like a date?” she manages to stammer out as her mind screams oh god this is so embarrassing, what was I thinking, but he’s so cute and I think I really like him.

He’s about to refuse (while Moira has been one of his more pleasant classmates in Care of Magical Creatures, he had plans to go investigate the Shrieking Shack with Erik, Raven, and the twins, and he has absolutely no desire to step into Madam Puddifoot’s), but then he reconsiders the idea. He knows he has been, well, obsessing over Erik (as much as it pained him to admit it, even in the privacy of his own mind), so maybe the solution is to go out with someone else? Maybe his problem was that he had little experience with such matters; maybe if he went out with other people, with a nice girl like Moira, his feelings toward Erik would fade back to the way they were and supposed to be. And Moira was pretty with long red hair, obviously likes him, and hadn’t he admired how patiently she could deal with the younger students (even the Weasley twins, amazingly enough) and laughed at her dry sense of humor (like Erik)? If he tried, perhaps he could fall in love with her (instead) and everything would work out?

He can already imagine Raven’s screams of rage, but he still smiles and says, “Of course Moira, that sounds lovely.”

--

October 1989

Erik is not happy. He’s fully aware that all of the suits of armor around the school have developed lethal looking spikes, that the Slytherin first years and some of the older Slytherins as well have nightmares about the clicking and whirring the spider-chandeliers have taken to doing, that he may have broken a few bones during the Slytherin Quidditch matches, that he’s probably lost Slytherin at least a hundred points for various snide comments that keep sliding out of his mouth, that Raven is furious at him for reducing Hank into a whimpering mess every time he looks at him (he doesn’t know what she sees in that boy), that Pepper and Darwin have been quietly keeping out of his way, and that there’s a rumor going around that he’s raising a metal army complete with lake monsters to take over the school, but he doesn’t care because he’s really pissed off.

“She doesn’t even know him all that well!” He rants to a bored looking Raven, “They go to Madam Puddifoot’s for dates! Charles hates subpar tea and that’s all that blasted store sells!”

“Right, have you told Charles all this?” Raven asks, filing her nails.

“I did, but he claims that you get used to Madam Puddifoot’s and that the tea isn’t that bad. ‘Isn’t that bad,’ my arse, the one time I made tea using tea bags, he gave me a whole lecture about the horror of tea bags and how proper tea has to be made and served,” he fumed, pacing back and forth.

“He seems happy enough. Maybe he just likes her a lot?” Raven suggests idly, examining her nails.

He snorts, “Her? What could he like about her? She’s a mealy mouthed, boring, sanctimonious little Gryffindor—”

“Don’t diss my house,” Raven says, pointing her nail file at Erik, “And Moira’s not that bad. She’s pretty, she’s smart, I hear she’s pretty handy in a duel, there’s a lot of things Charles could like about her.”

Erik grits his teeth, “I don’t like her,” he says mutinously.

Raven throws up her hands, “Why do you care so much, Erik?” she asks, looking at him closely, “Shouldn’t you be happy that your best friend has landed himself a hot girlfriend?”

“I—I don’t care!” he sputters angrily, “I am happy for him! I am so happy for him!” he gesticulates, baring his teeth for emphasis.

“Please stop smiling, you look like a serial killer,” Raven says emphatically, “Are you mad because he doesn’t spend as much time with you anymore, or because you’re jealous?”

Erik pulls a disgusted face, “I am not some child who cries because his friend won’t play with him anymore,” he said sarcastically, “And why would I be jealous of him?”

“Who said you were jealous of Charles?” Raven asked slyly, “I’m thinking that you’re jealous of her.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Erik snapped, finally settling down into an armchair.

“I don’t see how it is,” Raven persists, gold eyes staring at him intently, “You never liked it when Charles grabbed onto Tony’s arm, or when he was holed up in the dungeons with Hank—”

“That’s because he always manages to blow up more things when Hank is around and Tony probably has germs,” Erik interrupted, glaring at the blue girl, “What’s your point?”

“My point, dear brother,” Raven says smoothly, “Is that you’ve never really liked other people getting too close to darling Charles. Maybe the reason for that is because you want him to be yours?”

“You’ve been reading too many of those trashy books Raven,” Erik said scathingly, standing up, “I’ll tell Angel to stop lending them to you.”

Raven sighed and looked upward, “God help me, the two of you are so dumb,” she muttered, rummaging through her bag, pulling out a glass bottle, and throwing it at Erik, “Catch.”

Erik stares at the bottle dubiously, “Isn’t this one of those horrendous love potions Charles’ minions got hold of last year? I could have sworn they were all confiscated.”

Raven shrugs, “Me and the twins stole them back,” she says blithely, “Smell that.”

“Why?” he demands, holding the bottle farther away from himself (knowing Raven and the twins, it would probably explode in his face and give him clown makeup).

“It’s not going to explode,” she replies, rolling her eyes, “It’s important. Smell it.”

He opens the flask and takes a tentative sniff (metal, the ocean, Quidditch gear leather, mint, and a strange combination of tea, ink, parchment, and something else that he’s not entirely sure what it is—)

But that’s a lie because he does. He knows that scent; he’ll probably know that scent until the day he dies, and the fact that he’s smelling it from a love potion means—

“This isn’t a real love potion,” he says hurriedly, handing back the blasted thing to Raven, “It’s one of Charles’ experiments, and he’s always putting in odd combinations. It doesn’t work the same way.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Raven says in an amused tone, sniffing the potion delicately, “I for one can tell you that it really does smell like the things you’re attracted to. Like I smell new brooms, Cauldron Cakes, Hank—”

“This doesn’t change a thing,” he says harshly staring at his own hands (how long had he—? He had thought that he and Charles were like brothers but it seemed that he— He had never even really thought about stuff like this before, it had seemed so stupid, so dumb, but when considers dating Charles, kissing Charles, it doesn’t sound that bad—but no.)

“What do you mean?” Raven demanded, “You smelt Charles, didn’t you? How doesn’t that change anything?”

“He has a girlfriend,” he snaps (mein gott, why hadn’t he figured this out sooner), “He probably sees himself as my brother.”

“I can tell you for a fact that during the summer at least, Charles had way more than brotherly feelings towards you,” Raven says gleefully, leaning over.

“Then why does he have a girlfriend now?” he demands darkly (he feels a surge of hope that he stomps on violently. It doesn’t matter how well some of the awkwardly painful moments over the summer suddenly click together, the fact remains, Charles has a fucking girlfriend.)

“His head’s not screwed on right,” Raven snaps, drawing a red flannel blanket around her, “But I confronted him during the summer, and he was freaking pining over his oh so hopeless love of you, so you can just—”

“That was this summer,” he points out, stabbing viciously at the fire with a poker, “It’s nearly winter break now, and he has a girlfriend. Have you even talked to Charles about this—thing, whatever it is, since he started going out with her?”

“Well, no,” Raven replies, frowning at the fire, “I tried once in the beginning, but he said that he really does like her, but I’m pretty sure he was trying to convince himself of that—”

“You don’t know that,” he cuts in harshly (why couldn’t he have smelled that stupid love potion sooner? Why did it have to be after Charles had evidently moved on, has not touched the gate in his mind for months?), “You will say nothing of this to anyone.”

Raven gives him a flat, unimpressed look, “You two are so dumb,” she sighs, shaking her head, “I’m telling you, if you just tell him, right now—”

“No,” Erik replies sternly, “You said he was happy with her; I’m not going to be the one to change that.”

(And he’s not, no matter how much Raven shrieks at him or he feels sick every time he sees Charles hold Moira’s hand or he feels a stab of loneliness when he walks the fortress of his mind by himself. Keeping Charles happy is important; he’s done it as well as he could for eight years now, and he’s not about to let a sudden attack of hormones ruin that. He makes Raven swear a variation of the Unbreakable Vow that only induces pain instead of death, telling her flatly that if she didn’t, he was going to deny everything and anything she ever told Charles. He can handle it; he’s handled worse before, and this is nothing compared to that. He’ll just try to put some distance between the two of them because he doesn’t trust his instinctive dislike of Moira to not make Charles suspicious. He can do that; it’s not even as if Charles has had much time for him anymore with all the dates. They haven’t even played chess in a while. He can give Charles the space he needs.

Never mind the fact that he really does start transfiguring old, rusty chains in the lake into metal sharks to ease his stress, or that the few times Charles tries to pull out a chair for Moira in Erik’s line of sight, it happens to jerk away at the last moment, or that every time Charles gives him a hurt expression from his cold words he feels like begging for forgiveness, or that when he tries to shield his newly discovered feelings toward Charles, he discovers that they have permeated into the walls of his fortress and all he can do is throw a glamour of grime over them, but he doesn’t know how to actually fully hide them. He’s dealing with it, he is.)

--

December 1989

No matter what Raven says, Hank is sure that this Christmas is going to end in tears, if not blood. No matter how many professors are around or how many robots Tony has loaned them, or how many people Raven can quickly turn into as a distraction, Erik Lehnsherr was going to snap and kill them all.

He had been irritable at the beginning of the year, scary yes, but no more than usual, but then Charles had started going out with Moira (who Hank quite liked because she was nice), and Hank didn’t know a single third, second, or first year (and quite a few upperclassman as well) who didn’t live in mortal terror of the Slytherin fourth year.

(“Does he really have a metal army with lake monsters?” Sean, a wide-eyed Hufflepuff second-year had asked him.

He remembers seeing Erik stalking around the lake with his wand out, and something with far too many teeth gleaming in the water, but he doesn’t want to scare the boy so he had given him a sickly smile and said no.

Sean had been unconvinced, and the next day none of the Hufflepuffs would go within twenty feet of the lake.)

And now Charles and Moira were sitting at the Christmas Feast table together, and Erik was emitting so much murderous tension that Hank can’t imagine how Charles is still smiling (Raven had said that Charles was trying this new thing where he stayed out of people’s heads, but Hank doesn’t need to be a Legilimens to know that Erik wants Moira to drop dead).

They somehow manage to get through the meal with no bloodshed (although Erik stabs at his turkey as though it has personally offended him), and Wizard Crackers are as fun as always (he quite likes his aviator goggles and balloons), but then it all goes to hell when Peeves shows up with mistletoe and dangles it over Charles and Moira.

“Kiss, kiss!” he cackles, and Charles obliges, giving Moira a rather chaste peck on the lips.

All of the silverware on the table rattles, the chandeliers swing dangerously and seem to be on the verge of unraveling (and it’s not a trick of the eye, he sees Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape reaching for their wands), the suits of armor actually reach for their swords, and Erik stands up abruptly and stalks out of the Great Hall (but not before a few knives bury themselves in the wall where Peeves’ head had been).

Charles automatically hurries after him, and Hank is dragged by Raven toward the doors as well.

“Why are we doing this?” he moaned unhappily, “I haven’t even written my will yet!”

“Hush Hank,” Raven said curtly, skin taking on a grayish tone to blend into the walls, “I want to see this. Maybe those two idiots can finally get their act together.”

It doesn’t sound like it to Hank, given the volume of the voices coming down the hall.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong, Erik?” Charles is pleading, holding his hands out.

“Like you did over the summer?” Erik sneers, arms crossed, “Why don’t you go into my mind and see what’s wrong?”

Charles looks away, “I can’t—”

“You can’t,” Erik mockingly repeats, “Of course. Well then, if you’ll excuse me Charles, I have a project waiting for me, and we mustn’t keep your lovely girlfriend waiting,” he says bitterly as he turns to walk away.

By the time Raven has shifted back and run up to Charles, Erik is gone, and Charles has a lost expression on his face.

“He hates me, doesn’t he?” he whispers, staring at the ground.

“Erik could never hate you,” Raven replies, hugging him, “God, you two are such idiots!”

Charles pulled away from Raven, “I better get back to Moira,” he said with a wan smile, “She might worry.”

Raven let out a muffled shriek as soon as Charles was gone, “Those two idiots! They’re so dumb! They’re so stupid! Why did I let Erik convince me to swear a Vow, why?”

Hank doesn’t really know what to say to that (well, he does want to question Raven about what swearing a Vow actually felt like and exactly how it worked since it wasn’t a real Unbreakable Vow but some variation that did not require a Bonder and only ended in mild pain not death, but he’s pretty sure that she’ll punch him if he tries at this point), so he takes a leftover Cauldron Cake from his pocket, unwraps it, and offers it to her.

She looks at it and laughs, “Thanks Hank,” she said, kissing his cheek as she takes the cake from his suddenly nerveless hands.

“Y-you’re welcome!” he squeaks, hoping that he’s not as red as he thinks she is.

Raven chuckles as she takes a bite from the cake, “I guess we can’t do anything until Charles breaks up with Moira,” she says thoughtfully, “Erik has too many hang-ups about that, and Charles would never cheat on anyone.”

“Charles is going to break up with Moira?” Hank asks, dismayed.

Raven clucks and pats him on the back, “Moira’s alright, but in the end everyone’s going to be a lot happier when those two idiots finally figure things out. God knows I’ll be.”

(And while Hank does like Moira, he does have to concede that life will be easier when Erik doesn’t look like a shark stalking its prey every time he sees him in the halls and Charles stops moping around. A happier Erik and Charles might be able to keep the twins and Tony in line, more or less. Hank was still annoyed that they had recently teamed up to created this monstrosity of a robot that had climbed to the top of the Astronomy Tower and kept waking everyone up by blasting wizard rock in the mornings.)

--

February 1990

Moira knows that it’s time. Charles is basically the perfect, gentlemanly boyfriend, holding her hand, taking her out on nice dates, smiling at her, bringing her thoughtful gifts, listening intently to anything she has to say, and kissing her every once in a while, but Moira can tell he isn’t happy with any of this.

She had known about Charles Xavier for a long time since he kept coming in and out of the Gryffindor common room to see his sister, but she had never actually gotten to know him until they were assigned as partners on the Flobberworm assignment. He had been so nice and enthusiastic (which had surprised her since she didn’t think there was any creature more boring than a Flobberworm), and who could blame her for finding him charming?

She had known that he had never thought of her that way (the few times that she had tried suggesting meeting in the library or at Hogsmeade had always ended with her being dragged into his crazy group of friends), but she had still decided to try asking him out because, why not? He was single, he wasn’t likely to make a scene if he truly wasn’t interested, and if he agreed, he could grow to like her after all.

He had agreed, and if anything, she found herself liking this sweet Ravenclaw boy even more as they talked and went out. She likes that he’s caring, overly enthusiastic about classes, and naturally compassionate, and she can see herself with him much further down the line. But she also sees the tiredness in his eyes (“Oh, just stayed up to finish my homework, no need to worry about that, Moira.”), the way his mouth tightens every time Erik Lehnsherr walks past without a word, the way he neatly turns his prattle about the genetics of magic into questions about the Quidditch League the minute she begins to feel bored, and the way he always asks her where she wants to go and never suggests his own locations for their dates.

He’s not happy, and even though Moira has been holding on, just hoping that eventually he would be, but she’s come to see the truth (even though she hasn’t wanted to). Charles was just trying to be whatever he thought she wanted him to be, and not himself (the laughing, grinning boy who had stared at Flobberworms as though they were unicorns). It’s selfish of her to keep holding onto him for her own happiness (even if she thinks it’ll break her heart to let him go) if he will never be happy with their relationship.

She draws in a deep breath (she is a Gryffindor, she is brave enough to do this) and says quietly, “I’m sorry Charles, but I really don’t think this is working out.”

Charles stares at her in dumbly, “Sorry, I’m not sure I understand,” he said in a shocked tone.

(And she knows how hard he has been trying for her, but he has looked so unhappy lately, and even if he claims it’s because he has a lot of schoolwork, she knows it has something to do with Erik Lehnsherr. Erik Lehnsherr hates her, and Erik Lehnsherr is Charles’ best friend, and everyone knows that Erik and Charles are fighting, and she can’t help but think it has to do with her. Normally she wouldn’t care, since Erik Lehnsherr is an ass, but the effort of being the perfect boyfriend while dealing with his best friend’s estrangement is tearing Charles apart, and she doesn’t want to see him this way anymore.)

“I like you Charles, I really do,” Moira said, biting her lip and looking away (more than you can imagine), “And I knew you were only sort of fond of me, but I thought that could change if we started dating, but it’s been five months, and you should be with someone that you can be yourself and be happy with.”

“That’s not true!” Charles protested, “I am happy and myself with you—”

“Charles,” Moira interrupted seriously, “Let’s not kid ourselves here. You hate Madam Puddifoot’s, you couldn’t care less about the Quidditch League, and you would rather hang around the library weekend nights than go for a stroll around the lake. You’re not yourself around me, and I’ve tried to make you feel comfortable enough to be, but it—it hasn’t been working out.”

Charles shakes his head and looks at her with a hurt expression, “But—”

Moira shook her head (she’s not going to cry in front of him), “It’s okay Charles, we had fun. Hopefully the next person you’re with, you’ll be comfortable enough to be yourself and be happy.”

She pats him on the back, and then runs up to her dorm room, sits on her bed, and finally let’s herself burst into tears.

(She had loved him, she really had, but in the end he didn’t, and she didn’t think that he could no matter how hard either of them had tried, and that hurt.)

--

Charles walks down to the library, alone with his thoughts, which is quite depressing. This year really has not been going well: he’s been too preoccupied with dating (he had to try to make this work, but it hadn’t) and moping to make any headway on his research into the relationship between Muggle sciences and magic, he’s been dumped by his girlfriend (and he thinks he should feel more upset over it, but instead he feels numb), his sister is extremely irritated at him, and he’s estranged his best friend. And it’s still early February.

(It hasn’t been all bad though. Sometimes he had been happy with Moira, for a few moments at least. Moira’s a nice girl, she really is, and she is funny, and kind, and patient, but when he peeked, her mind is a simple plain that in no way resembles Erik’s fortress, she is willing to listen to him talk about genetics and magic, but he can tell she’s bored by the subject, and she’s never made his breath catch the way Erik simply walking down the hall occasionally will. But he had ignored all of that because Erik’s not interested, especially not since winter break when he had plucked up the courage to try going back into Erik’s mind, something he hadn’t done since he had started going out with Moira because he thought that if he was trying to get over his feelings toward Erik that it would be easier if he wasn’t constantly reminded of all the reasons he loved him. He had knocked tentatively on the gate; Erik had ignored him, and he had been too crushed to try and go in. Christmas had also been a dismal affair. He had gotten generic packages of Chocolate Frogs and Cauldron Cakes from Erik and Raven respectively, had given equally generic boxes of Honeydukes sweets because he didn’t know what to give best-friends-turned-crushes-turned-people who no longer talk to one another and Raven was too irritated at him for him to ask her for her measurements for new robes, and then he had been depressed when he had gone with Moira to Madam Puddifoot’s lackluster Christmas special instead of participating in their annual snowball fight.

And Erik’s birthday is soon, and he’s already bought the Broomstick Servicing Kit that he’s fairly sure Erik needs after so many violent Quidditch games, but with how stonily Erik had stared at him during their Christmas gift exchange, he’s not sure how well this is going to go—)

“You broke up with Moira!”

He looks up to see Raven bounding toward him, white teeth a brilliant slash against her blue skin.

“That was rather fast,” he comments, scooting to the side of the window seat so that she could sit down, “And actually, she broke up with me.”

“I saw her going up to her dorm. I kind of feel bad for her, and I have to admit that you two were kind of cute together, but I told you it wasn’t going to work out,” Raven replied adamantly, leaning forward, “You guys just don’t click. Now go talk to Erik.”

Charles let out a frustrated breath, “Raven, we’ve been over this—”

“No Charles,” Raven interrupted, golden eyes narrowing and hair shifting to a darker red, “We’ve already tried it your way, and it’s completely fucked up our group dynamics.”

“Language,” he admonishes her gently (he has to stop her from talking to Tony and Logan), but Raven carries on relentlessly.

She rants, “Fred and George have teamed up with Tony since you haven’t really been available to consult, and it’s as terrible as you can imagine, Pepper and Darwin haven’t been around to help because they’re trying to figure out how to make the spider-chandeliers stop clacking menacingly so that Snape won’t murder all the Slytherin first years that come to him crying, Hank has been conducting some weird research into animagi and runs away when he sees me because he thinks Erik will come by brooding or that you’ll come by too and then Erik will murder something, and Erik is driving me insane. He keeps talking to me, but who am I supposed to rant to? Thanks to that stupid Vow—”

“Wait, Erik made you swear a Vow? An Unbreakable Vow?” Charles cuts in worriedly (those were dangerous, what was Erik thinking?), “About what?”

Raven gives him a disgusted look, “It wouldn’t be an Unbreakable Vow if I could tell you, would it?” her face suddenly brightens up, and he swears her eyes grow more cat-like, “Are you mad Charles? At how irresponsible Erik was acting? Doesn’t that make you just furious? If I break the vow, I could die.”

And this is all very true (“If the person who accepts the conditions of the Unbreakable Vow breaks them, they die.”), and Erik knows all of this (god knows how many times they’ve pored over various books together for “training” before this year), yet he still did it, and it’s all very well getting mad at him (even if he hates it, he deserves it after all), but taking it out on Raven?

He’s suddenly quite angry.

As he stands up and quickly walks out (to the lake because even now, with all this distance, both literal and metaphorical, between them, he knows exactly where Erik is), he swears he hears Raven whoop, but he’s probably hearing things, so he ignores it.

By the time he finds Erik standing by the lake, pointing his wand at something in the water, he’s out of breath and quite irritated.

Erik! He yells, standing by the gate (his gate) that looks a bit rusty from disuse.

Erik turns around and pulls on a sneer (and it almost makes him want to draw back, but this is important so he stands his ground), “What do you want, Charles?”

“You made Raven swear an Unbreakable Vow!” he yelled, “What were you thinking? Why?”

Erik’s face took on a shuttered look, “Is that what she told you?”

“What, you thought that I wouldn’t care? That I wouldn’t find out?” he demands angrily.

“It only took you what, three months? Given all the time you’ve been spending with your girlfriend, I’m surprised that you even noticed,” Erik retorts, sneer reappearing at full force, “Shouldn’t you be with her right now?”

Charles glares at him, “Moira just broke up with me, and don’t try to change the subject,” he snapped, “Why did you make Raven swear an Unbreakable Vow of all things? She could die!”

Erik blinks, and the sneer slides off of his face, “Moira broke up with you?” he asks blankly, “Your girlfriend broke up with you?”

“Thank you Erik for emphasizing that fact,” Charles huffed, crossing his arms, “And stop trying to change the subject; why did you make Raven swear an Unbreakable Vow?”

“It wasn’t an Unbreakable Vow,” Erik replied distractedly, “It’s a variation that causes mild discomfort but not death when broken. Shouldn’t you be more upset over your break-up?”

(Of course Raven had exaggerated it. This is like that time when he had been ten that Erik and him had been fighting about Erik making five year old Draco Malfoy’s cake explode during one of his mother’s garden parties, and they had been refusing to talk to one another until Raven had come crying to Charles that she had broken her arm while playing Quidditch with Erik. He had stormed over to give Erik a piece of his mind, only to find out that Raven’s metamorphmagus abilities extended to faking injuries. In their combined outrage, they had started talking again, and it seemed that Raven, despite being a Gryffindor, had only grown more devious over time.)

“You still shouldn’t have made her swear it!” Charles said, embarrassedly rubbing his arm, “And I am mildly upset about the break-up, just not—Moira is great, but it wasn’t really working out, so I am not devastated or anything, I’m just…” he trailed off weakly, not sure how to explain without giving everything away, “Anyway, back to the main point, why did you make Raven swear a Vow?”

Erik stares at him for a long moment (and Charles does not drink in the sight of Erik’s angular face like a lovesick teenage girl), before hesitantly saying, Come in.

What? He blurts out in surprise (he had thought, with a sinking sensation that winter night, that Erik may never let him in again).

The gate swings open, and Erik repeats quietly, Come in.

He slowly steps inside, and frowns when he sees the griminess of the walls. Erik always kept his mind-fortress so clean (a reflection of his natural orderliness or his propensity towards metal? But this wasn’t the time for that), so exactly what was this?

Wait, Erik frantically sends as Charles reaches out a hand to wipe the grime away, I need to talk to you first—

And Erik’s affection roils around Charles’ hand, twists and turns up his arm, and whispers, I love you, I love you, I think perhaps somehow I have loved you since you promised I wouldn’t be alone, and you’re mine, not hers, what do you seen in her, she doesn’t know you, Raven said you loved me first and you are the only one I can imagine being with, but you were with her and I couldn’t say anything, made Raven promise not to say anything, tried to push you away so it wouldn’t hurt as much, but you just said that you’re not with her anymore, so is this okay, am I too late again, you probably don’t think of me that way anymore, why didn’t I try smelling that love potion that day, why?

(It’s everything he’s ever dreamed of, everything he has fantasized and discarded with disgust, everything that he had deemed impossible, and he has to pinch himself because things like this don’t happen in real life, do they?)

He feels Erik hovering worriedly at his side, I’m sorry, Erik says heavily, that was too much and—

He flings himself into Erik’s arms (and nearly causes them to topple into the lake, wouldn’t that be fun to explain?) and sobs into his neck, Raven was right; We really are idiots.

Erik’s arms wrap around his back slowly as he whispers disbelievingly, Then you—you’re okay with this?

Charles floods Erik’s mind with a torrent of everything that he has been holding back (loveaffectionfearlovefondnessjoy) and whispers back, I love you, I have always loved you, I was so scared that you would hate me, that we wouldn’t be friends anymore, that you wouldn’t want to be with me anymore, so I tried to ignore it, act normal, I thought going out with Moira would make me forget this, but it didn’t, and you ignored me, I thought you hated me, but you don’t, you love me, and Raven was so, so right, and I’ll buy her all of the Cauldron Cakes in Honeydukes after I’m done kissing you, although I’m still kind of irritated at how much she made me worry.

Erik stares at him with wide, dazed hazel eyes, “Kissing me?”

Charles gives him a brilliant grin, leans forward, and (finally, finally) presses his lips against Erik’s unresisting mouth. Erik groans (mine, mine echoing in the walls of his mind) as he clutches at him and kisses him back ferociously.

( They only break apart when they hear a clicking noise, and whirl around to see an ecstatic Raven holding a camera and bouncing up and down with glee.

“Finally!” she exclaims, pumping her fist up in the air before her eyebrows suddenly drew together, “Oh man, I lost the bet!”

And Charles should be irritated that Raven would exaggerate something as serious as an Unbreakable Vow and bet on him and Erik, but he’s too happy, tucked in Erik’s arms and cloak, so he throws her a wide grin and soothingly convinces Erik to not go chasing after Raven and her camera by drawing him down for another kiss.)

--

Pepper is quite pleased. She has managed to rake in the entire pot of winnings centered around the multi-house bet of when Erik and Charles would finally see sense and get together. Raven and Stark had been the second closest, but Raven had been fed up with the “emotional constipation of boys” and had moved her bet to sometime in sixth year, and Stark had already lost because he had bet on this Christmas (“Christmas is a time for romance! Why don’t you come to the Stark ski-lodge in Colorado with me, Pepper? I can teach you how to ski while holding your hands—” “As much as I would like to see you balance awkwardly on two planks of wood and possibly topple down a mountaintop, I have a family to visit, Mr. Stark.”)

Five hundred galleons (gathered discreetly from various students and one or two professors) is a very nice sum of money, and she’ll look forward to exchanging and spending a decently sized portion of it on a pair of black, strappy Christian Louboutin wedges that she had had her eye on ever since she had seen them one summer when exploring a fancy Muggle boutique.

It also helped that Stark had put about one hundred galleons in the pot.

(This year had been even worse than previous years because somehow Stark, most likely due to some influence on the part of the Weasley twins, had come up with the idea that sending her mechanical flowers every morning that were enchanted to serenade her with “A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love” would make her more likely to go out with him. She had taken great pleasure in intercepting the house elf and directing her to deliver the horrendous flowers to the fourth year Slytherin boy’s dorm. It was wonderful to hear the crunching shriek the flowers made whenever Erik had finally had enough. She felt a little bad about bothering Darwin, but he had cast a Silencing Charm around his bed after the first few incidents. She didn’t feel bad about sending the horrible devices to Erik at all, because it was his and Charles fault that Stark and the Weasley twins were out of control, and honestly the spiders were even starting to give her nightmares. She had dreamt one night that one of them had cut off her head and sealed it in a box, and that had been when she had moved up the date of her bet because she didn’t think any of them could take it any longer.)

Of course, Erik (and Charles, but Charles wasn’t her potions partner so she didn’t have to deal with him as much) had not been very pleased to find out about the existence of such a bet.

“You helped Tony Stark set up a betting pool about Charles and me?” he hissed at her angrily as they chopped ginger roots.

“Mostly I helped Raven,” she replied calmly, dumping the roots into their cauldron, “I believe Stark came up with the idea, but as always he couldn’t actually follow through. Raven was the one who encouraged people to participate, and I was the one who came up with the rules and kept track of the money.”

“Raven ran around the school, asking people to bet on when Charles and I would get together,” Erik repeated dangerously, stirring the Wit-Sharpening Potion until it turned lime green and then tossed in the armadillo bile.

“She kept transforming into people from different houses so that we could get more people to participate,” Pepper said smoothly, stirring the potion until it turned blue and then adding the ground scarab beetles, “It worked quite well actually; she even managed to convince a few of the professors to participate.”

“Who?” Erik demanded as their cauldron began to bubble oddly.

“Calm down; do you want something to explode?” Pepper asked sharply, gesturing around the room where more than a few frantic students are backing away from their oozing cauldrons.

Erik took s a deep breath, and the cauldrons stilled, “Who?” he asked again, gruffly, remixing the armadillo bile in.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that; the confidentiality of our clients has been entrusted to us, and we do not therefore give out such information,” she replied sweetly, adding more ginger roots after the potion turned yellow.

“You sound more like a Ministry bureaucrat every day. You know I could set my spiders on you,” Erik suggested darkly, stirring the potion until it turned lime green and adding in more armadillo bile.

“Try it,” she replied blithely, stirring the potion until it turned purple, “I’m sure if I asked nicely, I could get even more singing flowers sent to your room. Besides, I think Charles would be very sorry to hear about that.”

Erik glowers down at the simmering potion, and Pepper knows she’s won.

(Despite Erik’s fast-growing fearsome legend, Pepper knows that there is no way her fellow Slytherin will ever take over the world or even Hogwarts with his metal army because Charles would disapprove, and Erik hates disappointing Charles. At one time, very early in her Hogwarts career, she had considered dating Erik because he was quite good-looking if a bit psychotic, but had quickly nixed that idea when she had seen the fond looks Erik gave Charles as they played chess and Charles had happily prattled on about DNA, Muggleborns, Squibs, and purebloods. She had then decided to pitch in to help Raven with the betting pool, despite the fact that Stark was involved. The two of them are adorable, really, and it has been hell this year with the two of them being emotionally constipated idiots, and she and Raven took Moira out to the Three Broomsticks as an apology for all of her troubles, but it’s good that they’ve finally gotten their act together. She’ll get her revenge for all the trouble they’ve caused eventually.)

“You two coming with us to the Three Broomsticks this weekend?” she asks, checking the clock, “Or are you guys going to Madam Puddifoot’s?”

Erik shudders, “We are never stepping foot in that place,” he snaps, adding in more ginger root, “It’s—”

“Very ‘kitsch,’” she said, miming air quotes, “I’ve heard. Shall we be expecting the two of you then, or will you guys be having your first date at Hogwarts?”

Erik flushes (and she wishes that some of the Slytherin first years could see this so that they don’t run screaming every time Erik appears in the common room), and mumbles, “We’re staying here. It’s quieter.”

“Of course,” she smiles at him, stoppering the dark orange potion, “Well, have a good time.”

(She tells Raven and spends the next weekend with her and Darwin, spying from behind the bushes at Charles and Erik who are sitting by the lake, playing chess, swapping stories, and occasionally shyly leaning in for a kiss. However, Charles notices them eventually and has to restrain Erik from shoving them into the water for his new metal sharks. Stark then bursts in because he thinks the sharks are “the most awesome thing ever!” and muses out loud about if he could get more girls by kissing other guys, and reaches for Charles, which cements Pepper’s view that Tony Stark is an adrenaline junkie with no survival instincts whatsoever as Erik dumps a laughing Stark into the lake. By the time Professor McGonagall sweeps up, demanding, “What is the meaning of all of this?”, they’re all soaked from either efforts to get Stark out of the water (Charles, Darwin, and Raven) or from efforts to make Stark stay in the water (Erik and herself). They each lose their houses five points apiece for “juvenile behavior unbecoming of fourth or third years” but from the grins on all of their faces, Pepper thinks that their group is finally back to normal.)

Chapter Text

July 1990

It was the perfect idyllic summer, especially after such a horrible one last year. He manages to read and take notes on all the books on DNA and wizard scientists (there had been a few, not very many, but enough to leave a whole bookshelf of books behind) that he had so dreadfully neglected last year, they have a lovely trip to the beach (where they get in a giant splash fight, make a bonfire, and he curls up next to Erik on a towel and stares at the stars with Erik’s fingers gently carding through his hair), and he is able to be with Erik as much as he wants.

Raven could make faces and complain about developing a toothache all she likes, Charles still can’t get over how easy it is to smile up at Erik and be obliged with a kiss (whenever his mother and Kurt aren’t around anyway, but it’s not as though that’s difficult with Kurt holed up in his lab and his mother either off traveling, giving one of her many parties, or drunk as a skunk).

He’s sitting by one of the Quidditch goal posts, reading about DNA mutations (“Mutation is an essential process in evolution because it is the ultimate source of genetic variation. But it is a relatively weak force for changing allele frequencies, primarily because typical mutation rates are so low…”) and watching Erik and Raven play (mostly Erik though. He’s a little embarrassed at how hard it is for him to tear his eyes away from Erik zooming around on a broom, hair tousled by the wind, long gloved fingers curved around the broomstick, the sleek line of his long back—and he’s going to stop before Erik notices these thoughts and ribs him about them.).

Three owls swoop in, and the letter from Hogwarts that lands on his book is abnormally heavy. He curiously tears it open to reveal a shiny silver badge with the letter “P” emblazoned upon it.

“Charles!” Raven shrieked, swooping down and waving around another such badge, “Erik’s been made prefect—oh, you have too! Erik!”

Erik lands and steps down softly, raising his eyebrows, “You too?” he asks, taking his badge back from Raven.

“Evidently,” Charles replied, turning the badge around in the light.

Raven snorts, hands on her hips, “There’s no question about why Charles has been made prefect, but you Erik? Last I heard from Pepper, Snape wanted to kill you for terrifying the little Slytherin first years with your temper tantrum and making them run crying to him. Why not Darwin?”

“Because it’s Slytherin,” Erik replied with a flash of a shark-like grin, “Darwin may be able to adapt to any situation, but so can most Slytherins, and they would walk right over him. Slytherins need a bit of…intimidation.”

“Somehow I think your personality has gotten more terrible over time,” Raven said seriously, perched on her broom, “Charles, he’s your boyfriend, do something about it.”

(And he still feels a tiny jump of joy in his chest every time someone refers to Erik as his boyfriend. After going around for months longing but not having, desperately wanting but not saying anything, it’s so satisfying to be able to call Erik’s his.)

“Erik, don’t terrify the Slytherin underclassman into crying for Professor Snape,” he scolds gently, twining their fingers together (in body and in mind), “You gave everyone enough nightmares last year. Besides, a prefect has many other duties other than scaring first years into line, like patrolling the halls.”

Erik gives him a lazy smile, sitting down in the grass with him, “So many responsibilities already, the perks better be worth it,” he mock complained.

“Well, we get a special compartment in the train,” Charles said, skimming through the letter, “And we can take House points and give out detentions to students in our own house—don’t get any ideas,” he warned, seeing the contemplative gleam in Erik’s eyes, “And there’s a special bathroom just for Prefects—stop,” he exclaimed, laughing when Erik sent him a rather lascivious look with hooded eyes.

“Okay, ew,” Raven said, wrinkling her nose and swinging her legs back around the broom, “I’m going to go now because I really don’t want to know what you guys get up to in your private time.”

“You follow us around on dates and take photographs!” Charles protested, face hot at Raven’s implications (they hadn’t done much past snogging yet, and he was not about to talk about this sort of thing with his little sister).

“That’s for commemorative purposes!” she yelled as she kicked off into the sky, “How else am I going to convince Hank that you guys won’t murder him if he dates me?”

“Is she dating Hank yet?” Charles asks Erik seriously.

“Not that I know of,” Erik replies with a slight sneer, “The boy seems rather terrified at the very prospect; I have no idea why.”

“Lies,” Raven yelled, skimming right past them, “You are such a freaking liar! Charles, slap him for me, will you?”

Charles rolls his eyes and loops his arms around Erik’s neck, “Whenever he does pluck up the courage to ask our dear sister out on a date, you will assist me in warning him what will happen if he ever hurts her in any way?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Erik replies (with what is most likely a sinister smile that would make most people at least back away or in Hank’s case hide under a bed, but Charles thinks that it’s quite attractive on him, and he knows he’s so far gone) and pulls Charles into his arms for a long kiss.

--

October 1990

So the thing is, Tony is absolutely sure this is going to be the most awesome year ever. Charles and Erik aren’t moping around and killing things and messing up their whole group dynamic, O.W.L.s will be fine (“Some people aren’t geniuses like you Tony, and actually have to go through a practice commonly known as studying—” “Don’t bother Charles, Tony stopped listening to you after the word ‘geniuses.’”), and after his most recent growth spurt, girls are finally flocking to him.

Okay, so Charles and Erik were kind of disgustingly sweet with one another, and the professors are piling on enough homework that even he can’t run off to tinker with his robots at all hours anymore, and even after his growth spurt he’s shorter than Erik, but Erik’s just freakishly tall anyway and he’s still taller than Charles, which is what counts, but he can just tell that this is the year that the lovely Ms. Pepper Potts will realize his considerable charms.

“Unless you have pressing business here, will you please leave Stark? Some of us actually have work to do.”

It was just taking a while.

“But I do have pressing business, Ms. Potts!” he said, giving her a wide grin.

Pepper looked up from her pile of Charms notes with an extremely unimpressed look, “And that would be?”

“You of course!” Tony replied, grinning, “You still haven’t agreed to go to the Gryffindor-Slytherin match with me!”

“Please consult your calendar Stark; that’s still in a month,” Pepper murmured, going back to her Charms notes.

Tony leaned back in his chair, “I thought that if I asked you early you could clear out your schedule for that day,” he said cheekily.

“You mean that if you started now, you thought you could wear me down over an entire month,” Pepper stated, underlining her notes with green ink.

“Is it working?” he asked eagerly, leaning forward, “Do you think—”

“Mr. Stark!” Flitwick hurried toward their table, “Mr. Stark, you must come with me immediately to Professor Dumbledore’s office.”

He stands up worriedly as Pepper gives him a bemused look, “Is this about the Incedio 5000?” he asks nervously, following Flitwick out of the library, “Because I swear I thought it would do less damage, and I already apologized to Professor Sprout about the Devil’s Snare—”

“It’s not that,” Flitwick said distractedly, standing in front of an ugly gargoyle, “Acid pops.”

“It isn’t about Butterfingers then?” Tony persisted, walking up the stairs after the gargoyle had hopped aside, “I thought he would be fine just adding in potions ingredients, it’s not my fault that Professor Snape bumped into him and messed up his calibrations. In fact, sir, Professor Snape only has himself to blame that the cauldron exploded—”

“Mr. Stark,” Professor Dumbledore said solemnly, walking forward to meet them, “Would you please take a seat?”

Tony gulps and sits down. The Incedio 5000 and/or Butterfingers must have caused more damage than he had thought if he was in enough trouble for the headmaster to call him in and look so serious.

He glances around, taking in the many portraits and odd silvery devices, a gloomy looking phoenix, and that’s when he notices Caesar, his father’s business owl, perched on Dumbledore’s desk.

He feels himself go cold; Caesar was never used except for extremely serious business, that he was here now meant—well, whatever it meant, it was a lot more serious than a few malfunctioning robots.

“Mr. Stark,” Dumbledore begins quietly, “There seems to have been an accident of involving motor vehicles of some kind, and I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your parents were involved in the accident.”

“They’re okay, right?” Tony asked with a sinking sensation, gripping the armrests of the chair (his hands are shaking), “They’re fine?”

Dumbledore shook his head quietly, “I’m afraid not Mr. Stark. They were rushed to St. Mungo’s, and the healers did everything in their power, but they were too far gone. I’m sorry.”

Tony shakes his head quickly (he thinks he feels something wet on his cheeks), “What are you talking about? I just got a letter from them this morning, they’re fine, they’re great, they can’t just die from a stupid car accident, they can’t!”

--

November 1990

If there was one reason Pepper did not want to be a prefect, it was night patrols. They were long, dark, and mostly boring although occasionally alleviated by an adventurous first year (kind of fun because they squeaked and stammered) or more amorous upperclassman (whose excuses were even more entertaining). Also, she had somehow drawn the short straw for patrolling the Astronomy Tower tonight, and she’s not looking forward to either walking around the cold, drafty tower or yelling at a couple to put some clothes on (it’s the number one isolated snog location on campus evidently, and even with all the blackmail information, she still finds this job rather distasteful).

She sighs when she reaches the Astronomy Tower and finds the hinges of the door glued together. Someone was up there again tonight, and no matter who they were she was going to find someone to dock points from their house for possible traumatization, she thought, grimly casting Finite Incantatem and walking up the stairs.

She is fully prepared to cover her eyes any second now (she had to remember to ask Charles about that spell he had found to make clothes dress a target) only to be greeted by the sight of Tony Stark alone, sitting on the window-sill, waving around a bottle of firewhiskey, and grinning at her drunkenly.

“Heeeey, Pepper! Come to join the party?”

(She would have given an arm and a leg for a quiet Tony Stark last year, but seeing him, silent and still the weeks before and after the funeral had been disturbing. When she had asked, Erik had quietly told her that Stark had broken down sobbing during the funeral but had completely holed himself up in his mansion when Charles had gone to talk to him. Charles also brought up worriedly at one point that Stark had quit his Quidditch commentator duties and had spent the entire Gryffindor-Slytherin match buried in circuitry. Stark had slowly returned to being his usual loud, noisy, obnoxious self, but Charles had murmured uneasily about the stash of firewhiskey under Stark’s bed, Erik was disgusted at the number of girls Stark was going through, and she had heard about the wild, raucous parties that Stark had been somehow throwing around the school. Even though he was yelling and grinning and hitting on everyone in sight, something just seemed off.)

“Stark,” she says as a greeting, flicking her wand to make it glow brighter, “You do realize you’re by yourself?”

“I’m not by myself, I’m with you! Best kind of party!” he sings, tipping precariously out of the window, “Want a drink? I have loads,” he says, gesturing to the many bottles of various alcoholic substances littering the floor around him.

“No thanks, I’m on duty,” she replies calmly, carefully casting a fixing charm on Stark’s pants to the window-sill, “And you’re breaking curfew, Mr. Stark.”

“Curfew is an abstract concept and a shitty rule created by deadbeats who want to oppress awesome people like me who want to have fun,” Stark proclaims, swaying in his perch and then frowning, “Why are my pants stuck?”

“Nevertheless, I am supposed to turn you over to your head of house Mr. Stark,” she replies, wondering if she could do a low-powered summoning charm to get Stark away from that open window (it was making her nervous).

“Noo, don’t bother old Flitwick! He needs all the sleep he can get!” Tony yells, lurching from his seat and slumping on the floor, apparently having figured out how to undo the sticking charm (and he was still smart even while drunk, why did that not surprise her?), “And why do you keep calling me Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark’s my dad—”

He suddenly stops babbling and stares at the floor morosely, and Pepper feels terrible (which is a novelty since she’s only ever felt irritation, anger, and exasperation toward Tony Stark before).

“I’m really sorry about your parents,” she said (and that was trite and terrible, but she didn’t know what else to say), “I would have come to the funeral, but it seemed to be a private affair.”

“You didn’t miss much, it was just one of those high-class pureblood society events and just about as depressing as usual,” Tony says jokingly, but the way his hand clenches around the bottle speaks volumes.

(And she doesn’t like Tony Stark, she really doesn’t. He’s loud, brazenly arrogant, obnoxious, flirtatious, narcissistic, flashy, doesn’t have one iota of common sense, and has been the bane of Pepper’s existence for the past four years. But there is just something fundamentally wrong about Tony Stark being depressed. It’s worse than the thought of Erik being nice or Darwin being mean, because both probably have an explanation involving devious plans or heinous deeds, while Tony Stark being depressed and trying to hide it so desperately is—well it’s depressing, and she is fully aware of how shaky her logic is on that.)

“You shouldn’t drink so much, you know,” she says quietly, gesturing at the bottles.

He snorted, “Shouldn’t you be lecturing me about how I shouldn’t be drinking at all and the horrors of underage drinking?” he asked in an amused tone, crossing his arms, “Ms. Potts?”

“I’m sure Charles will be delighted to take up that duty,” she replies, dragging him up by the arm and casting a Disillusionment Charm on him, “After you get back to your dorm.”

“You’re not going to get Flitwick?” Tony’s disembodied voice asked in a surprised tone, “Or Filch?”

“Professor Flitwick would probably be happier to not be disturbed in the middle of the night, and I am sure Mr. Filch has more pressing concerns than a depressed boy drinking away his sorrows,” she replies smoothly, vanishing away the bottles.

Tony’s voice sounds oddly irritated, “I am not drinking away my sorrows—”

“Yes you are,” she cuts in bitingly, “I was going to leave this to Charles, but you’ve obviously been avoiding him, so here it is. Stop it. Stop trying to pretend everything is okay; it isn’t, and we know that, we get that, and you don’t have to act like nothing ever happened. If you don’t want to talk to any of us about it, that’s fine, but you have to talk to someone. A professor, a Healer, just someone,” she trails of awkwardly.

(She hadn’t meant to say all that. But anyone would be worried if someone they knew, even someone as usually obnoxious as Tony Stark, was drinking by himself in the middle of the night, perched precariously on the window of a high, high tower, wouldn’t they? But she may have crossed a line; she probably should have left this to Charles who has known Tony longer and is naturally compassionate and caring, and most likely better at these kinds of situations.)

Tony is silent for so long that she wonders if he has left the room before his disembodied voice asks contemplatively, “Will that be all, Ms. Potts?”

“That would be all, Mr. Stark,” she says finally, and she hears his footsteps down the stairs and the door quietly close behind him.

(As the months pass by, Tony Stark still goes through about a girl a week, and she keeps hearing about the wild parties he throws, but at the very least Charles reports that the stash of alcohol has disappeared and that Tony is seeing a Healer sporadically. He seems more or less normal again, although she feels that there’s a certain edge in his voice that wasn’t there before, and some of his actions, such as teasing the Wolverine about his crush on a Gryffindor second year named Jean Gray, seem more reckless than ever. He has also taken to calling her Ms. Potts and had dialed down his flirting with her a notch, which mainly meant innuendo and the odd attempted touch, but no actual proclamations of love or begging of dates. She’s fairly sure she should feel happy about this, and she is, but it’s still a bit disconcerting after so many years of fending him off. She’s not actually sure what she feels about all of it; everything seems a bit off-kilter lately.)

--

December 1990

Raven isn’t sure what else she can do. She’s thrown out as many hints as possible, followed all of Witch Weekly’s “10 Surefire Ways to Get Your Man” (she wants a refund), kissed him on the cheek, had Angel help her with make-up, practically sat in his lap during one memorable potions lesson (Professor Snape had not been amused), and Hank still hasn’t asked her out.

“Do you think I could convince Peeves to hang mistletoe over me and Hank?” she asks contemplatively, lying back and tossing a quaffle around.

“If you pretend you’re the Bloody Baron,” Charles replied distractedly before his mind caught up to the conversation, “Wait, no. Absolutely not.”

She pouts and tosses the quaffle in Charles’ general direction, “But how else am I going to get Hank to ask me out?” she whines.

“Shouldn’t you figure out if he likes you first?” Charles asks, going back to his notes as Erik bats the quaffle away.

Raven rolls her eyes at him, “I’m not either of you two,” she says disgustedly, “I know he likes me, but he’s just too scared to ask me out.”

“Then he’s not worth the effort,” Erik scoffs, reaching for his Arithmancy textbook.

“Pot calling the kettle black,” Raven shoots back, pointing between Charles and Erik, “What if you guys went to Hank and promised not to kill him if he went out with me?”

“Don’t you have an essay to write, Raven?” Charles asked despairingly.

“It was Divination, and I already finished it,” Raven replied primly, holding up the roll of parchment, “I predicted my horrible demise seven times in four feet.”

“Isn’t that a bit much?” Charles asked disapprovingly, looking up from his notes, “I still can’t believe you took that class after all the horrible things we told you about it.”

Raven shrugs, “It’s an easy, blow-off class. And considering Erik said he predicted he was going to die thirteen different ways during Trelawney’s final and still passed, I think I’m alright. Do you think I should ask Hank out myself?” she mused, summoning back the quaffle, “Or is that too forward?”

“He’d probably misunderstand and think that you were volunteering for one of his experiments,” Erik said snidely.

Raven threw the quaffle at Erik’s head, “It’s not too forward with how long I’ve been waiting, but I want him to ask me out,” she decided as Erik ducked, “Should I be less blue maybe? More blonde?”

(She had been wondering about that. She has always felt that her blue form was the way she was supposed to be, but she knew it was on the strange side, and Witch Weekly never had any tips about optimizing your blue looks. Angel says Raven can’t complain since she can shift into whichever beautiful supermodel she wants to, but that’s not the point. She’s always wanted people to accept her as she is, and she found that in her adopted brothers, but she’s still scared that no one, not even the boy she likes so much, will consider her romantically in this form. She doesn’t want to go back to being blonde, but—)

“No,” both of her brothers say simultaneously, looking up from their studies.

“If he doesn’t accept you as you are, he doesn’t deserve you,” Charles lectures sternly, eyes bright.

“You’re exquisite, and if that boy thinks otherwise he needs some sense pummeled into him,” Erik growls, the metal grate in the fireplace twisting slightly.

(And this is why she loves them, no matter how oblivious Charles can be, or how sarcastic Erik is, or how nauseatingly sweet the two of them together can be, or how emotionally constipated they are, or even how overprotective they are about her, they know her and accept her exactly the way she is. They were the first two, and no one was happier than her when they managed to find their happiness in each other.)

“Thanks,” she says, smiling and then tilts her head, “Maybe I can find my own mistletoe and ambush Hank with it?”

Charles groans, burying his face in his hands, “That is such a terrible idea.”

(There’s actually a ton of mistletoe in Zonko’s, but in retrospect it was probably a bad idea to involve the Weasley twins. By the time they were done, no one could go two feet without bumping into some mistletoe that had been charmed, courtesy of the twins, to not let two people step outside the zone without some form of kissing. Erik had taken to practically gluing himself to Charles’ side after a close call with the Wolverine, and Pepper kept firing off Knockback Jinxes every time Tony got within a few yards of her, but at least Darwin finally managed to ask Alex out due to being stuck in a zone, and Hank finally plucked up the courage to blushingly give her a kiss on her blue cheek. It’s not much, but it is progress, no matter how many snowballs her brothers have enchanted to follow and hit her and the twins in retaliation.)

--

April 1991

“So you would like to be an Auror, Mr. Lehnsherr?” Snape intones, reaching for the Auror pamphlet.

Erik nods, a bit bored. He’s not actually sure what the point of Career Counseling is; it might make sense for Charles who had been staring at the different career pamphlets like a child confronted with Honeydukes for the first time, but his decision had been made a long time ago (sometime between realizing that Aurors hunt down dark wizards and meeting Mad Eye Moody, he had decided that this was the best way to find Shaw if he couldn’t find him on his own. Even without his promise to Charles, he would have decided on this. It is hard training, and it is what he needs before he faces the monster of his nightmares.)

“You realize that you must have a minimum of five N.E.W.T.s in Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Transfiguration, and Charms?” Snape continued, “And no grade lower than ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in any of these subjects?”

“Are my grades a problem, professor?” Erik asked idly.

“As far as I can see, no,” Snape replied, looking through his transcript, “But prospective Aurors are required to undergo a series of character and aptitude tests to see how they react under pressure, and if my memory serves correctly Mr. Lehnsherr, you have a tendency to cause devastation in your displeasure.”

“Which is sometimes exactly what whoever is applying the pressure deserves,” Erik replies, with a grim smile, “Is there a point to this?”

Snape’s mouth thinned, “Many apply to be Aurors, seeking fame, adventure, and glory, but most burn out, and few ever achieve those goals. I would be ashamed to have recommended a student for the position if he were to drop out for any reason. Are you sure you want to be an Auror, Mr. Lehnsherr?”

Erik leaned back in his seat and gave Snape a cold look, “I am only searching for one thing, professor,” he said quietly, “And being an Auror will advance my search. I would sooner jump off the Astronomy Tower than drop out of Auror training, you know that.”

(Shaw had spoken of Snape a few times, musing out loud about half-blood lineages and power as he had cut into Erik’s skin. Erik thinks Snape knows at least something about this; it is the only reason he can think of that Snape, who doesn’t especially like anyone, would take him to Flitwick and McGonagall for more advanced Charms and Transfiguration lessons and lend him books with spiky notes scribbled all over them after Erik had first created the spider-chandeliers. Erik wouldn’t have his metal sharks without these lessons and has learned more than a few vicious curses and spells from these books that Charles disapproves of and suspects Snape had to have invented at least a few, so he is grudgingly grateful to the man, but he is still not sure if Snape was lying the one time in third year that he had asked him if he knew where Shaw was, and the professor had answered no.)

“Indeed,” Snape says heavily, looking at the papers with a slightly morose expression, “Then carry on, Mr. Lehnsherr. Dark times are coming; we may have need of you yet.”

Later, when he repeats the conversation to Charles (who had had his session earlier in which Flitwick had simply nodded and told Charles that he could probably have his pick of the Ministry departments when the time came), Charles frowns.

“Dark times?” he repeats skeptically, directing his rook to move three squares forward, “Sounds more like Professor Trelawney than Snape. I haven’t seen anything in the Daily Prophet to suggest such a thing.”

“Well, they wouldn’t report stuff like that, would they?” Erik asks, moving his bishop forward and capturing a pawn, “Ministry always wants things to look good.”

“You do have a point, despite how terribly paranoid you sound,” Charles replied, throwing him an affectionate smile, “No use worrying over it though, we’ll just have to see.”

(And it doesn’t matter, what times are coming or what trials lie ahead. He has Charles at his side and in his arms now, and he will make sure that he is still there at the end.)

From the half-embarrassed half-happy look on Charles’ face, he has heard Erik’s thoughts, and so he puts a hand on the back of the other boy’s neck to draw him in for a deep kiss.

--

June 1991

Preparing for the O.W.L..s was terrible. There were so many things to study, and for the very first time, Charles was beginning to regret taking quite so many classes.

Switching spells may be simple enough, but he has a hard enough time trying to Vanish a kitten without it mewing and staring piteously at him, he’s practiced casting so many charms that he has evidently been murmuring the spells in his sleep (only discovered when he woke up to see his robes waltzing around the dorm room), Herbology has far too many plants that are green and can kill you in various painful ways (one of the good things about having Logan as a partner was his ability to wrestle down any vicious plant in the greenhouse, especially since Tony was more likely to poke and irritate the plant into attacking), his formal education on Defense Against the Dark Arts has been spotty (with a different professor per year due to everything from nervous breakdowns to being eaten by a Fanged Geranium, he was also starting to believe there was some sort of jinx on the job) and his training with Erik had mostly focused on offensive spells instead of defensive spells which were bound to be tested, he’s trying to remember how to brew the standard potions that will be tested instead of his variations and experimental potions, Astronomy is as terrible as ever even with the model of the universe Raven had gotten him, his notes from History of Magic are meandering and the handwriting shaky from the few times he had nearly fallen asleep, he has no idea what the Care of Magical Creatures exam is going to be like because Professor Kettleburn had wandered off into the Forbidden Forest without a so much by your leave and still hadn’t come back yet, Professor Burbage assures him that the Muggle Studies exam would not be too difficult but he doesn’t believe that, and every time he closes his eyes he sees long lines of numbers from Arithmancy.

“Charles.”

He shrugs away the hand on his shoulder, intent on going over electricity at least one more time, “Not now Erik, I have to study—”

“Charles, the exams start tomorrow, and it’s nearly eleven,” Erik stated, closing the book in front of him, “Come to bed.”

Charles frowns up at him, “I need to go over some last details,” he complains, opening the book again, “It’s important—”

Erik kisses him, crushing their lips together and swiping his tongue over Charles’ bottom lip. “Bed,” he states, smirking at Charles’ wide-eyed expression.

Charles shakes his head (as much in disagreement and to clear it), “Just a few more minutes—”

This time Erik catches his mouth with his own, twines his fingers deep into Charles’ hair, curls his tongue deep into Charles’ mouth, and they do not break apart until he is gasping for breath.

“Bed,” Erik states again, his smirk if possible, wider than ever.

“How are you not worried?” Charles complained, face red, while beginning to put his books and notes away.

“I believe that if I don’t already know it by now, I’m not going to be able to just cram it in in a few hours,” Erik replied dryly, helping Charles put away the rest of his books, and drawing him up by the arm.

“That may be true,” Charles admits, yawning and leaning into Erik, “I still have to clean up the mess in my room.”

“From your nocturnal Charms recitations?” Erik asks, amused, wrapping an arm around Charles, “Leave it, you look exhausted. My room is clean though.”

“Somehow, I doubt I would get very much sleep there,” Charles replies dryly, glancing up at Erik flirtatiously (the effect of which he knows is somewhat spoiled by the huge dark circles under his eyes).

Erik laughs and kisses his temple, “Probably not,” he admits, giving Charles a warm look (fire in his veins), “That’ll have to wait until after, then.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Charles states, leaning up to kiss Erik on the corner of his mouth, and whispers, I love you, you know.

And I you, Erik projects back fondly (the blazing sun), giving Charles one last heated look before pushing him up the stairs of Ravenclaw Tower.

(The O.W.L.s are grueling and exhausting, but at the very end Charles thinks that it may have been alright. Tony throws a giant party at the very end in his Malibu flat (where he managed to get so many portkeys, Charles has no idea), and all the fifth-years, even Pepper, decide to go if just to celebrate the fact that the hated exams are over.

“Of course there are still N.E.W.T.s,” Charles frets, sipping his gillywater (it was the only thing that smelled as though it had been overlooked in Tony’s attempt to spike all the drinks).

“Stop worrying Charles,” Erik says with a quirk of his mouth as he clinks their glasses together, “I am sure you achieved a ridiculous amount of O.W.L.s, and that next year you will nearly kill yourself again through exhaustion over N.E.W.T.s that we won’t even take until the year after, but now is a time for celebration.”

“Celebrations require food, and Tony freed all of his house elves,” Charles replied, staring sadly at the meager snacks lining the table.

“I suppose we should just be happy that Pepper intervened and made sure he didn’t try cooking anything,” Erik replies, and they both pull faces at the memory of the one time Tony had tried making a cake (he had gotten salt and sugar mixed up, and Charles still suspects that he had somehow gotten the cinnamon and pepper mixed up as well, despite Tony’s protests to the contrary.)

Erik set his glass down and pulled Charles toward him. The fifth year dorms are going to be empty tonight, he suggests slyly, why don’t we go back?

Charles smiles up at him, mind thrumming with lovejoyhappinessbelonginglove, puts his hand on his arm and says simply, Let’s.)

Chapter Text

September 1991

“Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived?” Charles asked skeptically, fanning out the pages of his Daily Prophet, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive!” Raven insisted, hair excitedly growing a brighter shade of red, “Fred and George bumped into him trying to figure out where the platform was! I passed by his compartment myself to take a look.”

“And?” Pepper asked, shuffling a pack of Exploding Snap cards.

“He looks pretty normal,” Raven admits, sitting down, “He was telling off Draco Malfoy, last I saw.”

Erik made a noise of disgust, stealing the headline news section from Charles’ paper, “That brat is here? He’s going to end up in Slytherin, isn’t he?”

(Even if the Xaviers are seen as blood traitors of sorts, they are a very old and perhaps more importantly, very rich family and therefore do get invited to the sort of functions that the Malfoys also attend. Charles doesn’t even remember how many times he made the feeling of slime clumping in his hair and dripping down his back reverberate in Lucius Malfoy’s mind for various comments made about Erik, and on one memorable occasion Erik, Tony, and him had conspired together to make a cream pie land straight on his face for having insulted Raven’s blue form. Draco Malfoy from his memories had been a somewhat arrogant child who had a penchant for repeating whatever his father had said, which Charles had tried to not hold against him, but Erik had no such qualms if Draco Malfoy repeated anything derogatory about Charles. The exploding cake had been one of the worst of the altercations, but he was sure Erik could come up with something much more inventive now.)

“You are going to have too much fun terrorizing the poor boy, aren’t you?” Charles said, giving Erik a disparaging look, “Try not to make him wet his pants again, that would make a terrible first impression on his fellow classmates, I’m sure.”

“That ‘poor boy’ is fully capable of accomplishing that on his own, I’m sure,” Erik retorts, as Charles leans against his side to read the paper over his shoulder, “Pissing off the Boy Who Lived on the first day? Bad move.”

“It is interesting though,” Charles comments, mind beginning to fill with possibilities, “Harry Potter, sent off to god knows where after the death of his parents and You-Know-Who and now at Hogwarts. Children do not form actual memories until around the age of three and a half, but perhaps if one questioned him about how his magic manifested and if he has any special talents—”

“You are not interrogating the Boy Who Lived, Charles,” Erik said flatly, giving him a reproving glance.

“I bet you he’ll be in Gryffindor,” Raven mused happily, munching on a pumpkin pasty, “Stands to reason since he defeated You-Know-Who. Do you think he plays Quidditch? I think Oliver may die if we don’t win the Cup this year.”

Erik snorted, looking at her over the paper, “Not with the way all of you were playing last year. How many points did we win by?”

“Five hundred, and stop gloating, you ass,” Raven groused, glaring at him, “Charlie Weasley was sick that day, or we so would have won. Anyway, this year Oliver is captain, and Fred and George have come up with the perfect strategy to keep you busy this time around.”

“If it involves me in any capacity, I’m not attending,” Charles stated firmly, turning the page.

“But you always go to our Quidditch games!” Raven said with wide-eyes, “You don’t want to miss Erik all sweaty and manly looking while attempting to bludgeon people to death do you? Besides, Erik is so, how did you put it… ‘ruggedly handsome on a broom.’” she quotes maliciously.

“Raven!” Charles sputters as Erik turns toward him with an amused look, “That was spoken in extreme confidence! And this is the prefects’ compartment! Out!”

Raven sticks her tongue out at him and flounces at the door, “When Harry Potter is sorted into my house, I’ll tell him to never answer any of your questions!” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.

As soon as it is quiet again, Erik smirks at Charles and repeats, “‘Ruggedly handsome,’ Charles?”

“Shut up,” Charles grumbles, trying to bury his red face in Erik’s shoulder.

“Should I ask you to come to see me at Quidditch practices, or would the excitement be too much for you?” Erik teases, kissing Charles’ hair.

“I’m going to kill Raven,” Charles mutters balefully.

(Before he manages to do so however, he gets distracted by the sight of Harry Potter sitting across from her. He only manages to begin asking the wide-eyed boy about blood magic, the Dark Arts, natural innate magic, You-Know-Who’s known powers, and the Potter family, before Erik is dragging him away from the table and Raven is profusely apologizing. He thought he could just try again whenever he saw the boy again, but now every time Harry Potter sees him, he quickly turns tail and runs. Raven says that he scared him, which is completely ridiculous because Harry Potter is in Gryffindor, isn’t he? Erik just sighs and distracts him with a chess game, and Tony offers to lend him a robot, but he thinks that they shouldn’t scare the poor boy.)

--

Erik thinks that if Draco Malfoy talked about Harry Potter any more than he already did, the boy himself would pop up in the middle of the Slytherin common room. While it is good to hear something out of the brat’s mouth besides, “My father once said…” Erik is getting tired of hearing rants about “that Potter” every time he walks into the common room.

He’s trying to decide between using one of the spiders or a suit of armor to terrify the brat into silence (the spiders are a tried and true method, but suits of armors had swords) when Charles bursts into the room.

“Erik!” Charles exclaims, hurrying over to the green couch where Erik is lounging, “Professor McGonagall has just told me the most wonderful news! She’s offering extra credit!”

“Just to you or in general?” Erik asks, moving his legs over so that Charles could sit down.

“To any N.E.W.T. student who can transfigure her a few life size chess pieces!” Charles excitedly says, eyes shining, “It’ll be just like our childhood project!”

“That blew up in our faces,” Erik reminds him, “Somehow I doubt McGonagall would be amused.”

“We didn’t have wands back then,” Charles says dismissively, summoning over Erik’s transfiguration textbook with a flick of his wand, “How many should we make? The whole set?”

“We do have other classes you know,” Erik says wryly, smoothing out his star chart in front of him, “Perhaps three pieces? A bishop, a castle, and a knight?”

Charles nodded, flipping through the transfiguration textbook, “Yes, that might work. We’d have to use metal of course and a bit of charmwork…last time we tried using granite for the base, but I’m thinking that marble would—”

“Are you so stupid, blood traitor, that you need your pet to do all of your work for you?” Malfoy sneers, cementing Erik’s opinion of him as the snottiest brat alive.

One of the spider-chandeliers instantly scuttles down from the ceiling and pins the brat to the ground, its pincers snapping in front of the brat’s terrified eyes while a suit of armor strolls over and casually rests his sword on the base of his neck.

“Malfoy, I thought I taught you to never speak of Charles that way when you were five,” Erik drawled with narrowed eyes, “Perhaps you need a more permanent reminder?”

Charles slapped Erik’s arm, “Stop bullying the first year, Erik. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, he can’t even fight back.” he said in an annoyed tone.

“When I was a first year, I made these spiders,” Erik pointed out, as Malfoy paled even further as the suit of armor tightened its grip on the sword and the spider leaned over.

“Do what you want Erik, but remember that if you make him faint, you’re the one taking him to the hospital wing,” Pepper calls out, not even bothering to look up from her Arithmancy notes.

Erik weighs the satisfaction of making the brat faint in front of his little cronies against the horror of actually having to bring the brat to the hospital wing and explain the situation to Madam Pomfrey (Healers, he had decided, were more fearsome than any Auror when annoyed, especially about injuries that may have been caused by transfigured metal objects), and grudgingly made the spider skitter back up the ceiling and the suit of armor resume its stance by the wall.

The brat managed to shakily pull himself back up, shoot a glance full of hate and fear at the two of them, and then run off, followed by his two ever present thugs.

Charles shook his head and sighed, “It’s hardly the worst thing anyone has ever said about me,” he chides, bumping their knees together.

“He shouldn’t have said it at all,” Erik maintained, holding Charles’ gaze with his own, Not about you.

Charles sighed again but smiled at him affectionately (sunlight streaming through a window) and tapped a section in the transfiguration textbook, “Now here it says…”

(They manage to finish three pieces by the end of the month, after a lot of gathering scrap metal around the castle, prying off random pieces of marble, trying out different combinations of charms and transfiguration, arguing over the style of the pieces with Charles wanting ornate fantastical pieces and Erik wanting simplistic abstract pieces, compromising with a more traditional style of knights on a battlefield, hiding the pieces from Tony who wanted to “improve” them by adding the sort of destructive firepower more commonly found in heat-seeking missiles, undoing the spells the Weasley twins had used to make the pieces make rude gestures at each other, and finally delicately working the spells needed to make the pieces follow orders. McGonagall seems quite pleased with their work, awards them thirty points apiece for their respective houses along with extra points on their next essays, and then whisks away the pieces. Charles is over the moon, and the way he’s clinging to Erik’s arm is very distracting, but Erik still thinks that he saw a glimpse of McGonagall directing their chess pieces into the forbidden room on the third floor when they had walked by. It’s interesting, but whether or not it is important, Erik cannot decide. Charles says that Erik has too many conspiracy theories running around in his mind and draws his attention to the fact that if McGonagall gave extra credit, perhaps other professors could be similarly convinced. Erik flatly draws the line at asking Snape for extra credit because he isn’t suicidal, and Charles pouts but eventually agrees.)

--

October 1991

Pepper always enjoyed the Halloween feast. The music is wonderful (although one of the Hufflepuff boys keeps hitting screechy high notes), the decorations are always inventive and lively (although after the cloud of bats are released, she’s a bit worried about bat droppings), and the food is always excellent.

No matter how nastily exhausting N.E.W.T. classes really are, or how suddenly annoying her prefect duties have become (midnight duels, seriously? What idiot first year decides to challenge someone to a midnight duel?), or how very annoying Tony’s current girlfriend is (she keeps reminding herself that the blonde Ravenclaw will be gone in about a week, but if Christine Everhart made one more snide remark about her, she would not be held responsible for her actions), nothing is better than enjoying freshly baked pumpkin pie on Halloween.

She is carefully cutting herself a slice when Quirrell bursts through the doors and runs screaming down the Great Hall, “TROLL! TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS!” he skids to a halt in front of the headmaster and says faintly, “Thought you ought to know,” before collapsing down onto the ground.

As everyone begins screaming around her and Professor Dumbledore commands the prefects to lead the students back to the dormitories, Pepper sighs, carefully shrinks the pumpkin pie in front of her to place in a Tupperware container (they always came in handy, and she was determined to enjoy her pie sometime today), and nods at Erik who has begun making the suits of armor herd all the Slytherins together.

“Come along now,” she said mildly, drawing her wand and summoning all the remaining panicking Slytherin first years into the group.

“But the troll is in the dungeons!” Malfoy shrieked, “We live in the dungeons. What do we do if we meet it?”

“Then Erik will stab him to death, and I will instruct you on which spells he is using,” Pepper replied calmly, looking at her fellow prefect, “Is that an acceptable plan?”

“You dealing with the brats while I get to fight a troll?” Erik asks sarcastically, eyes scanning the bustling crowd (and she had no doubt that he was holding another conversation with Charles while also talking to her), “Just make sure one of them doesn’t get in the way.”

She nods, guiding the Slytherins out of the halls (and occasionally using a Knockback Jinx on the stragglers) while glancing around to make sure that Charles is pushing a protesting Tony up the stairs to Ravenclaw Tower.

(She knows he is better, but she cannot forget the way he leaned out of the Astronomy Tower window as though it didn’t matter if he fell or not. She’s fairly sure that something changed that day, but she’s still trying to decide if she likes that or not. He flirts more subtly with her now than with other girls, and there have been no more protestations of undying love or asking of dates. That Christmas, he had sent her a small, cylindrical robot that according to the note in the box, would sit on her shoulders and shoot lasers at her command, which is a definite improvement from the general, obnoxiously singing gifts that she used to receive from him, but she doesn’t know what it means. She could ask Charles or Raven, or perhaps even Erik about it, but she gets the idea that Erik would snort and make sarcastic comments, and Charles and Raven would see it as an invitation to match-make, which it really isn’t. She still sees Tony Stark as the spoilt, narcissistic pureblood heir who likes to make things blow up in a spectacular fashion and doesn’t care about anything outside of his own desires. He would have to mature a lot more for her to want to date him.)

By the time she and Erik and the rest of the prefects have finally managed to herd all the Slytherins back into their rooms (a very difficult task given the weeping and wailing of the lower years), Snape limps in (what happened to his leg?),barks that the troll has been taken care of, and half-stumbles, half-stalks out.

It’s only later, while sharing the rest of the pie with everyone that they hear from Raven how Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger managed to take down a troll.

“And he’s our Seeker!” Raven exclaimed, happily munching on her slice.

“Unless there’s going to be trolls storming the match, I doubt this will be useful skill set,” Erik replied snarkily, cutting his slice.

“You’re just mad that McGonagall bent all the rules to get him and the team and give him a Nimbus 2000,” Raven replied cheerfully, helping herself to more pie, “Although, geez, a Nimbus 2000, paid by the school, that would be nice, it has a mahogany handle and it’s the fastest racing broom and…”

Raven continues on with a dreamy expression, until Christine Everhart arrives and says something snippy about Raven’s red robes and blue skin, and then Darwin has to keep everyone from strangling, hexing, jinxing, or cursing the girl. Tony promptly breaks up with her at the end of the fight. (If Pepper feels pleased about the fact, she keeps it to herself.)

--

November 1991

“Fly fast around the Slytherins,” Oliver advises seriously, tapping his chalkboard, “None of them are shy about committing any and all fouls available in order to steal the Quaffle, score a goal, or catch the Snitch.”

“And try to stay out of Erik’s notice,” Raven comments to Harry, “He’s usually too busy trying to block me from scoring, but if he decides to go after you, just fly. His bludgers are ridiculously accurate.”

“That’s Erik Lehnsherr, the Slytherin Beater?” Harry asks worriedly, fiddling with his Quidditch gloves.

(She’s found the Boy Who Lived to be refreshingly ordinary. He was really surprised at her blue form, but his eyes had taken on a look of wonder as she had explained and demonstrated her metamorphmagus abilities. He’s completely uncomfortable about overdue attention and questions, which is why he always runs away from Charles, which she finds absolutely hilarious if only because Charles is so very put out. It’s also great that he’s a natural Seeker because with him, they could finally redeem their ignominious defeat last year and wipe the smirk off of Erik’s gloating face.)

“The brooding, tall one, yes,” she replies, counting off points on her fingers, “Nimbus 2000’s are faster than Cleansweep 7’s, so you can definitely beat him in terms of speed, but watch out because sometimes his bludgers do a sharp right hook at the end. He usually hits to the left, so veer to the right. If you decide to dive, make sure he isn’t hovering above you first, because then you just gave him the easiest target in the world.”

“What about the other Beater? And why do you know so much about him?” Harry asks, giving her a confused look.

“Don’t worry about him; he’s not the one who can pin you with a bludger at fifty feet. And he’s my brother,” Raven takes in Harry’s shocked look, “Didn’t I mention that? Father married into the Xavier family, and Erik is the Xaviers’ ward.”

“But he’s in Slytherin!” Harry protested, pushing his glasses up.

(While it’s true that Slytherin has a darker reputation than the rest of the houses, especially because of You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, Raven thinks that Harry’s view on the house is a bit skewed. Of course, the first Slytherins he had met were You-Know-Who and Draco Malfoy, and neither probably ever gave anyone the best first impression of Slytherins.)

She shrugs, “So are a lot of my friends,” she tsks at Harry’s horrified expression, “Being cunning and shrewd are not necessarily bad qualities, you know. Not every Slytherin is a spoiled princeling like Malfoy or a possible Death Eater.”

“But if it helps you focus your rage against the Slytherins and win the match tomorrow, then Slytherins are all arrogant, blood obsessed bastards,” Oliver cut in, waving his hands around frantically.

“Anyway,” Raven said, giving Oliver a quelling glance, “back to the point. Fred and George will be watching your back, so for the most part, just look for the Snitch. Signal one of them if Erik’s on your tail though.”

Harry nodded determinedly as Fred chipped in, “And if you don’t even have time for that, you should remember to yell—”

“—that Charles is about to elope with the Wolverine!” George finished with a huge grin, “Distracts him completely every time.”

Oliver nodded seriously, “You might die if you use that move, Potter, but you will have won us the match, and that’s what matters!”

“Don’t worry,” Raven assured a pale Harry, “If you do yell that, I’ll turn into you and distract Erik,” she said shifting into Harry, smiling, and then shifting back, “But seriously only use that move if you’re really, really desperate and never want to go walking by the lake again.”

(It turns out that they never had to use that move because after the first twenty minutes of the game, Harry’s broom begins jerking around uncontrollably, and it looks like he’s about to fall off, but then he suddenly speeding toward the ground and spitting out the Snitch, and Raven is too busy cheering, hoisting Harry up into the air with the rest of the team, and laughing at Erik’s annoyed expression to worry about it.

It’s only later that Erik points out, after muttering about the ridiculousness of a Seeker catching the Snitch with his mouth, that no broomstick should have acted like that. After further prodding and smiles from Charles, he grudgingly admits that he had tried steadying the broom by reaching out to control the stirrups and pivot, but had been shaken off by something. Raven’s a bit distracted by the opportunity to mercilessly tease Erik about helping their little Gryffindor Seeker, but she does admit that perhaps something is a bit off about the situation. They don’t really know what to do about it though, and in the wake of even more homework and papers due, it slips their minds.)

--

February 1992

Harry thinks they’ve gone through every single book in the library, besides the Restricted Section (and he wasn’t about to try that again), and they have still found absolutely no mention of Nicholas Flamel.

“Who is this guy?” he groans, slumping over the latest books Hermione has checked out for them, “Does he even exist?”

“Homework troubles, Harry?” Fred asks, plopping down beside him.

“Best thing to do is to ask Professor X,” George says adamantly, sitting on his other side, “He knows everything.”

Harry looks up at the two of them, “Who’s Professor X?” he asks curiously.

The twins share an amused look, “Raven’s older brother,” they both reply.

“Erik Lehnsherr?” Harry asked disbelievingly.

(He’s heard a lot of rumors about Erik Lehnsherr; everyone has. They say that he keeps an army of metal animals around the school, that people who piss him off come to messy ends, that he’s training himself to either become the next Dark Lord or kill a Death Eater, that Professor Snape has personally taught him Dark Arts, that he trained his owl to kill on sight, that he rules Slytherin House with a literal iron fist, and that he has a Ravenclaw boyfriend that he is utterly besotted with. He’s not actually sure which of these rumors are true; Raven laughs too hard to answer every time she hears one for him to tell, but he knows for certain that that rumor about Erik Lehsnherr having some sort of long-standing hatred against the Wolverine is after watching the heated, highly-anticipated Slytherin-Hufflepuff game in which the two beaters had volleyed flurries of bludgers at each other so furiously that one of them had broken off one of the goals.)

“No,” George says emphatically, pulling on a horrified face, “That’s Magneto. Professor X is—”

“—Raven’s other brother, Charles Xavier,” Fred finishes, looking at Harry, “You want to talk to him?”

They’ve tried everything else already, so they may as well try this guy. Harry shrugs and says, “Okay.”

Both twins grin and yell, “Raven! Harry wants to talk to Charles!”

“Really?” Raven asked incredulously, walking up to them, “You want to talk to Charles?”

Harry glances at the twins who are urging him on with little hand-wavy motions. “Yes, I need to ask him a question,” he says firmly.

She shrugs and says, “Alright then, but it’s your funeral.”

Harry has a bad feeling about this, but he still follows Raven out of the Gryffindor common room and down to the (much to familiar at this point) library. Raven strides over to a table piled with a small mountain of books and notes and calls out, “Charles!”

A harried sounding voice floats from over the books, “Raven, if this is about Hank, now really isn’t the best time—”

“Harry Potter is here, and he wants to ask you a question,” Raven cuts in, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

A tousled head pops up from behind the books, and Harry backs away because the Ravenclaw that is grinning so widely at him was the same guy who had interrogated him mercilessly about his magic on his first day before being dragged off by someone else (while he supposes that it had been a rather less traumatizing experience than nearly being eaten by Fluffy, he still ran every time he had seen the Ravenclaw because he didn’t want to talk about You-Know-Who and his magic. He wanted to be normal). He should have known the twins were up to something.

“Harry! Hello!” Charles says happily, waving his wand to move aside some of the books, “I’m glad we finally get a chance to talk. Now tell me, when you were a young child, did you ever manifest any particularly unusual abilities, such as—”

“The kid has a question Charles, stop trying to research him,” an irritated voice says, as Erik Lehnsherr appears from behind the mountain of books and glowers at everyone around him.

“Oh right, what is your question Harry?” Charles asks, unperturbedly stroking Erik’s arm calmingly and looking at Harry expectantly.

And Harry is really, really confused about what is going on (why was Erik Lehnsherr here? If they are both Raven’s brothers, then he guesses that they are sort of each others as well, but they seem awfully…close. Was the rumor about the Ravenclaw boyfriend actually true? He and Ron had agreed that that was the least likely one.), but he has to find out who Nicholas Flamel is so that they can stop Snape’s evil plan, so he asks, “Who is Nicholas Flamel?”

“Nicholas Flamel?’ Charles asked in a surprised voice, “He’s a famous alchemist and only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone. Is Professor Binns teaching you this? He never taught our class anything half as interesting.”

“It’s for a-a project,” Harry invents, hope rising at the prospect of an actual answer, “What’s the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“It’s a legendary substance that can transform any metal into pure gold. It can also be used to create the Elixir of Life, which could grant a person an indefinitely long extended life, as long as they keep drinking it. For example, Nicholas Flamel is currently six-hundred and sixty-five,” Charles replied commenting, “I never remember Professor Binns assigning us any such interesting projects, only essays on goblin rebellions.”

“Be thankful or else we would be even more stressed,” Erik said, retreating behind the mountain of books once again, “And there is a six-foot long essay on goblin rebellions due in three days, in case you forgot.”

Charles curses and rushes back to his books and notes, “I’m sorry Raven, Harry,” he calls out as notes begin to fly around the table, “But there’s urgent work to be done. I hope I answered your question at least, Harry?”

Harry nods happily, “Yeah, you did.”

“Great!” Charles flashes him a grin above all the books, “Then perhaps next time we could talk about—”

“Aaand, that’s our cue to leave,” Raven said, grabbing Harry by the arm, “Bye Charles! Try not to overdose on caffeine and Pepper-Up Potion! And don’t let Erik kill anyone!”

While Charles’ complaints fade around them, Raven says in an off-hand manner, “But you know, even if Charles is half-delirious from N.E.W.T. classes, he is right. Binns definitely doesn’t give out projects that are that interesting. Why did you need to know that fact, Harry?”

“Er—Someone mentioned it once, and I was curious, that’s all,” Harry said vaguely, hoping that she would drop this train of thought.

“Really? Why would anyone talk about an old alchemist?” Raven mused out loud, giving Harry a long look, “Well, whatever it is, don’t get into too much trouble. Oliver will probably have a heart attack and die if you get banned from playing Quidditch.”

(Later on, when they have lost Gryffindor so many points for Norbert, Raven sighs but treats the three of them more or less the same as always instead of ignoring them like most of the rest of his house. He thinks that while she may have really strange relatives, Raven herself is pretty nice.)

--

May 1992

“Hank asked me out!” Raven yelled, running in happily, skin a particularly rich shade of blue.

Despite the fact that final exams are in a few weeks, and he feels absolutely exhausted, and Madam Pince is glaring at them (they would have gotten thrown out a long time ago if it wasn’t for the fact that Charles was just that charming), Darwin claps for her (it was about time,) and Pepper smiles and offers her congratulations. Charles and Erik smile at her, but Darwin notices the quick look they shared between them (Hank was going to be in for it).

“Where are you two going?” Pepper asks, casually flipping through her Muggle Studies textbook that he knows is hiding a romance novel (Darwin is so jealous of her right now; she somehow has pretty much finished studying and is probably the only 6^th year in all of Hogwarts who has time to be reading a novel, albeit in a discreet way so as not to attract unwanted attention or mockery).

“Hogsmeade, this weekend,” Raven happily replied, sitting down next to her.

Charles frowned as he looked up from his books, “Not Madam Puddifoot’s I hope?”

Raven made a face at him, “No; we heard enough complaints about it from you already to last a lifetime. We’re going to the Three Broomsticks at a private table, so you guys better go somewhere else.”

“I don’t know, I think we should return the favor of stalking people on their dates, don’t you Erik?” Charles asked sweetly, turning to Erik beside him.

Erik nods, laying an arm across Charles’ shoulders, “Along with ‘commemorative’ photos,” he added maliciously.

“You do that, and I’ll burn all of your notes,” Raven replies mutinously, “This is our first date, and Hank seems kind of nervous, so back off.”

As Raven flounces out of the library, Charles turns to Darwin and asks, “Darwin, you do own a camera, do you not?”

“Sure,” Darwin admitted, scratching the back of his head, “But are you sure you can survive without all of your notes?”

“I’ve already fire-proofed them all,” Charles reassured him cheerfully (of course he had. As far as he knew, only Pepper was more meticulous about her notes than Charles), “I feel like going to the Three Broomsticks with Erik this weekend. Perhaps you want to bring Alex there as well? And Pepper, perhaps you wish to push Tony there?”

(Darwin still doesn’t quite understand the current relationship between Tony and Pepper, and he doesn’t think anyone else, including the two involved, really did either. Tony still badgered Pepper, but he was with so many other girls all the time. Pepper still seemed somewhat annoyed at Tony, but she also kept close tabs on him. It was odd, but Darwin respected Pepper’s desire for privacy, so he didn’t try asking her about it, and asking Tony would never result in a straight answer. He guesses that all of them will figure it out eventually.)

“Tony is currently moderating a misunderstanding of interests between himself and two Gryffindor seventh year girls, so I doubt he will be joining us,” Pepper replied, not looking up from her book, “However, Moira wants to rant about Potter and his friends losing their house so many points, and as a good friend, I was already thinking about taking her to the Three Broomsticks.”

“Excellent!” Charles exclaims, scooting closer to Erik as he glares at Pepper (there is no love lost between Moira and Erik, even after Moira has obviously moved on. However, Moira is friends with both Pepper and Raven, and Darwin resigns himself to a night full of moderating cutting remarks and glares as Erik curls himself more and more possessively around Charles, Charles tries to reign him in and be awkwardly nice to Moira, and Moira rolls her eyes), “We will all be coincidentally bumping into Raven and Hank over the weekend then. And then Erik and I are going to have a little talk with Hank.”

It’s a supremely bad idea (because even if the Weasley twins respect Charles, they’re best friends with Raven, and the twins and Raven could be quite inventive with their pranks), but it’s no worse than when Raven had dragged him, Pepper, and Tony to spy on Erik and Charles (and probably less dangerous because while Raven had the twins, Charles and Erik are scary when pissed off separately and nightmarish when pissed off at someone together), and he had planned to go to Hogsmeade with Alex, so he agrees.

(It’s about as disastrous as he thought it would be, with Hank stuttering, Raven fuming, Charles laughing, Erik smirking, Pepper discreetly taking photos, Moira wearing an amused expression on her face, and Darwin apologizing to a bemused Alex about bringing him here while trying to keep Raven from setting fire to anything. She’s only distracted in the end by Tony running in, begging for someone to hide him before two Gryffindor girls slam open the doors furiously and seem to be intent on transfiguring Tony into a toad. Pepper manages to talk them down from it by agreeing that Tony Stark is a lying, cheating bastard, but pointing out that Gryffindor cannot afford to lose any more points, and that Tony Stark definitely isn’t worth it. Moira buys them some butterbeer, and then all of the girls are swapping increasingly embarrassing stories about the guys they know, to the discomfort of the male portion of the group.

A few days later, Hank tremblingly asks Darwin if Erik really could rip the iron out of blood and if Legilimens could really make you think you were a twelve year old girl for the rest of your life, and Darwin has to calm Hank down from hysterics while wondering if his two friends really could do all that. Erik isn’t one for idle threats after all, and Charles’ magic had always seemed stronger than usual when it came to Legilimency.

Then finals start, and he’s too busy trying to remember how to vanish a whole elephant and how to brew a Draught of Living Death to think about anything else.)

--

June 1992

Charles does think that the formal uniform with the pointy hats looks quite silly, but it’s required for the End-Of-Year feast, and it’s kind of hilarious to see everyone wearing them (Raven has tried shifting into so many different forms, but even she cannot find one where wearing the hat doesn’t look somewhat ridiculous).

The halls are decked in silver and green, and he can feel a pulse of vague satisfactionpride from Erik, who had managed to send a bludger at the Ravenclaw Seeker during the last match, distracting her long enough for Terence Higgs to take the Snitch, winning Slytherin the Quidditch Cup and the House Cup.

If you look any more smug, I think Raven may try punching you, he comments, cutting into his steak.

It’s not my fault they lost so badly to Hufflepuff, Erik replied, helping himself to some mashed potatoes, She should punch the Wolverine instead. Or Harry Potter for unnecessary or excessive heroics.

The poor boy nearly got killed, Charles scolded mildly, sending him the sensation of a smack on the arm.

By Quirrell of all people, Erik mused wonderingly, You do realize your minions may have been on his hit-list since they enchanted snowballs to follow and whack him around?

I did tell them off about that, Charles sighed, pouring himself more pumpkin juice, I also had to restrain them from sending Harry a toilet seat, if you can believe that.

I will believe anything and everything about what the twins have been up to, Erik replied dryly.

Dumbledore tapped his glass for attention and began to give his customary end-of-year speech. Charles didn’t really bother to listen, having heard most of it before, helping himself to more food and obligingly cheering at the announcing of house points. It isn’t until he feels Erik’s growing displeasure (sandpaper across the skin) that he looks up to see Dumbledore give out last minute points.

By the time Dumbledore has given out enough points so that Gryffindor has edged past Slytherin and changed all the silver and green decoration to red and gold, Erik looks as though he’s trying to murder Dumbledore with his eyes.

It’s okay Erik, Charles said soothingly, ignoring his fellow Ravenclaws’ cheers (Slytherin had been a bit too smug about their continued House championships), It’s not even like you care about the House Cup.

That’s not the point, it’s the principle of the matter, Erik snapped as the forks around him twanged oddly, Since when did any house get last minute points? Also, why was that Weasley awarded fifty points for beating our chess set? We only got thirty apiece and we made it.

We made three pieces, Charles corrected, sending calming emotions (water lapping against the sand) to him, and Professor McGonagall designed the rest. He does deserve the points for managing to beat it.

We could have done that easily, Erik argued back stubbornly, And don’t bother saying that’s because we’re older; we could have done that when we were eleven as well.

True, Charles admitted but added, but we are and were quite good at chess. He still deserves the points.

Maybe, Erik grudgingly admits before saying wonderingly, It’s almost over, you know. We’ll formally be adults soon.

Yes, Charles replies with a frission of unease, Only if we pass our N.E.W.T.s though.

We will, Erik says, and he can feel him rolling his eyes even if he can’t see him.

(It’s true; they are leaving soon, and it’s exciting, it really is, but it’s also a bit scary. He’s still not entirely sure which Ministry Department he wants to work in yet since they all seem so interesting, but he knows Erik will become an Auror and move one step closer to finding Shaw. Shaw is dangerous, and he knows that Erik has to face his demons, but at the same time, that old fear that he will lose Erik, that he will never see him again, still persists and sinks its talons into his mind.)

I am here, Erik says steadily, meeting his eyes across the hall, And it is not yet; I promised you that.

I know, he replies, grasping his hand in his mind, I know. One more year here. Let’s make it one to remember?

As long as you can bear to tear yourself away from studying for N.E.W.T.s, Erik teases, grasping his hand tightly in his mind, We’ll be fine.

Chapter Text

September 1992

Despite the fact that Charles Xavier had given them a critical clue last year to stop Quirrell’s nefarious plot (he still can’t believe it wasn’t Snape), Harry still felt wary every time the older Ravenclaw approached. He seemed nice enough, but there were all those questions.

Now, as he attempted to reassure a flamingly embarrassed Ron that the Howler hadn’t been that bad (even if everyone had been staring at them, at least it looked like they had moved on to more important matters now?), he realized that both Charles Xavier and Tony Stark were converging onto their table.

(There were nearly as many rumors about Tony Stark as there were about Erik Lehnsherr, albeit much less scary ones. Harry has heard that Tony Stark may be even richer than the Malfoys, that he blows stuff up about a once a week, that he actually wants to blow up even more stuff, that he’s made robots that can shoot lasers out of its eyes, that most of the professors have fireproofed their classrooms because of him, that he throws giant bacchanals in the middle of the night that Filch has sworn to track down but has still been unable to, that he has his own secretary, that he’s mocked the Wolverine to his face and lived to tell the tale, that none of his girlfriends last more than a week, and that he has left a trail of broken hearts, but all the girls still like him anyway because they find it romantic that apparently he has a long lost Slytherin love that he can’t get over. Raven won’t tell them which of these are true either, just grinning and laughing every time they ask her.)

“Harry, Ron,” Charles greets them smiling and gestures to Tony Stark who is grinning widely at them, “I believe you two know Tony Stark?”

Tony opens his arms wide and exclaims, “The Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Drove a Flying Car into the Whomping Willow! How have we not met before?”

Harry smiles weakly as Tony shakes both of their hands vigorously. He gets the horrible feeling that this is going to be like Lockhart all over again, but he is pleasantly surprised when the loud Ravenclaw turns his attentions to Ron instead.

“So that car that you drove here, your dad made it?” Tony asked eagerly.

Ron nodded slowly. “There’s a loophole in the law,” he added defiantly, “Dad wasn’t breaking any rules!”

“Don’t care if he was,” Tony replied flippantly, “I want to talk to him.”

“Why?” Ron asked, confused.

“Anyone who can make a flying Muggle car is awesome, and Stark Industries needs people that are that awesome,” Tony declared, “Does your dad like his current job?”

Ron stared dumbfoundedly at Tony, “Are you offering my dad a job at Stark Industries?” he croaked out.

“Sure,” Tony replied, shrugging, “I get that the car ran away, but I bet your dad has other stuff in his workshop for me to look at? I can drop by this weekend, and I’ll talk to Obie, he can get your dad set up, ’kay?”

“But the inquiry at work?” Ron asked faintly, trying to catch up with Tony’s quick decisions.

“Pff,” Tony tasked, waving a dismissive hand, “That’s easily sorted out; I’m a Stark. And if the Malfoys pitch a fit, Charles here can smooth everything over,” he said expansively, gesturing at the other Ravenclaw.

Charles nodded, “We’re better liked than the Malfoys,” he confided with an apologetic grin, “But don’t let Tony simply bowl you over, you should probably write to your father and ask him if Tony visiting would be alright?”

“Y-yeah, sure!” Ron exclaimed, grabbing Errol from his face-planted position in the porridge, “Thank you!” he called out, running out of the Great Hall to fetch some parchment.

“Great!” Tony said, stretching, “Well now that my weekend plans are changed, I better go rearrange my schedule,” he commented, leering and blowing kisses at a group of giggling Hufflepuff girls.

Charles rolled his eyes as Tony walked away, “He’ll have them all crying within a week,” he said despairingly before turning to Harry, “You better tell your friend that besides Tony, there will be one other person accompanying him to make sure he stays on topic and doesn’t ‘forget’ to come back.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Ron earlier?” Harry asks curiously.

“Tony doesn’t know he has a chaperone yet,” Charles revealed conspiratorially, “Don’t worry though, she’s nice, and she’ll keep Tony in line.”

(From Ron’s happy recounting, Tony Stark absolutely loved the various, slightly illegal devices in Mr. Weasley’s shed, and it had only been through the intervention of Pepper Potts, Tony’s chaperone or secretary but definitely not girlfriend, that Tony hadn’t tried to actually drive the singing Vespa out into the streets. The inquiry at work was quickly and discreetly cleared up with a combination of Stark flashy charm and Xavier connections, and both he and Ron were delighted to see Malfoy’s disgusted expression. Harry guesses that maybe Charles Xavier isn’t that bad, but that still doesn’t mean he wants to sit and answer all of the older boy’s questions.)

--

October 1992

“No,” Erik said adamantly.

“Lehnsherr,” Flint growled at him, “Take the fucking broom.”

Erik narrowed his eyes at him, “No,” he repeated as the stirrups on the Nimbus 2001 that Flint was holding out began to twist and shrivel.

“This is a fucking Nimbus 2001,” Flint spat out, waving the broom in front of Erik’s face angrily, “It’s the fastest broom in the world right now, and we’re all riding one, so take the fucking broom.”

“It’s a bribe to get the brat on the team, and I’m not taking it,” Erik ground out, twisting his hand and sending the broom crashing into the wall.

“Do you not want to win or something?” Flint asked incredulously, looking at the giant hole in the wall that the broom had made, “It’s a Nimbus 2001.”

“Paid for by Lucius Malfoy, and I don’t want to owe him,” Erik spat, picking up his own broom, “And if we need Nimbus 2001s to win, then we have a sad, sad team this year.”

(Lucius Malfoy is a snake, in every bad connotation of the word, and Erik doesn’t want anything from him. There were many Death Eaters who had passed in and out of Shaw’s labs, some on duty to report Shaw’s findings to the Dark Lord, some simply, sadistically curious. He remembers seeing a masked figure long, pale blonde hair who had laughed as Shaw had tested Erik’s resilience to multiple curses at the same time. The first time he had seen Lucius Malfoy at one of the Xaviers’ many garden parties, Charles had had to restrain him and send waves and waves of calm into his mind to make sure he hadn’t stabbed the man through with the spiked chains that had rose hissing in fury around him. He will never believe that the older Malfoy had been Imperiused into being a Death Eater; no one laughed like that under the Imperius.)

“Fine,” Flint snapped, pulling on his Quidditch gloves, “You just piss off Malfoy some more and fly that broom Xavier gave you—”

“If you say anything about Charles, I will make your broom flip over while you’re flying it today,” Erik said pleasantly, floating over his bat, “And the only reason I’m warning you instead of letting you dig your own grave is because you leave the room when I tell you to.”

“The spiders are creepy, and no one wants to see you and Xavier go at it,” Flint grumbled, walking out of the door and yelling, “Oi, Malfoy! Stop hiding and let’s get to practice!”

The brat sneers when he sees Erik still carrying his Cleansweep 7 and mutters something about blood traitors and their pets, but then one of the buckles in his boot just so happens to catch on something, so he falls face first into the grass and finally shuts up.

As they walk to early morning practice (courtesy of Snape, and Raven was not going to be happy with him), the brat struts in front of them (grass stains hidden by the green Slytherin uniform), conspicuously twirling his broom around and shooting Erik nasty looks. He despairs of their chances for another Quidditch Cup with this brat as their Seeker, no matter how much the brat brags about his skills or the fancy new brooms he brought. The brat was probably going to be so distracted trying to show up and insult Harry Potter that he would miss the Snitch even if it fluttered right in front of him.

They meet the Gryffindor Quidditch team on the field, and Raven shoots him a slightly betrayed look (but when it came to Quidditch, it was war between the two of them for the most part anyway, besides the fact that neither of them could injure each other because Charles would give them both disappointed looks with huge clear blue eyes), and then the brat begins mouthing off. Erik tunes him out like usual, carefully looking over the Gryffindor Quidditch team instead (it doesn’t matter how fast their brooms are, he’s unfortunately aware that Raven is a ridiculously good Chaser who pulls off spins and feints that would put Viktor Krum to shame, that Oliver Wood will quite possibly kill himself before he let a Quaffle in, and that Gryffindor has the better and much more agreeable Seeker) until the brat calls one of Potter’s friends “mudblood.”

(Erik personally never cared when people called him that. He knew it bothered Charles and Raven, but he thinks it’s fine that someone write him off as a mudblood because that means that they’re underestimating him, and that could always be useful. Mudblood was just a word; it was the belief that he was something to be studied and experimented on that was much more dangerous. However, he does not especially appreciate someone else being called one, especially by a brat who did not even possess one tenth of the magic needed to condescend someone of Hermione Granger’s rumored levels.)

The twins and Raven leap at the brat, and the youngest Weasley boy attempts to curse Malfoy, but it backfires horribly on him with slugs (Erik has the distinct, unfortunate impression that if Charles or Hank were here, they would be taking notes and asking questions). The brat and most of the rest of the Slytherin team starts howling with laughter (the fact about most Quidditch players as happy to do fouls as his team was that they started to lose whatever brain cells they possessed to begin with due to all the sudden impacts), and some small Gryffindor runs up to take photos.

Everyone is panicking or laughing around him, and Erik really wishes Pepper or Darwin were here to sort out this mess (Pepper has too much practice with Tony, and Darwin really does adapt to anything), but neither one of them are dumb enough to be up at this ungodly hour, so he steps forward, roughly hauls the youngest male Weasley up, and pushes him toward his friends.

“You better take him to Hagrid’s,” he states, walking back and “accidentally” kicking the sprawled out brat in the solar plexus to make him stop his imitation of a hyena lying on the ground, “If you try taking him to Madam Pomfrey, Filch will catch you and make you scrub up all the slugs he keeps belching up.”

The trio nods (or in the Weasley’s case, feebly attempts to, only to dribble out more slugs), and heads out, followed by the rest of the grumbling Gryffindor team. Eventually his fellow Slytherins calm down, and practice begins.

If he happens to send more bludgers the brat’s way than he would normally bother to send at a Seeker, the brat needs the training anyway, no matter what Flint is yelling at him.

(Later, he does catch some flak from Raven for not accepting the Nimbus 2001 and giving it to her, but also an annoying amount of teasing about “taking care of wee Gryffindors.” Charles beams and says that it’s adorable, and that’s when he has to shut him up with a particularly forceful kiss.)

--

November 1992

They had been trying to keep it a secret, but Raven had overheard (somehow, she always knew all the gossip anyway) and was laughing her head off.

“You-you think that Draco Malfoy is the Heir of Slytherin?” she gasped in between her giggles, “Oh god, wait until I tell Charles! Or Erik, he’ll probably die laughing!”

“You seem fairly close to doing that yourself,” Hermione stated snippily.

“Why is it such a ridiculous idea to you?” Harry asked, a bit annoyed, “He hates Muggleborns, he even said, ‘You’ll be next, Mudbloods!’ when we saw the writing on the wall, his whole family has been in Slytherin—”

“Lots of pureblood families have only ever been in Slytherin,” Raven interrupted in an amused voice, “Even the Xaviers used to be sorted into mostly Slytherin; it’s a pureblood thing.”

“But your brother is in Ravenclaw, and he’s dating a Muggleborn, so that’s beside the point!” Harry snapped, crossing his arms, “Malfoy is our best bet.”

“Draco Malfoy is a spoiled brat who knows exactly how to use his money but has absolutely no idea what the Dark Arts really entails,” Raven corrected gently, “Believe me, I’ve been to enough parties with him. Besides, don’t you think that if Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin, he would have gone after you or Erik first? He hates both of you enough.”

“But Lehnsherr is scary,” Harry pointed out (and he was, even if he had helped Ron out), “And I had gone to the Deathday party instead of the Halloween Feast. And maybe Malfoy hasn’t gotten the hang of it yet, so he wanted to try against someone easier, like Mrs. Norris”

Raven shakes her head, “Unleashing the Chamber of Secrets and only managing to petrify a cat, how sad is that? Although, that would be like Malfoy. Despite the ridiculousness of this idea, exactly what are you going to do about it?”

Harry shares a look with Ron and Hermione. Ron nods his head, looking inclined to tell Raven while Hermione gives a quick shake of her head, miming pouring a potion (she probably doesn’t want Raven to know about the Polyjuice Potion), so he guesses it’s up to him. On one hand, Raven could probably help them a lot, given how well she knew the school and how often she visited the Slytherin common room. On the other hand, it’s their plan, and she seems rather dismissive of it (which rankles a bit), and anything Raven knows, generally the twins find out quickly as well, and he really doesn’t want to get them involved (knowing them, they would probably find Malfoy and turn him into something amusing like a ferret, which while appealing, doesn’t answer the question of where the Chamber of Secrets is, and what’s in it).

“We have a plan,” he states vaguely.

Raven gives him a look and sighs, “Alright fine, keep your secrets and be that way, but if you lose us more points, I am not keeping Moira or Oliver for that matter, from skinning you if you get in serious trouble and lose us more points or miss matches,” she then stretches and begins to head up the stairs. “You better get some rest,” she calls out, “Have to fly our best against stupid Nimbus 2001s that my idiot brother was too freaking proud to accept and give to me.”

Harry nods, stomach twisting unpleasantly. Those brooms were fast; Fred and George had reported seeing the Slytherin team become green blurs during practice. Also, he was a bit worried that Oliver was going to attempt to kill either himself or someone else if they lost (Quidditch was fun, but sometimes Harry felt that Oliver took it too far), or that Raven would attempt to hijack one of the Nimbus 2001s during the match (apparently she had already been caught by Erik trying to steal one from the Slytherin common room. He got the feeling that if she didn’t manage to nag Charles into giving her one by Christmas, it would be because Charles had gone deaf).

“Cheer up Harry,” Raven grins, standing with her arms propped on the banister of the stairs, “We’ll crush them all tomorrow and show Malfoy that money can’t replace talent. You’re better than he is, so don’t worry about it.”

And even if Raven doesn’t understand how evil Malfoy really is, Harry does like the fact that she’s in his house and on his team.

--

Charles is having a particularly difficult time convincing Erik to go to the Dueling Club with him.

“But Erik, it’ll be useful,” he murmurs into his ear, “An actual professor instead of us just practicing spells! Professor Flitwick could be the one teaching, and he was famous at duels in his day!”

Erik bats him away with a book of Rilke poems, “Shouldn’t you be studying?” he grumbles, giving him a pointed look and replaying the memory of Charles frantically scribbling notes, floating over textbooks, and worrying about his upcoming lecture on genetics in Muggle studies.

“Professor Burbage moved up my presentation, and it went well,” Charles replied happily, “I actually taught some people Mendelian genetics for the first time!”

“Congratulations,” Erik said warmly, patting Charles’ hand on his shoulder, “I told you it would be fine.”

“You know how I am,” Charles said, shrugging and leaning in, “But I’m better now, so come with me to the Dueling Club?”

Erik sighed, “Would you keep bothering me all night if I didn’t?” he asked, standing up.

Charles grinned, “Of course,” he replied, linking their hands together and dragging an unresisting Erik over to the Great Hall.

Of course, when Lockhart arrived, Charles had to clutch onto Erik’s arm and dig in his heels to prevent him from leaving.

He might know some useful spells, he pleads, tugging Erik back, We should stay!

He doesn’t attend our class for fear of Cornish pixies that he left to Gryffindor second years to clean up, and all he talks about in our supposed N.E.W.T. class is how he defeated the Wagga Wagga Werewolf! Erik spat out angrily (the prick of needles), trying to get away, And you said yourself that he’s a total fraud!

Well yes, Charles admitted, holding on fast, It seems that most of his deeds in his books were not in fact, actually perpetuated by him, although he’s managed to bury that fact in his mind very well. Once we graduate, I am lodging an inquiry with the Ministry, but he has to know something. Professor Dumbledore did hire him after all.

Couldn’t find anyone else to take the job, Erik said pointedly, giving up and glaring at Charles, and this droftrottel was stupid enough to offer.

Professor Snape is here as well, Charles points out, gesturing at the glowering professor, He could definitely teach us something.

If he doesn’t attempt to kill us for that disastrous Quidditch match, Erik replied gloomily, I knew that stupid brat was going to be too busy taunting Potter to actually see the Snitch that was right in front of him.

Charles winced, At least the rest of your team is mad at him as well? He offered, And you managed to hit that rogue bludger away from Harry long enough for Hermione to explode it?

Only reason I had to do that was because I couldn’t control it, Erik retorted, Something was very wrong with that bludger.

Harry does seem to attract trouble wherever he goes, Charles agreed.

Their conversation was interrupted by Professor Lockhart’s (pompous) speech, and Erik’s sneer grows particularly contemptuous after Professor Snape manages to send Professor Lockhart flying with a simple Expelliarmus spell.

We could have blocked that when we were first years, his thoughts buzz in irritation as the chandeliers above them begin to sway, This is utterly useless.

To be fair, we were rather unusual first years, Charles pointed out, sending a calming rain over Erik’s mind, And we’ve stayed this long, so we might as well see it out to the end.

Erik finally agrees to stay (You owe me), and then gets paired off to duel against a ferociously grinning Logan (and Charles is a bit worried about this, but the professors should intervene if anything really serious occurred, right?), and Charles gets paired off to duel against a scowling Alex.

He smiles and bows to the younger boy, “Hello Alex.”

“I don’t have very good aim,” Alex replies worriedly, jerkily bowing to him, “Just warning you. I don’t want Erik trying to take my head off.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says reassuringly, and then lifts his wand, “Shall we begin?”

Ten minutes later, he’s trying to extinguish all the fires Alex had set around him (he hadn’t been lying about terrible aim; as far as Charles can tell, everything around him is on fire, including an unfortunate Hank and Sean, but Charles hasn’t even come close to being hit by anything), he can see the ring of devastation that Erik and Logan have created around them, with Logan sending slashing spell after clawing spell and Erik deflecting each one and sending back a whirlwind of knives in retaliation, and there is similar chaos all around him, with Pepper casually throwing hexes at one of Tony’s former girlfriends (Christine Everhart he imagines, none of them had especially liked her), Tony and Darwin coming up with increasingly creative spells to throw at one another (Charles is itching to ask Darwin how he managed to transfigure his scales that deflect Tony’s laser spells), Raven is perhaps having too much fun dueling the twins (she’s transformed into one of them, so he’s not entirely which one is actually his sister), and Professor Lockhart seems woefully unequipped to deal with such madness.

It’s only after Professor Snape takes charge (with perhaps the slightest of mental nudges from Charles, which is really all he can do since Professor Snape’s mind is as or perhaps even more tightly guarded than Erik’s, and here there is no gate), that everyone eventually stops fighting (although with Logan and Erik, it was more because Erik had levitated away Logan’s metal-tipped wand and was in the process of attempting to attach Logan to the chandelier, except Charles had shouted in Erik’s mind until he had grudgingly let go).

Lockhart then has the brilliant(ly stupid) idea to make Draco Malfoy and Harry duel each other, and Erik is suddenly grinning broadly.

Why are you so happy? he asks, as Harry and Draco jerkily bow to one another.

I’m looking forward to the brat getting his comeuppance for the failure of a Quidditch match, Erik replied cheerfully, eyes trained on the pair in front of them.

Didn’t that already happen when he didn’t catch the Snitch? Charles pointed out, And why are you so sure Harry will win?

If he doesn’t, then the brat will brag insufferably, and then I’ll have an excuse to give him detention for the next month, Erik replies, shrugging, It’s a win-win situation.

Charles sighs, but doesn’t get a chance to form anymore rebukes when Draco Malfoy sends a snake at a frozen looking Harry. Professor Snape doesn’t seem to be inclined to do anything (he seemed to have an odd distaste for the innocuous looking Gryffindor boy), Lockhart is useless, and Erik is still watching the match eagerly (It’s training Charles, he says dismissively), so Charles is about to attempt entering the serpent’s mind (normally animals are too stupid to affect, but since this one had been formed through magic, it might work?) when Harry begins hissing.

(Parseltongue is a very rare skill and typically hereditary. The ability to actually speak Parseltongue is considered the mark of a Dark Wizard, for many various reasons that Charles views a bit ambivalently, but had never really thought about because again, Parselmouths were especially rare. But here one was! That brought up so many different theories, including recessive powers, the Potter family, You-Know-Who’s abilities—)

“I think it’s over now,” Erik interrupted his thoughts, nudging his shoulder with his own, “Let’s head back.”

“What?” Charles asked, startled out of his thoughts and glancing frantically around the muttering room, “No, we have to find Harry; I have a lot of questions—”

“And I doubt he wants to answer them,” Erik answered, steering him out of the Great Hall, “There are too many people already wondering if he is the Heir of Slytherin; tonight’s display will not help matters.”

“Harry Potter, the Heir of Slytherin?” Charles asked disbelievingly as they walked to Ravenclaw Tower, “That’s utter rubbish; the Potters are an old, old family, about as old as us, I believe, and the last known family known to have been descended from Slytherin was the Gaunt family. If the Potters are related to them, it’s no more than the rest of the wizarding world. Who would believe such a thing?”

“Half the school apparently,” Erik replied dryly, answering the knocker and holding the door open for him, “You have seen all the protective amulets they have been selling?”

“Pure junk, all of it,” Charles sighed as he sat down on one of the blue couches, “And Raven and the twins do not help by hawking their own jokey wares that blare alarms. Although at this rate, she might be able to afford her own Nimbus 2001, instead of badgering me about it.”

“Always a good thing,” Erik replied, sitting down and pulling Charles over to sit between his legs with a tug of his watch.

(Erik may have scoffed at all the protective amulets being sold around the school, but Charles has felt the slight tug on his wrist from his watch enough times to know that Erik is mildly worried. He can’t blame him; there has been more than one time that he has peeked through their odd bond to make sure Erik is alright. He may be a blood traitor, but Erik is Muggleborn, and that is much more dangerous if the legend of the Chamber of Secrets is true.)

“Do you think Harry would let me ask him questions tomorrow?” he asks hopefully, tilting his head up to look at Erik.

“Doubtful,” Erik replies with a smile and wraps his arms around his waist and kisses the corner of his mouth.

--

February 1993

Tony absolutely loves Valentine’s Day. It’s the one day in the year where every single girl in Hogwarts (with one or two exceptions) has romance on her mind, and he would be amiss to not take full advantage of that fact, wouldn’t he?

It helps that Lockhart has suddenly decided to decorate the Great Hall appropriately, with large, luridly pink flowers, heart shaped confetti, and card carrying “cupids” that looked a lot more like dwarfs, but that was beside the point. The point was that Lockhart had set the atmosphere, and Tony was more than ready to send some valentines and get some loving.

“Isn’t this great, man?” he exclaimed, clapping Charles on the back.

Charles pulled an expression of distaste looking around the room, “Great is not how I would describe it,” he said tactfully, getting some porridge.

“That’s because you’re not as awesome as me,” Tony replied, glancing over at the Slytherin table, “Your boyfriend looks like he’s about to kill someone, not that that’s that different from any other day.”

Charles smiled at the glowering Erik from across the hall, and the rattling silverware gradually calmed down.

“You guys are mindblowingly sweet,” Tony commented, miming gagging motions, “Are you going to send darling Erik a singing valentine?”

“I think he would murder it,” Charles replied dryly, “Try not to go overboard today with the sending of Valentines; we do have class you know.”

“Why Charles, when do I ever go overboard?” Tony grinned, opening his arms expansively.

“All the time,” Pepper replied primly, taking Charles’ seat as he walked away shaking his head.

“Good to see you Ms. Potts,” Tony greets her cheerfully, “I was just about to go looking for you! I need my valentines sorted out.”

“I’ve already arranged for the Valentines to be sent to Ms. Smith, Ms. Spinnet, Ms. Clearwater, and Ms. Farley,” Pepper said as a quill behind her floated in the air and scratched away on a levitated roll of parchment, “As none of them are in the same house, this should lead to a minimum level of tears. Is there anyone else you would like to add?”

“What about Ms. March?” Tony asked raising his eyebrows salaciously, “Or the Winter twins?”

“Ms. March is unfortunately in the same year and house as Ms. January Winter,” Pepper replied mildly, preparing two cups of coffee, “I would suggest that you just send to the Winter twins who are in separate houses.”

“Scheduling conflicts suck,” Tony declared, leaning back, “Fine, just the Winter twins then.”

(Pepper has basically taken to organizing his schedule and most of his life ever since that windy night in the Astronomy Tower. He knows that initially it was because she was worried about him, and he really probably would have failed that first year after his parents’ deaths without her, but now he thinks she does it mostly out of habit, and he lets her because he likes her by his side.

Pepper is not like any other girls Tony knows. It’s been obvious since day one when she completely rejected his advances on the train, but it’s more than just that. He respects her intellect, her ruthless ability to organize, and her unflappable calm, and he’s not actually sure at this point how he would function without her. At the same time though, she cares and that terrifies him, so it’s easier to draw back and flirt with other girls than with her because he knows that anything with Pepper would have to be serious, and he doesn’t think he’s ready for that yet. He knows his own track record with relationships, and he doesn’t trust himself to not screw this one up.)

As Pepper hands him a cup of coffee, he notices that every single one of Lockhart’s forks have curled up into little spirals, his goblet is currently melting away, and Charles seems to be in a deep discussion with a glaring Erik who is threateningly gesturing at the metal harps of the dwarf cupids.

“Hey Pepper,” he says, eyes still trained on the silently arguing Charles and Erik, “Can you arrange for a valentine to be sent to Charles from the Wolverine?”

Pepper raises her eyebrows, “I believe it would be in your best interest to make it from Erik,” she comments, stopping her quill and making it scratch something out.

“But that’s no fun,” he whines, giving her a wide-eyed look.

“On the contrary, if your purpose is to punish Erik for trying to ruin your sense of fun on Valentine’s Day, it would hurt his pride a lot more to have sent an extremely sappy love poem than to be in competition with the Wolverine for Charles,” Pepper replied, looking over her roll of parchment, “In addition, you will only be hunted down by Erik for this scenario instead of both the Wolverine and Erik in your previous case.”

(And there it is again, no matter how flippantly or flatly she states it; she looks out for him and tries to keep him from his more reckless actions, and he knows that everyone thinks he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s not in Ravenclaw just for his pretty face. He knows that he had been depressed after his parents’ deaths, that he had come close to throwing it all away; he’s already talked to his Healer about all that. He also knows that at least part of his current recklessness is a reaction to having to take over the Stark family business now instead of later like he had always imagined, and that it isn’t especially healthy, but he doesn’t care. And he doesn’t really want Pepper trying to keep him safe either, but he has no idea how to deal with his schedule without her at this point, and it’s not like anyone can make Pepper do anything she doesn’t want to do anyway. Girl was in Slytherin for a reason, but he was going to find a way to keep her by his side after Hogwarts anyway, even if she had expressed absolutely no desire to work in Stark Industries.)

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up, “Just make sure that that love poem is as sappy as humanely possible.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Pepper replies, giving him a small smile, her eyes dancing with merriment, “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“That would be all, Ms. Potts,” he replies as she rolls up her parchment and the quill places itself neatly into her bag.

(Pepper is right, as she always is, that he doesn’t have the Wolverine out for his blood today, but he guesses that she has a higher opinion of his powers than he had thought given the furious stampede of suits of armor waving battle axes and morning stars that had nearly slammed into him. Then he has to deal with the pounding headache and the annoying, tinny sounding songs stuck in his head, courtesy of Charles, but since he’s Tony Stark and just that awesome, he actually manages to use a few of the cheesy lines in the songs to charm his many dates that night. Pepper manages to avoid retribution, most likely due to blackmail photos Tony desperately wants but Raven refuses to give him, citing irresponsibility and drunken shenanigans, and if he happens to anonymously send Pepper a bouquet of red and white roses that night, that’s his own business.)

--

March 1993

Normally, Erik would already be in the stands to watch Raven play against Hufflepuff (and he didn’t care how many glares he got from his housemates for cheering for Gryffindor; he was never going to cheer for the Wolverine’s team), but he had been held up finalizing the last few parts of his Auror application (getting Snape, Flitwick, and McGonagall to agree to write recommendation letters wasn’t difficult, but all of them wrote the letters at a snail’s pace since exams were fast approaching), and now he was late.

He was striding down the hall past the library, when a bushy haired girl ran out and stopped him right before he rounded the corner.

“Wait!” she called out frantically, clutching a piece of parchment.

He turns around, about to give whoever is daring to stop him detention (it doesn’t matter if they’re not in Slytherin; he can probably terrify them into believing that he really can give them detention), but then reconsiders when he sees it’s Potter’s more intelligent friend (the brat rants about her quite often as well. Apparently, Lucius Malfoy is displeased that his only son is being shown up by a “Mudblood girl,” and Erik is inclined to like anyone who pisses off Lucius Malfoy).

He crosses his arms and taps his foot, “What is it?” he impatiently asks.

“You-you can’t just walk around without checking!” she said, panting for breath, “It’s dangerous! You have to check with something that reflects, like a mirror or something!”

He frowns, “Is this about the Chamber of Secrets monster? I’m in a hurry, and I can deal with—”

“Please trust me on this,” she interrupted earnestly, “If it’s what I think it is then…well, it might not be, but it’s best if you check anyway!”

He sighs, and he knows that if Charles or Raven (or Pepper or Tony or Darwin since anything they know inevitably comes to the knowledge of the those two as well) ever hear about this, he’ll be teased and cooed over for at least a month (he can already hear Raven’s needling about helping “ickle Gryffindors” and see Charles’ starry-eyed look), but he twitches his fingers and one of the suits of armor marches over.

“See?” he says in an exasperated tone as they peer into the armor’s reflection, “All there is is—”

Giant yellow eyes.

He tries to send the armor smashing around the corner, he tries to push the Gryffindor girl back, he tries to reach for Charles through their link to warn him, but all he manages is a broken sense of panic before darkness consumes his world.

--

Charles feels it instantly; the growing sense of panic (chains rattling in fear and anxiety) and then nothing. Nothing at all. A void. Emptiness. (As if their bond had been broken, as if his sanctuary had disappeared, as if Erik was no more).

He doesn’t even realize that he had risen from his seat, that he had dashed down the long, long halls, that he’s screaming out Erik’s name, that he’s keening as he tightly holds onto Erik’s (still, so still) body until a white-faced Professor McGonagall is attempting to pull him away.

“Mr. Xavier, you have to calm down,” she said urgently, “Calm down, Mr. Lehnsherr might be petrified, we have to take him to Madam Pomfrey, but you have to calm down—”

(How can he calm down? This is his best friend, this is his lover, this is Erik, and even if he isn’t dead, he could have easily been, and this can’t continue, this has to stop, he has to find out who is behind all of this because Erik is hurt and they can’t just get away with that.)

He looks McGonagall in the eye, leaps into her mind (a castle like Hogwarts), and rifles through her thoughts and memories (he knows it’s invasive, that it’s a total breach of privacy, but he has to know) looking for any clue. He passes image after image of classes, Gryffindors, Quidditch game, conferences, but he sees nothing relevant. When he withdraws, she slumps to the ground (what has he done, what has he done? But he has to find out), and he begins to stretch his mind, as he hasn’t done since he first realized what he could do, and begins to systematically enter all the minds he can reach (someone has to know, there is someone here who has been unleashing terror upon the school, someone knows, and he needs to find them).

He swims past memory after memory encased in mind after mind (cottages, manors, labyrinths, libraries), searching and searching for some hint, some sign, but all he finds is fearpanic, what if I am next?, what’s happening?, what’s going on?, who’s there?, so he presses on, (he feels more people collapse in his wake, but he has to keep going, he has to find something), digging in deep and casting aside unhelpful memories, but no one seems to actually know anything so he throws his mind farther—

And Professor Dumbledore is shaking his shoulder and looking him in the eye.

“Mr. Xavier,” he says gently, “Charles, stop this.”

“Why?” Charles asks blankly, still holding tightly onto Erik’s (cold, so cold) body, “You want to know who is behind this as well, don’t you? Why haven’t you found him yet?”

“The culprit will be found, I promise you Charles, but not like this,” Professor Dumbledore says steadily, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Charles, “You are hurting people, Charles. I know you are upset, but would Mr. Lehnsherr want to see you like this? ”

(Erik was the one who had comforted and told him so long ago when he had twisted his stepfather’s mind that even if he had the capabilities to be a monster, he would not let him become one and would not leave him. He would be horrified to see Charles ripping through people’s minds, and he suddenly feels sick. What has he done?)

“Are they…?” he whispers, fingers clutching Erik’s robes, unable to say the words (have they gone mad because of me, have I broken more people, have I done something so unforgivable, so like Frost, so like Shaw, that Erik will despise me?)

“Many people fainted due to the sheer amount of memories you pulled up, but there is no lasting damage as far as I can ascertain,” Dumbledore said reassuringly and then grew more serious, “But please do not try that again. You are an extremely strong Legilimens, Charles, but even disregarding the untold damage you could wreck on other peoples’ minds, you yourself could get lost.”

Charles shook his head, stroking Erik’s face (eyes wide open, frozen, and he wants to scream), and said despairingly, “I should not have done that. He would hate that. Is he—?”

(If Erik was gone, if Erik was dead, he doesn’t know what he will do. He had considered this scenario when thinking about Erik’s quest for revenge, but even then he his mind had shuddered to a stop and drawn a blank. It’s the nightmare that has him crawling into Erik’s bed, linking their hands and minds together in reassurance that he is still there, but now Erik is truly gone and he feels as though he is falling, and he can’t breath—)

“I believe both Mr. Lehnsherr and Ms. Granger are simply petrified,” Professor Dumbledore stated, stretching a hand out, “We should take them to the hospital wing, just to be sure though.”

He breathes a sigh of relief (alive, thank God, and even if Erik was angry at him, even if Erik despised him after he found out, at the very least, he would be alive and well) and reluctantly relinquishes his grip on Erik’s body and finally permits a shaken looking Raven to wrap a blanket around him.

--

May 1993

Raven is tired.

Charles spends nearly every waking hour by Erik’s bedside, despite the fact that Madam Pomfrey has banned all visitors, fearing for the safety of her patients. He simply made her not see him, and she thinks she would be a lot more disturbed about the casual use of his magic if he hadn’t made at least thirty people pass out a few months before.

(They talked about it once, right after it happened, Charles shaking with a hand on Erik’s still arm. She’s always known her brother was much more terrifying than Erik if sufficiently provoked, but she can also see how scared he is, how he cannot meet her eyes, how ashamed he is of himself, and so she draws him into a hug and promises him that Erik will understand when he wakes up. He apologizes to all thirty of the people later on, and most, like McGonagall, accepted his apology along with his promise to never try that again, but some shy away from her brother now. She understands; it’s utterly nightmarish, the things Charles could do if he tried, but she stays by his side because she knows that Charles always keeps his promises, and she trusts the boy who drew her out of the kitchens and defended her from Cain.)

His books and notes are piled there, and Tony confided to her that he’s fairly sure Charles sleeps there as well. Charles still smiles and laughs with her, but his smile is strained, he has dark circles under his eyes, he doesn’t eat much, and he is far too pale. (If Erik were here, he would have already bullied Charles into eating and sleeping, but he isn’t here, so Raven is forced to cajole her brother on her own.)

It’s not to say that the rest of them don’t feel worried as well. The specter of the Heir of Slytherin hangs over their heads (if it could get Erik, it could easily get any of them as well), and all of them have gotten rather good at Disillusionment Charms from standing guard at Erik’s bedside when Charles has to go to class. Pepper and Darwin grimly take the morning shift (she doesn’t ask about how Draco Malfoy turned up in the hospital wing with waving pustules all over his face; she can imagine what he would say about Muggleborn Erik being attacked, and she can also imagine Pepper’s flawless technique and Darwin’s innovation combined), Tony seriously stations small robots all around the room, the twins take the afternoon shift and try to cheer Charles up with jokes that he laughs weakly at, and she forces her brother to get dinner while she sits at Erik’s side.

(It’s unnatural, how still he is. She knows that that’s because he’s petrified, but even when Erik had been not moving, he either looked as though he was a mass of coiled energy just waiting to spring, or he was lazily sprawled against Charles. Now he is just frozen with an expression of shock that she knows he would despise, and she hates it.)

She’s hurrying to the hospital wing again when she bumps into Harry and Ron, arguing in front of a girl’s restroom.

“Why are you two hanging around here?” she asks, raising an eyebrow, “No one uses this restroom if you’re waiting for some girl, only Moaning Myrtle is there.”

“We-we wanted to go see Hermione!” Harry stammers out, obviously lying, “But we don’t know how to get in since Madam Pomfrey won’t let us.”

She considers teasing them or interrogating them (as far as she knew, Ron maybe has a bit of a crush on Hermione, and Ginny Weasley has this huge thing for Harry, but more gossip was always fun) , but if she doesn’t go to the hospital wing now, Charles will completely miss breakfast, so she sighs and draws out her wand.

“You’re going to have to be really, really quiet, okay? Charles can cover up some things, but not when he’s gone, alright?” she says as she casts Disillusionment Charms around all of them.

They quickly walk to the hospital wing where she urges her (exhausted, he looked as though he had been attempting to study for N.E.W.T.s for both himself and Erik) brother out the door and takes her customary seat as she hears Harry and Ron carefully navigate the squeaky clean hospital floor to take a seat by Hermione’s bed.

As she stares at Erik’s prone body, she goes over all the facts in her head again. There had been a suit of armor that had been moved, but it had simply been standing there with no raised weapons or anything. Had that been all that Erik had had time to do, or had he moved it for some other reason and then been surprised? She knows Charles has been searching all the books, even more frantically since Erik was petrified, looking for some hint of what could have caused this, but there were many forms of petrification, and even with Pepper, Darwin, and Hank’s help, he had not managed to gone through all of it yet. All she knew was that whatever it was, it had to have been really powerful and really sneaky to take Erik down, and really rare or unheard of to have avoided Charles’ research—

“Ah!” Harry’s voice exclaimed, and she heard the crinkling of parchment and frantic whispering between him and Ron.

She shook her head and strode over. “Are you trying to get us kicked out?” she hissed, “Charles isn’t here to block out our noise!”

“We think we’ve figured something out! Well, Hermione did,” Ron amended excitedly, “The monster in the Chamber of Secrets is a basilisk! It’s been crawling around the pipes!”

She stares at the empty space where the younger Gryffindor voices are coming from. Basilisks were rare, rare creatures, and they were up to fifty feet long and it would never have occurred to any of them that such a thing could be crawling around the castle unseen. Its gaze meant death, but no one had ever said anything about a reflection of its eyes (the suit of armor). It all makes sense, and it’s a miracle that Erik is even alive. (She has a feeling they owe Hermione Granger a great debt, and she will be informing Charles as soon as he returns.)

“What are you waiting for?” she snaps, “Go tell McGonagall right now!”

She hears them hurrying away, and she pats Hermione’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” she breathes, “If Erik had died—I think Charles would have gone mad.”

(And she truly believed that, watching the way people had fallen after Charles had invaded their minds. Charles has a set of ethics about his magic that he tries his best to stick to, even if he likes popping in and out of people’s minds like breathing, and it’s a sign of how lost he was that he would violate his own steadfast rules. She knows that as much as Charles draws Erik out of his occasional brooding depths, Erik grounds Charles. She herself feels unbalanced not having both of her brothers with her, and she is looking forward to tonight when the Mandrakes will finally be prepared and apparently the culprit caught.)

--

Harry is utterly exhausted. While he is beyond happy that Ginny is fine, that everyone who has been petrified has been woken up, that he’s alive, that they’re having a giant feast, he has just battled with a basilisk and a memory of Tom Riddle and freed a house elf from Lucius Malfoy, and he really doesn’t want to answer the questions of a beaming Charles Xavier who is running toward him with Erik Lehnsherr in tow.

He pastes on a smile and braces himself for a barrage of questions, only to have Charles pull him into an embrace.

“Thank you,” he whispers to him, gratitude thrumming in every syllable of his voice.

He shook his head quickly, backing away (he’s heard stories about how possessive Lehnsherr can get), “It was really Hermione who found it all out, and probably saved your boyfriend’s life,” he states embarrassedly, shooting a nervous glance at an amused looking Lehnsherr.

“And I have thanked her, and the Xavier family now owes a great debt to both her and you,” Charles states, looking at him seriously, “She saved Erik, and you destroyed the thing that nearly killed him. If you ever have any need of our services, we will answer your call.”

“Right,” Harry replies awkwardly (he’ll never understand pureblood families, even the nicer ones), “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Charles says with a smile, “However, would you mind if I took a look at your memories? The whole description of the situation has been rather lacking in details, and I believe—”

“Charles,” Lehnsherr chides, wrapping his arm around Charles’ waist and drawing him closer.

Charles leans up to give him a kiss and then smiles apologetically at Harry, “I’m sorry, it’s just I would like to know who it was who nearly killed Erik,” he says mildly, but Harry senses the underlying steel in his voice.

(There should be someone else besides him who knows exactly what Voldemort was and Tom Riddle is, and even if he’s nervous about letting someone into his head after seeing Ginny’s pale, pale form, he believes Raven when she said that her brother would never purposefully hurt anyone’s mind unless mad with grief. And perhaps the Ravenclaw can sort out the facts that Harry is still trying to process.)

“Go ahead then,” he says tiredly, waving at his head, “If you make me pass out, please just put me in a bed and don’t attempt to revive me.”

“I’ll be careful,” Charles promises, setting two fingers at his temple.

Harry feels an odd sensation, like pages being flipped in his head, and he sees memories that he is sure aren’t his (Erik blinking and Charles tearful throwing his arms around him/Charles quietly telling Erik about that day he had invaded people’s minds searching for the culprit/Charles biting his lip as Erik remained silent/Erik finally telling Charles that he understands and that he would have ripped the school apart if the same had happened to Charles, but that he must never attempt that again/Charles smiling up at Erik, teasingly saying that if their positions had been reversed, the basilisk may have been found sooner since Erik would have ripped the pipes out of the walls in his fury/Erik growling, telling Charles not to joke, and giving him a long, rough kiss/the rest of the group arriving and happily greeting Erik), before Charles draws back and hurriedly whispers, So sorry, I’m a bit too happy I think. My shielding’s quite shot.

“The memory in the diary was quite interesting though,” he said out loud musingly, “I have never seen anything like it. Perhaps it was—”

“Less geeking out and more celebrating,” Raven interrupted, drawing up and shoving Butterbeers at all three of them, “Erik is alive, Harry slayed the basilisk, and finals are cancelled. Whoo hoo!”

“Finals are cancelled?” Charles asked disbelievingly, his eyes wide, “But then how are we supposed to take N.E.W.T.s?”

“I’m sure they’ll arrange something later, mein schatz,” Lehnsherr said fondly, clinking their glasses together, “Now can we make up for lost time here?”

And it’s the most wonderful Hogwarts feast that Harry has ever been to, even with the twins and Raven spiking most of the butterbeer with firewhiskey, Hermione bemoaning the lack of finals, Charles and Lehnsherr engaging in some serious PDA before being kicked out by an amused looking McGonagall and glowering Snape (but not before Raven had taken more blackmail photos), and Tony Stark nearly starting a fire when he decided to try out his laser fireworks.

Everything is good, and he can believe that next year will be wonderful as well.

Chapter Text

June 1993

Charles stretched and glanced at the rest of the piles of paperwork that was littering his (odd to call it that. It had been his father’s, and then Kurt had taken it over, and now with Kurt having blown up himself and nearly the mansion in some strange experiment, it’s his) desk. He had always been the Xavier heir, but with all the strange investments and things that Kurt had bought (the basement downstairs has nightmarish looking equipment that Erik had instantly crushed to pieces as soon as they had unlocked the door), and his mother wasting away (she’s outlived both of her husbands, but he has the feeling that she will not be long now. It’s hard to feel grief when he feels as though she faded away a long time ago), there are many affairs to be put in order.

There is the funeral to arrange (it was to be a cremation given how much of the body was left, and he absolutely refused to have his stepfather buried in the Xavier main plot), his stepbrother to find (Cain had cut off all contact, and no one seemed to know where he was), and parts of the mansion to be rebuilt (he imagines that Erik might want a steel bunker in place of the burned out basement), but there are happier things to be arranged as well. He smiles as he smoothes out the piece of parchment that would legally change Raven’s last name from Marko to Xavier and the piece of paper crisply announcing that he would be allowed to take biology classes at the Muggle university of Oxford (it had taken an impressive amount of paperwork and gentle mental nudging just to get that). Also, despite Erik’s snarling protests, Charles’ father’s will had stipulated that Erik would receive a portion of the Xavier money when he came of age, with a Gringotts account automatically set up for him, and even if Erik refused to touch the money, Charles felt happy knowing it was there for him.

Tony also wanted his help in combining the small, understaffed Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office in the Ministry with Stark Industries’ R&D department (no doubt due in part to Arthur Weasley’s continued brilliance in combining magic with Muggle devicesin order to do increasingly creative things, such as the Remembrall pager), and so Charles was also busy attempting to sooth the ruffled feathers of those who were offended by the further inclusion of the Muggle world into the wizarding one (he has heard that Lucius Malfoy had nearly blown a hole in the roof when he had heard, and Charles is secretly, vindictively happy about it because from Harry’s memories, he knows that the elder Malfoy had been partially responsible for Erik’s near death, and he fully intends to at least bleed the Malfoys financially and politically).

He was considering exactly how to word a letter to the increasingly worried sounding Minister (Fudge owed too many favors and Charles suspected money to too many people, including the Malfoys), when the doors of the study slammed open and an angry looking Pepper strode in, brown eyes flashing and black heels clacking.

“If you knew about this, I will hex you,” she said conversationally, fingers tapping her wand.

He goggled at her, “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” he said honestly.

“Good, I didn’t feel like trying to avoid Erik attempting to murder me again,” Pepper stated, drawing out a roll of parchment from her bag and flinging it at Charles, “After all, I might need both of your assistance in breaking me out of Azkaban after I murder Tony.”

Charles picked up the scroll gingerly and glanced over it. “Transfer papers?” he asked curiously, looking at Pepper over the papers, “I thought you were happy with your position as liaison to Stark Industries with the Ministry?”

“I was,” Pepper replied, giving him a tight smile, “But it seems that Tony has transferred me out of my position into becoming his personal assistant.”

Charles winced. He had thought that Tony had curbed most of his more reckless adrenaline junkie habits, but forcibly moving Pepper from the job she had chosen? He really was going to have to talk to Tony about perhaps acquiring a few bodyguards, although that wouldn’t really help if Pepper was to be his personal assistant.

“At least you have had a lot of practice already?” he offers placatingly, handing her back the papers.

“I don’t want to spend my whole life cleaning up Tony Stark’s messes,” she snaps, placing the scroll back into her bag, “Can you get me back my former position?”

He chews his bottom lip, “I could,” he admits, tapping his quill against his desk, “But really, shouldn’t you talk to Tony about it first?”

“He grinned at me, deflected all my hexes with some new force-field shield charm robot he created, and told me he couldn’t live without me,” Pepper replied flatly, fingers once again drumming along her wand.

“Well, he sort of can’t,” Charles pointed out delicately, discreetly grabbing his own wand and sending a pulse of calming thoughts (Pepper was normally such a calm girl, but when she got irritated, her hexes grew quite nasty), “For about the last three years, you have been the one organizing out his schedule. And you really shouldn’t have chosen a job anywhere close to Stark Industries if you didn’t want him messing around in your life.”

Pepper ran a frustrated hand through her neatly pinned up red hair, “I know,” she admitted quietly, “ I thought that I could just keep an eye on him in that liaison position instead of actually having to arrange all his appointments and dates since as head of Stark Industries, he has other people to do that for him now.”

(Charles doesn’t think that Tony and Pepper entirely understand what is going on the two of them. He barely understands it as it is. From what he has seen in their minds, it’s an odd mixture of worry, respect, affection, mild jealousy, and irritation that holds them together, and he has no idea if it’ll ever grow into anything more. They’re attracted to each other, but Pepper still thinks Tony is an arrogant, irresponsible berk, which is unfortunately quite accurate, and Tony doesn’t want to be tied down to anything right now. He imagines though, that if anything ever happens, it’ll be because Tony will have finally matured some more because Pepper’s mind holds a very securely wrapped sensation of complete, utter distaste when it comes to Tony’s constant flings.)

“Perhaps he still thinks that you are the best person to do the job?” he suggests mildly, digging through his stacks of parchment and finding a memo from Tony, “Ah, it seems as though his current personal assistant is Ms. Everhart.”

Pepper stiffened, her lips drawing into an even thinner line, “She works for the Daily Prophet! No wonder they had that article about his drinking problem the other day! What the hell was Tony thinking?”

“He most likely otherwise occupied at the time,” Charles replied dryly, “Or perhaps it was part of his master plan. You do realize that if I get you back your former position, Ms. Everhart will keep hers as well?”

Pepper looked quite put out at being outmaneuvered (occasionally, Tony did show off exactly why he had been put in Ravenclaw).

“I am scheduling Tony for so many different board meetings and early morning wake-up calls,” she muttered, standing up and stalking out the door.

Charles smiles and shakes his head as he resumes his scribbling over paperwork. He’s sure that they’ll work it out somehow. One day anyway. In the future.

--

August 1993

Erik has a headache, he feels exhausted from spell casting, and he still hasn’t managed even an incorporeal Patronus. He glares at the statues around him and tries again, bringing back up the cold memory of visiting Azkaban with the Dementors floating around him (there was no point to this exercise if he couldn’t cast the spell with Dementors around) and reaching for the rage that usually fuels his magic (old fury and anger at his former helplessness and uselessness coiled and banked inside of him), but it’s tainted by the panic that even the thought of the Dementors bring (it’s pathetic, but even the memory of the Dementors makes the bronze vases and statues rattle around him. In Azkaban it had been even worse, all the chains in the prison rising and thrashing around him as the locked doors in his mind had shuddered open and poured out all the memories that usually only crawled out at night. They had had to stun him to snap him out of his nightmare. Nick Fury, his current supervisor, had ordered him to not come back to Auror training until he had mastered the Patronus charm, and he was starting to think that it may be never because even with all his training, all his honing himself to be a weapon, he still can’t produce this one, tiny little charm—)

A warm, calming touch in his mind heralds Charles’ arrival as he stands behind him and rubs his back soothingly.

“Generally people try to remember happy memories when casting Patronuses,” he says lightly, fingers carefully massaging away the tense muscles in Erik’s back.

“I generally work better with rage,” Erik said, leaning back into Charles’ touch, Besides, I don’t like the thought of Dementors sucking away my happy memories.

It isn’t a permanent loss unless you spend much too much time with a Dementor, which the Patronus Charm is supposed to prevent anyway, Charles pointed out and then said thoughtfully, “You know, I believe that true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity. Would you mind if I—?” he asked, wiggling his fingers near the temple of his head.

(There was a time when Erik would have reacted violently to anyone, including Charles, bringing things out of the depths of his mind, but Charles asking permission now is a bit pointless since he has practically become a permanent fixture in his mind since his petrification. These days, he can always feel Charles at the edges of his mind, not asking to come in, but just there. He would find it annoying, the tightening of the link they already shared, but instead it is reassuring. He knows from both Raven and Charles’ own memories how hard those lost months had been, and so he cannot fault Charles’ need to know that he is still here. He himself sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night, still seeing those great yellow eyes, and it’s comforting to roll over and be able to hold Charles more securely against his chest and feel Charles sleepily nuzzle back in life and mind. It could have been Charles, and Charles could have been killed, and he looks forward to the day that he can finally as an Auror arrest a sneering Lucius Malfoy, and he so hopes that the man attempts to evade arrest.)

Erik nods his assent, and he feels Charles quietly walking down the halls of his mind, to a nearly invisible, hidden door where he had relegated his happiest memories.

(Reading a book in their giant bed while absentmindedly carding his fingers through Charles’ curly brown hair/Waking up in the hospital wing and having Charles fling himself into his arms/ The first time they had fallen into bed together, kissing and shedding clothes frantically/ Charles flooding his mind with affection and love and kissing him after nearly a year of uncertainty and misery / Going to Hogsmeade with everyone, crazy, loud, and chaotic, but generally entertaining/ Christmas snowball fights, Charles red cheeked and laughing as the twins manage to bury Tony in snowballs /Winning his first Quidditch game, the roars of the stands deafening/ Sunny days spent playing Quidditch with Raven while Charles read a book in the field/ Playing chess against a grinning Charles/ The one time Raven and Charles tried to make a cake for his birthday, and it had basically exploded, and he had laughed so hard when he had scrambled over to the kitchens only to find the two of them befuddled and covered in icing and flour/ Meeting Charles for the first time and being told that he was not alone/The first time he had moved a gate without touching it/Playing chess with for the first time with his father/Lighting Shabbat candles with his mother—)

And as the memories flood his mind (and his eyes fill with tears because he hasn’t thought about that in years, he didn’t even realize he still remembered—), he raises his wand and (chokingly) intones, “Expecto Patronum.”

Silver threads burst from his wand and coalesce into a gleaming shark that languidly swims around in the air. He laughs and stares at it in wonder as Charles smiles at him.

“I really didn’t think I could manage that,” he said haltingly, sliding his arms around Charles’ shoulders, “I didn’t even know I still had that memory.”

“There is so much more to you than you know,” Charles told him earnestly, discreetly wiping away his own tears (if Raven saw them like this, she was going to mock them mercilessly), “Not just pain and anger, there’s good too, I felt it. When you can access all that, you’ll possess a power no one can match, not even me.”

(And not even Shaw remains unsaid between the two of them. They both know what his end-goal is, what he will do when his training is finally done, and he knows Charles hates it, especially after nearly losing him to the basilisk, but even if he wants to spend the rest of his life with Charles by his side, he cannot just give up the desire that has driven him for so long. It’s not just revenge though; he does not believe anything or anyone is safe while Shaw still breathes, and so he will endure Fury’s barked orders until the day he can finally kill the monster that haunts his nightmares and move on with his life.)

“I have seen you cast a Patronus; it’s a griffin,” Erik protested, as his Patronus lazily swam closer to them.

“Yes, but I have a feeling that yours might be more effective toward Dementors than mine,” Charles said dryly as Erik’s Patronus attempted to bite off the head of an abstract statue that vaguely resembled a Dementor, “I believe Mr. Fury will be very pleased with you.”

“The only time he’ll be pleased is when we actually manage to figure out how Sirius Black escaped and/or catch him,” Erik stated grimly, waving his wand in an attempt to make his Patronus stop mauling the statue.

“It is quite interesting; no one has ever escaped from Azkaban before!” Charles exclaimed, eyes shining with the possibilities, “Dementors have never been properly studied; they have a rather bad effect on people. Perhaps they have some sort of weakness that Sirius Black managed to exploit. Whenever you capture him, there are some questions I would like to—”

“Whenever we catch Black, he’s most likely going to get the Dementor’s Kiss,” Erik interrupted harshly, “I don’t want you near him.”

Charles sighed unhappily, running a hand down Erik’s arm, “You know, he gave me a teddy bear once,” he said sadly, “It had three eyes and a tail. I think I still have it somewhere. And he helped us degnome the garden that one time, remember?”

“Yes,” Erik replied shortly, his arms tightening around Charles.

(He remembers the grinning, dark-haired young man who had given them pointers on how to best throw the gnomes, but he has also seen the reports and photos of the same man laughing madly around a bloody mess of strewn bodies. No matter what pleasant memories either of them may have of him, Sirius Black is a traitor and was in the service of the same madman that Shaw had served. The War had destroyed many things, and so they will catch Black because none of them want him to start another.)

“Hey guys, do you think—why is there a shark attempting to eat that statue’s head?” Raven asked, walking out onto the balcony.

“Ah, Raven!” Charles beamed, waving at her, “Erik just mastered the Patronus Charm. Are you all packed?”

“I don’t leave until a week from now Charles,” Raven replied, rolling her eyes and turning to Erik, “It just figures that your Patronus would be something with so many teeth—are your eyes red?”

“No,” he hastily said, rubbing at his eyes and cursing Raven’s tendency to notice the most inconvenient, embarrassing details.

“Yes, they are, and Charles’ eyes look kind of like that too,” Raven declared, crossing her arms, “Were you guys crying together?”

“They were very touching memories, Raven!” Charles protested, and Erik kind of wanted to strangle him out of embarrassment. (You should not have told her that, why did you tell her that?/But Erik, it’s true!)

“So you guys cried manly tears at each other, gotcha,” Raven said, a devious grin sliding over her face, “Next time can you tell me so I can take pictures? Or should I just put on one of those Muggle chick-flicks?”

“I can’t wait until you leave for Hogwarts!” Charles yelled as a laughing Raven ran away before one of the bronze pots could hit her.

“You love me, and you’re going to miss me so much when I’m at school!” she cackled over her shoulder, “You might even cry more manly tears!”

--

November 1993

Harry isn’t really sure if this sort of thing applies, but Buckbeak really seems to be in trouble, and Hagrid is in no position to go against the Malfoys, so he (with Hermione’s careful help) writes the letter and sends Hedwig with it to the Xavier Mansion.

Raven assures him that Charles will respond soon, but he was still not expecting to see Charles’ head pop up in the middle of the Gryffindor fireplace though.

“Harry!” the fiery looking head greeted him cheerfully, “I just got your letter! I would be delighted to help you.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked cautiously, staring at the smiling head in the fireplace, “I wasn’t really certain about what sort of favor I could ask—”

“Oh, don’t even bother to invoke my oath,” Charles assured him, “This sort of thing is a simple affair; it’s ridiculous for Lucius Malfoy to push such a matter so far anyway, he must have called in a lot of favors. It’ll be a work of perhaps a few hours at most to convince a few key people that his actions are quite excessive.”

“You won’t—?” Harry trailed off, wiggling his fingers by his ear in an approximation of what Charles seemed to be able to do.

“Of course not!” Charles said in a horrified tone, before adding, “Well, maybe a nudge here and there, but no more than that. If they want to be bought by Lucius Malfoy, that’s their own business.”

(Looking at it in retrospect, it’s a bit scary what Charles can do. Raven tried explaining it to them once, and then Hermione had checked out every single book she could find out Legilimency and given them a lecture on it. He personally still doesn’t really see how it’s all that different from mind-reading, and Charles seems to be on a class of his own given how he doesn’t seem to need eye contact or even proximity to leap into people’s mind. However, even though it’s freaky, he somehow understands instinctively that Charles is no Tom Riddle. He cannot imagine this boy, who had looked so lost at the end of last year, possessing a young girl just out of spite and hatred. Raven says that Charles has rules that he tries to follow, and Harry believes that. Hermione pointed out that it’s kind of too scary and pointless after awhile to wonder otherwise, because if Charles could truly change everyone’s minds, how would they even know? That’s when they all got a headache and decided to stop worrying about it. )

“Malfoy seems pretty confident that his dad can pull it off though,” Ron said doubtfully, gloomily prodding one of his knights on his chess set, “Are you sure you don’t want Harry or Hermione to call in one of their oaths?”

“I am sure. As I have told you before, the Xaviers are better liked,” Charles replied firmly with a small smile, “It is no hardship for me to begin snipping away at all of Lucius Malfoy’s connections; I was meaning to do so anyway.”

And Harry was never happier that Charles was on their side because there was something about that small smile that was vaguely terrifying and hinted at all the ways that Charles gleefully try to crush Lucius Malfoy.

“Yeah, Charles will take it seriously,” Raven stated cheerfully as Charles’ head disappeared, “He’s not about to forgive Lucius Malfoy any time soon.”

Harry glanced at Raven who was neatly trimming the twigs of the tail of her broom. “And you?” he found himself asking.

She gave him a wide grin, white teeth flashing brilliantly against her sapphire skin, “I can’t destroy him politically, but I can crush his pride. I’m going to beat Lucius Malfoy’s son at Quidditch and win us the Quidditch cup. Besides, I think Oliver may die if we don’t manage to get it this year.”

“But we’re playing Hufflepuff tomorrow because Malfoy’s faking his injury,” Harry pointed out.

Raven shrugged, carefully putting her broom away, “Which is why we have to win and then beat him another day,” she replied, stretching, “There’s always another chance to grind Lucius Malfoy’s pride to dust.”

“I thought dad hated him, but you guys take it to the next level,” Ron said wonderingly.

Raven shot him a look, “His little plot nearly killed Erik and put him in the hospital for nearly three months,” she said flatly, yellow eyes hard, “I know you lost him a house elf for everything he caused Harry, but that is not enough. We’re Xaviers; we look after family.”

“And what does Erik think about all this?” Hermione asked curiously.

Raven snorted, putting the rest of her kit away, “I’m sure he has his own little plans of revenge that most likely are getting more and more inventive with every day of Auror training,” she pats Harry on the shoulder, “Get a good rest. The Wolverine’s off at Hit Wizard training now, so we won’t have to deal with him, but I have heard Hufflepuff’s Seeker’s good. ‘Night Harry, Hermione, Ron.”

(Later, when he’s in the hospital wing, staring at the splinters of his broom, Raven quietly asks him if he would like for them to buy him a broom. He refuses because brooms are expensive, and he does have the money to buy his own, even if he feels quite miserable over the loss of his faithful Nimbus 2000. Also, Hermione has pounded into his head by now how important an oath from a pureblood family is, and how it should not be used on frivolous things. Buckbeak was important to Hagrid which is why they had tried to call it in at the time, but a broom is a different matter entirely. She pats him on the back sadly and goes off to prevent Oliver from attempting to drown himself. He knows they still have a chance at the Cup, but he’s feeling pretty miserable all the same.)

--

December 1993

Raven is attempting to memorize the theory of Vanishing spells, and she wants to scream. She can’t believe she’s studying over winter holidays, she was freaking turning into Charles, but this was hard. Although honestly, why did she need a N.E.W.T. in Transfiguration if she was going to be a professional Chaser? She had complained about this to Charles, but he had begun extolling the virtues of a well-rounded education until Erik had walked in and pointed out that she could always try turning her opponent into a toad during a match, in which she began reading her textbook again with greater enthusiasm while Charles made hilariously disapproving faces.

But it wasn’t all bad she supposed. Hank had come with her to spend Christmas at the Xavier Mansion, and she was looking forward to romantic snuggling in front of the fireplace. (He was holed up in one of the labs that had been rebuilt right now, still trying to figure out some sort of Transfiguration potion that he had been very secretive about, even though she had bemusedly let him take blood samples from her for it. However, she fully planned to drag him up here as soon as Charles and Erik got back from their date.)

She flicks her wand to levitate over more parchment when she hears glass shattering and a loud scream that turns into a long, drawn out howl emanating from the basement.

Hank.

She’s running frantically down the stairs, wand out before she even thinks about it (had something gotten past the wards? She remembers Charles mentioning that some magic doesn’t work on werewolves. But it’s not full moon, and Charles and Erik aren’t here, and oh god she hopes she remembers all the offensive spells Erik had taught her, and she knows that Hank never practiced them enough, and Hank—).

She flings open the doors of the lab (her father’s domain, and would she find more nightmares here again?) to be greeted by the sight of all the equipment in the lab either wrecked or lying on their sides, papers strewn all over the floor, and no sign of Hank.

“Hank?” she called out nervously, carefully keeping her back to the door and pointing her wand around, “Hank where are you?”

There’s a tinkle of glass, the sound of movement in the shadows, and a low growl that turned into a whine.

She advanced cautiously, keeping the Stunning Spell firmly in mind, “Who’s there?” she calls out harshly, “Hank? Are you alright? Where are you? What’s going on?”

There’s a whimper, and she thinks she sees something blue (fur?) before something crawls further back into the shadows.

She raises her wand high and warns (with a confidence she doesn’t really feel, what is going on?), “If you don’t come out right now, and tell me where Hank is, I am going to cast a Stunning Spell.”

There is silence, and then with glass crunching underfoot, a blue, furry animal (it looks vaguely like a cross between a wolf and maybe a panther, but it is much bigger than either animal. What is it? A monster? A beast?) slinks out of the corner and stares at her mournfully.

She’s about to stun it (my god, what has this thing done to Hank?) when she notices that the beast has round black markings around its eyes, looking like comically large eyeglasses. Much like the nerdy looking glasses Hank always wears.

(McGonagall had been lecturing about the more in depth theory of Animagi right before Winter Break. She had found it fairly interesting at the time, given that her Metamorphmagus powers do not extend to full animal forms, but becoming an Animagus is both difficult and dangerous, and she was fairly sure Puddlemere United wouldn’t want a Chaser who had accidentally spliced herself trying to become one. Besides, the Ministry kept fairly close tabs on all registered Animagi, so she thought it was too much of a hassle. Now that she’s thinking about it some more, Hank had looked awfully shifty during that lecture.)

“Hank?” she asks disbelievingly, slowly lowering her wand.

The beast nods slowly and hides its face in its paws.

She carefully steps forward and lightly touches his neck, “Hank,” she says softly, patting his neck soothingly (she wishes someone would do the same for her), “What’s going on? Can you turn back?”

He whines and shivers, clawing at the ground and trembling.

“No?” Raven whispers, fingers clenching in his fur, “Concentrate Hank; listen to me. You were trying to make some sort of Animagus potion, weren’t you? Animagi can always turn back, that’s the whole point of being an Animagus, so listen to me Hank, turn back.”

He whimpers again and stretches and twists, and she thinks she sees his limbs shrinking, but then he howls in pain, and stops and curls up. He’s panting heavily, still in this form, whimpering in pain. Raven tries to take a deep breath, but her hands are trembling, and her thoughts are racing

“Does it hurt too much for you to turn back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

Hank nods miserably and whines.

(What do I do What if he can’t turn back My god I should have been paying more attention to what he was actually trying to do down here Why didn’t I notice I should have been down here I should have talked to him more about it He’s been talking about special abilities far more than usual Hank it can’t just end like this—)

She shakes her head and forces herself to think through her panicked thoughts. If it’s a mental thing, a mental block, but he can still turn himself back as long as he can force himself through, then maybe it’s okay, maybe he can turn back? Or even if he can’t bring himself through it, maybe someone else could. Someone like Charles.

“Stay here, okay?” she orders Hank, standing up and focusing on the Xavier wards to let her pass, “I’m going to get help.”

She apparates to Le Heureux Foie with a giant crack (she had only recently passed her apparition tests) and rushed past the affronted looking maitre de to Charles and Erik’s candle-lit table without a word.

“Charles! Charles!” she yelled, scrambling up to them, “You have to come home, right now.”

Charles stood up worriedly, steadying her shoulder with his hand, “Raven, what’s wrong—”

“It’s Hank,” she cut in, clenching and unclenching her hands nervously, “Please.”

Without another word, her two brothers gather up their coats, toss a few galleons on the table, and apparate back to the mansion with their arms wrapped around her shoulders. She grabs them by the hand as soon as they land and drag them down into the lab with her.

“He was making some kind of potion,” she babbled as she wrenched open the doors, “Something to do with Animagi? But now, he can’t turn back.”

Charles stares at the curled up Hank with a look of awe while Erik begins to surreptitiously twist the overturned cauldron into a net until Raven shoots him a dirty look.

“Amazing,” Charles breathed, moving closer with Erik hot on his heels, “He really is an Animagi; I can hear his mind—”

“Can you make him turn back?’ Raven demanded, twisting her hands together uselessly.

Charles frowns, moving his fingers up to his temple, the way he always does when his mental acrobatics grew particularly complicated.

“I could,” he admits slowly, “But I’d have to take full control of Hank; he’s too terrified to think clearly at this point, and one must have a clear picture in one’s mind to turn back. It seems that he can feel the transformation take place, so there is pain as well—”

“Do it,” Raven demands, kneeling at Hank’s side, “Please Charles.”

“…very well,” Charles says finally, looking Hank in the eye and going silent.

Hank whimpers, and his limbs begin to shrink again, and the fur begins to disappear, but then he begins to howl in pain again, and Charles is biting his lip and still focusing on Hank, but she can see the way his hands are clenched in pain, and Erik is looking murderously worried.

“Stop this, Charles,” Erik growls as Hank howls and Charles hisses in pain, “You’re hurting both of you.”

“Just…a bit…more,” Charles panted, wincing as Hank’s arms popped back into place and Hank screamed.

“Charles,” Erik insisted, face pinched and knuckles practically white with the grip he had on Charles’ arm, “Raven, call him off—”

Charles gasps, blue eyes wide as Hank slumps to the ground, fully human again, except that his feet look somewhat strange, but she is so relieved.

“I did it!” Charles grins, before collapsing into Erik’s arms.

“Charles! Is he alright?” Raven asked worriedly, carefully cradling Hank’s head in her arms.

Erik stares at Charles, wearing that far-away look that she has grown to associate with her two brothers climbing in and out of each other’s minds, and replies, “…he’s alright. Just fainted. Don’t make him do that again,” he warns her, stroking Charles’ curly hair back softly.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes quietly, clutching Hank to her, “It’s just—It’s Hank, and I was—”

“We understand,” Erik interrupted, shifting Charles body up so that he could carry him in his arms, “But—I could hear Charles screaming in my mind. Don’t make him do that again,” he repeats, his hazel eyes boring into her.

“I’ll try not to,” she answers, levitating Hank’s body so that she can float it over to the cot he had set up in the lab, “I—I’ll definitely make all of this up to both of you.”

Erik sighs and bumps her shoulder with his own, “You’re our little sister,” he says seriously, shifting Charles’ body up some more, “You don’t owe us anything. Just make sure your boyfriend doesn’t make any more messes,” he added, shooting Hank a venomous glance.

Raven tenderly drew a blanket over Hank’s pale form and said lightly, “He won’t; I’ll see to it.”

(It takes a bit of work, with her impersonating various Ministry officials and greasing the palms of others with her hard-earned galleons from a year of selling mocking amulets with the twins the year before, but she manages to procure a week long package trip to Paris with high tea at the Ritz, accommodations at the One By Five apartment suite and the Ritz which had been particularly difficult, the buffet at the Moon City Sauna on “couples-only” Wednesday, lunch at Le Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower, nights out at the Black Calvados Bar, pastries from Pierre Herme, hot chocolate from Angelina’s , wine from La Derniere Goutte, and an evening cruise up the Seine with Bateux Parisiens. She then tucks the tickets into a creamy, monogrammed envelope and hands it to Charles and Erik on Christmas day.

Charles protests that the tickets are too much, but Erik looks pleased with a contemplative look in his eyes, so Raven presses the envelope onto the two of them with a minimum level of fuss. She is surprised in her turn when her brothers present her with a long, thin package that she unwraps to reveal a Nimbus 2001.

“It’s not a Firebolt,” Charles said apologetically as she gaped at the gleaming black and silver broom, “They seem to be sold out; something about the Irish International Team buying the rest of the stock. But it was what you kept haranguing us about last year, and we hope you like it?”

She pounces on both boys, throwing her arms around the two of them, “I love it!” she exclaims happily, “I can finally do that twisting feint on the Slytherin team! Oliver is going to be over the moon! We can finally win the Cup! Thank you! What would I do without you guys?” she asked, feeling suddenly teary as she looked at her two smiling brothers.

(What would she have done without them? If she had never met them, if Father had never decided to go after the Xavier fortune by marrying Sharon Xavier, then perhaps she would still be that scared, little girl, bullied and tortured by her biological older brother and ignored by her father. She would have never flown, never met Hank, never known that there were people who would accept her exactly the way she is. She can barely imagine it, and she’s glad that her imagination cannot extend that far.)

“You would most likely have failed Potions by now,” Charles jokes, patting her on the head.

“Or been blown up with the Weasley twins,” Erik adds, giving her a small smile.

Later, she curls up by the fireplace with a still pale, but much healthier looking Hank while Charles gets the house elves to bring them marshmallows and chocolate and Erik twists the fire pokers into tiny tridents suitable for roasting them for s’mores, she thinks that she has been quite lucky in her life.)

--

May 1994

Hank is happy that Gryffindor has managed to advance to the final round in Quidditch matches (mainly because it made Raven so very happy, he didn’t actually care for how twitchy Oliver had gotten as the match approached), and he has even gamely put on a lion hat to cheer for his girlfriend, but he is frankly terrified that both of her brothers are here to watch her as well.

Charles isn’t too bad, even though he feels guilty every time he sees him. It’s Erik who gives him the look of death every time they meet, and he’s almost certain that the older boy will never forgive him for making Charles feel all that pain.

(He had never been in so much agony before, and even now the memory feels him with fear, and he takes Dreamless Sleep Draughts before bed. Through some complicated paperwork, his potion and transformation were duly noted, approved, and then buried, but he is still stuck with the consequences. No matter how much he concentrates, he cannot turn his feet back to the way they were. He’s stuck with freakishly prehensile feet that he hides with long socks and large shoes, and a strange speed and strength that he does not remember having before, but he doesn’t like it. Even if Raven has forgiven him for putting himself in so much danger and scaring her so badly, he knows that he has screwed up badly. He doesn’t think that he can even turn into that form again, given how much pain he had been in during either transformation, so really, all his work and sacrifice had been for naught.)

Thankfully, Erik’s attention seems to be diverted by the Gryffindor scarf Charles keeps trying to tie around his neck.

“No Charles,” he said, pushing away Charles’ hands.

Charles pouted up at him, “Raven used to turn her hair green and silver whenever we watched your matches,” he pointed out teasingly, curling his hand on the back of Erik’s neck, “If you’re so opposed to the scarf, perhaps I could enchant your hair—”

“Don’t touch my hair,” Erik warned, his eyes narrowed slightly.

“Scarf then?” Charles suggested brightly, holding up the red and yellow scarf.

Erik grumbled and glowered (and Hank really wanted to run away, but the Gryffindor stands are too rowdy, the Slytherin stands scare him, and the Hufflepuff stands are too far away) but still permitted a humming Charles to neatly tie the scarf around his neck.

“If Snape sees me and attempts to have my head, and I am forced to stun him, it’ll be all your fault,” Erik muttered, pulling morosely at the securely tied scarf.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful, darling. I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Charles replied cheerfully, clapping loudly as the Gryffindor team stepped onto the field to a roar of cheers.

For all of Charles’ reassurances, it was the dirtiest game of Quidditch that Hank has ever seen played. The Slytherin Beaters attempt to bludgeon off various players’ heads, Malfoy grabs onto Harry’s broom to prevent him from flying (Hank is frankly amazed that the boy even has the strength; the Firebolt could go 150 miles per hour in ten seconds flat), and every single Chaser gets tackled, hurtled, and slammed into at some point (Flint nearly manages to push Raven off her broom, and Raven retaliates by kicking him in the face, which results for a penalty for both Gryffindor and Slytherin).

Hank is surprised that Erik’s arm hasn’t come off, given how hard Charles is clutching at it, and that Flint hasn’t spontaneously caught on fire or just suddenly dropped dead given the dark looks that both older boys are sending his way.

“Your team has grown much more…unscrupulous in their methods since you left Erik,” Charles commented with an expression of distaste as Oliver was attacked by both Slytherin Beaters in retaliation for Katie Bell’s goal.

“Flint must be frustrated at his lack of graduation,” Erik replied, eyes lighting with something like glee as one of the Weasley twins threw his bat straight into Flint’s head, “Although Raven’s team seems perfectly capable of handling it.”

Charles took a deep breath as Raven executed a perfect flip of her broom to get past the two Beaters rampaging toward her. Hank noticed that despite the comforting hand that Erik ran down Charles’ back, the metal supports for the stands were lightly rattling.

“I won’t; Raven would never forgive me,” Charles suddenly said, most likely in response to whatever silent conversation that the two of them had been having in their minds (Hank still found this aspect of Charles’ Legilimency fascinating; he has never read of anyone else capable of doing this), “Besides, if you can keep yourself from flipping Marcus Flint’s broom over, I can be trusted to stay out of all of their heads.”

“As you say, liebling,” Erik murmurs into Charles’ ear, and Hank has a hard time corroborating the soft look Erik has on his face right now with the terrifying glares he always gets.

(Erik and Charles are so obviously in each other’s pockets that Hank had felt like he was intruding every time he walked into a room with the two of them together, even if they were doing nothing besides reading a book or eating together. It makes him feel strange, watching how easily they click together when he and Raven are nothing like that. Raven does not like his more experimental potions, especially after his accident, and he does not understand what she considers romantic. He’s trying to figure it out through trial and error, but he’s terrified that Raven will only take so many errors before she decides to break up with him.

But then again, he’s still not sure why Raven had agreed to go out with him. She could easily be dating Quidditch captain Oliver or either of the twins or really anyone she wants, but she wants to date him. Even now, after he’s made a mess of himself, she had told him fiercely, her eyes glowing a warm gold, that he is the one she wants. But he doesn’t understand that. Why him?)

The crowd roars, and Hank looks up to see Harry holding the Snitch up high and Raven executing back flip after back flip on her broom while pumping her fist up in glee. The entire Gryffindor team lands on the ground to swarm over Harry, and the entire stands follow suit, running onto the field and either pouncing onto the red and gold crowd or sulking with the glum looking Slytherin team.

Hank gets swept up in his fellow Ravenclaws’ wake (Slytherin had been acting a bit too smug this year to have many supporters), and finds himself in front of a beaming Raven whose sapphire skin is practically glowing with happiness.

“Congratulations,” he offers, mentally berating himself for not knowing what else to say.

She grins at him and grabs him by the tie to pull him in for a long, drawn-out kiss that only breaks up when the Weasley twins begin to wolf-whistle and Charles coughs meaningfully.

They break apart, and Raven smiles at him as he attempts to catch his breath, “I’m glad you’re here with me,” she said shyly, grabbing onto his hand as the team moves forward to take the Cup.

(And maybe, despite the fact that logically speaking they should not get along or be dating at all, that all the formulas that he has written when he couldn’t sleep say they should be incompatible, that he feels wholly inadequate, maybe this will work out anyway. Maybe he won’t screw up, and she won’t break his heart. Maybe.)

--

June 1994

Charles is working in his study, considering the invitation to be part of the Department of International Magical Cooperation (he did think it sounded rather interesting, especially with the proposal of the Triwizard Tournament being revived), when the wards twinged to tell him that two people had arrived by Portkey.

He frowned, looking up from his papers. He had not been expecting anyone today, and there were very few Portkeys to the Xavier Mansion. In fact, he believed that most of them had belonged to the Order of the Phoenix, but given how it was now defunct—

The doors of his study bang open to reveal a disheveled and ragged looking Hermione and Harry, both with torn clothes, smudged faces, and looking quite frantic.

“Hermione? Harry?” he asked, standing up in alarm, “What is going on? Are you two alright—”

“Charles Xavier, I am in need, and I wish to call in your family debt,” Harry interrupted frantically, glancing at Hermione who was mouthing him the correct words, “Through the bonds of obligation, I demand that you fulfill your oath.”

“I would be happy to,” Charles replied, startled by the intensity of Harry’s words, “But what is it that you need?”

“I need you to tell Erik Lehnsherr that tonight, when Sirius Black is handed over to him, he needs to transport him back here and make it look like he’s escaped. I then need you to hide him for an indeterminate amount of time,” Harry rushed out,

“What?” Charles asked, completely shocked, “Harry, you do know that—Sirius Black is—tonight? How do you even—what exactly is going on here?”

“Just read my mind,” Harry said impatiently, gesturing at his head.

Charles raises his eyebrows, but does as Harry requests, leaping neatly into his mind and rifling through the memories of the past day.

(Going to visit Hagrid to celebrate Buckbeak’s release/Catching sight of Scabbers and running after him/Ron catching him but then being dragged through a passageway in the Whomping Willow by a giant black dog/Fighting off the Whomping Willow to go after Ron/Arriving in the Shrieking Shack and finding Sirius Black/Remus Lupin arriving and embracing Black/The two of them claiming that Peter Pettigrew was both an Animagus and the Potters’ betrayer/Snape arriving and trying to arrest Black, only to be disarmed and knocked out by Harry/Scabbers turning back into Peter Pettigrew/Returning to the castle to try and clear Sirius’ name, but then Lupin transforms and Pettigrew escapes/Attempting to fight off the Dementors/Trying desperately to convince Fudge, Snape, Nick Fury, and Erik that Sirius is innocent/Dumbledore believing them and telling them that they need more time and handing them a portkey to the Xavier Mansion/Hermione pulling out a Time Turner and turning it back/Speaking the words and arriving at the Xavier Mansion with time ticking away)

Charles breaks out of Harry’s memories, mind whirling with the implications of what all this means.

“They never took him to trial because it looked so obvious, and he never protested,” he murmured, staring at his desk, “But the story, it did have holes in it, so perhaps—”

“Can you tell Erik right now?” Harry asked quickly, practically bouncing up and down with nervousness.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Charles said distractedly (something this important has to be done in person), drawing on their bond and sending, Come home right now to Erik.

He feels Erik’s sense of sudden worry (the feeling of everything dropping away from your feet) and then hears the slight pop as Erik apparates back into the mansion. Erik sends a stream of slightly panicked thoughts (Areyoualright? What’sgoingon?) to him as he strides into the study, and then has an expression and feeling of utter relief when he sees Charles unharmed (a splash of cool water on a hot day), only to stop short in surprise at the sight of Harry and Hermione.

Charles doesn’t bother trying to explain the whole situation to Erik out loud (time travel always made things so very difficult to explain), instead entering Erik’s mind and simply dumping Harry’s memories straight into the fortress (like spreading a stack of papers across the floor).

Erik blinks as he sorts through all the memories and pictures, and then his face hardens.

“Sirius Black is innocent?” he asked the two younger Gryffindors disbelievingly, “Why didn’t he protest his sentence?”

“I believe that perhaps he blamed himself for Lily and James Potter’s deaths regardless of the true situation,” Charles interjected gently, “Can you arrange for his escape?”

“Dawlish I can knock out easily while making it look like Black did it,” Erik said dismissively, frowning as he ran the scenarios over in his mind, “The best thing to do would to be to then to stash him temporarily somewhere safe, go back and pretend to be surprised, and then to floo him back home, but Fury’s going to find the whole mess suspicious no matter what.”

(He thinks he should be a tiny bit disturbed at how easily Erik can put together a plan to help a wanted criminal escape, but it’s probably all that Auror training. Besides, he is no better, already planning out which wards to strengthen, how often to check on his ailing mother in Bath now that they have a rather illegal guest in the house, which officials in the Ministry need to be talked to and which forms to fill out to open a new investigation on Sirius, and exactly how to tell Raven what is going on. It’s a grand undertaking that could potentially blow up in all of their faces, but if Sirius is really innocent, then he deserves at least this much effort for the lost thirteen years of his life.)

“Perhaps I should tell the headmaster to have a few words with Mr. Fury,” Charles suggested delicately, grabbing his cloak.

“Explaining it to Dumbledore right now might be difficult,” Erik objected, reaching out and brushing some lint off of Charles’ cloak, “Most of the events haven’t even happened yet.”

“I can simply show him what I showed you,” Charles pointed out, turning to Harry and Hermione, “Do you two need anything? You look rather terrible; I could ask Doodge to make you some tea—”

“We need to head back,” Hermione answered, shaking her head and grabbing onto Harry’s wrist, “There’s a few more things we have to see through.”

“Ah, time travel,” Charles sighed, double-checking the wards of the house, “Well, come with me to the main parlor then; I believe that fireplace is still directly linked to Hogwarts. Are you ready for this?” he asked seriously, focusing on Erik.

“Let’s find out,” Erik answered grimly, sending a pulse of reassurance (a firm metal wall behind his back) before apparating back to the Ministry.

(After dumping all the information on an inscrutable Dumbledore (he’s never been able to really read the headmaster, there’s something just twisty about his mind that confuses Charles every time he tries to enter it), and waiting worriedly back in the mansion for night to fall while pacing back and forth, Erik finally steps out of the fireplace with a gaunt Sirius Black in tow.

“Did you have much trouble?” he asks, rushing forward to steady a stumbling Sirius.

“No,” Erik replied, dumping Sirius onto one of the longue chairs, “Dawlish was easily incapacitated by a metal chair, and Fury started a giant search of the castle, which he knows will occupy everyone for at least a year, given how many hidden rooms and chambers there are. We’re safe for now.”

“Excellent,” Charles said, giving Erik a warm smile and then turning to a stunned looking Sirius, “We’ve met before, but it has been a long time. I’m Charles Xavier, and this is Erik Lehnsherr.”

“Brian’s son,” Sirius croaked out, looking at the two of them, “And the kid that managed to escape from Shaw. I helped you guys degnome a garden once.”

“You remember!” Charles said excitedly and was about to ask him about Dementors before Erik sent him a quelling look, “Ah, you must be tired; it’s been a long day for all of us. Take any room you want besides the master suite and Raven’s room, that’ll be the room with more Puddlemere United gear than should be capable be fitting in one room; we’ll talk more tomorrow if you’re up for it.”

Charles and Erik begin to walk up the stairs when Sirius says in a slightly amused tone, “You realize that I’m not about to run away right? The Auror doesn’t have to stay on my account.”

“I live here,” Erik replied flatly, not bothering to look back.

“So I shouldn’t take your room either then,” Sirius guesses, “And it’s the one on the…?”

“I share the master suite with Charles,” Erik states tightly, turning back to give a hard look at Sirius, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Oh! So you two are—gotcha,” Sirius replied, grinning and suddenly looking younger by at least ten years, “No, it’s not a problem; just—surprised that’s all. Last time I saw either of you, I could still get away with giving you teddy bears for birthday presents. It just seems that—a lot has changed since then,” he said quietly, looking haunted once again.

“It’s going to be okay,” Charles said softly, leaning over the banister, “We’ll clear your name, just wait and see. And Harry can come and visit you over the summer if he likes.”

“That would be great,” Sirius says, smiling again, “Well then, you guys have fun and good night.”

And when Raven comes back home and chatters about recent Quidditch history with Sirius, Sirius cheers up considerably although he does have fits of melachonalia and brooding, but that is understandable. They cannot bring in a Healer for him to talk to, but Charles does try to prod Sirius into talking about his experiences anyway, and Erik also helps by taking Sirius’ mind off of his past by doing practice duels with him. The mansion feels much fuller and more alive than it has in years, and Charles thinks that their makeshift little family is growing just a bit.)

Chapter Text

August 1994

Charles had thought the most difficult part of coming to the Quidditch World Cup would be sneaking Sirius in, but in reality it was picking out a tent. Erik wanted a green tent in support of Ireland while Raven was insisting on a red one to support Bulgaria.

“Ireland is obviously going to win,” Erik said stubbornly, crossing his arms in front of him.

“And Bulgaria has Viktor Krum!” Raven shot back, pointing at the red tents bedecked with Krum’s scowling face, “Ooh, let’s get that one!”

“No,” Charles said firmly, “Perhaps we should just use the blue tents with the Xavier crest on them?”

“Can I turn them red?” Raven pleaded, twirling her wand.

“If she turns them red, I am enchanting shamrocks onto them regardless,” Erik stated, drawing out his own wand.

Charles sighs, “You do realize that we are supposed to be discreet and blending in as much as possible, correct? There are Muggles around after all,” he points out crossly.

“They’ll be discreet shamrocks then,” Erik grudgingly compromised.

It’ll be the most schizophrenic tent ever, Sirius commented, scratching out the words on a piece of parchment with a pen his mouth, I bet you that Ireland will win the World Cup, but Krum will catch the Snitch.

“That’s ridiculous because as soon as Krum catches the Snitch, he’ll win Bulgaria the World Cup,” Raven stated flatly, hands on her hips, “Krum is an amazing Seeker; he can do handstands on his broom!”

“One Seeker does not a team make, and you can do handstands on your broom,” Erik shot back scathingly.

“And I am utterly awesome, which is why Puddlemere United took me,” Raven replied smugly, waving her wand and turning the X emblazoned blue tents red.

“Please don’t say that; you sound like Tony,” Charles begged her as Erik enchanted green shamrocks that looked stitched on but wiggled slightly onto the now red tent.

“Speaking of being discreet, have you seen Tony’s tent?” Raven asked eagerly, bending forward and scratching Sirius’ neck, “It’s red and gold and has three stories!”

“Pepper must be strangling him as we speak,” Erik commented, setting up the tent and examining it critically.

“Well, at least you’re off duty,” Charles offered as they entered the tent and looked at the sweeping staircase and multitude of bedrooms lining the space, “Huh, I think we took the biggest one on accident.”

“Tony’s is bigger, and it has an—”

“—Olympic sized swimming pool and a hot tub full of Veelas right now,” George finishes as both grinning twins pop into the tent.

“Fred! George!” Charles exclaims happily as he draws both twins in for a hug, “What have you two been up to lately? How are the trick wands coming along? And those candies?”

“Mom banned us from bringing in the Ton-Tongue Toffees,” George said gloomily, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Just because we had—”

“—one little incident with Harry’s cousin doesn’t mean we can’t be trusted!” Fred said firmly, holding a hand to his chest, “We’re still working on the Canary Creams. The trick wands are coming along well though.”

“Oh, and we bet Ludo Bagman thirty-seven galleons, fifteen sickles, three knuts, and a joke wand that Ireland’s going to win, but Krum is going to catch the Snitch,” George adds as Sirius barks gleefully.

“What?” Charles said in a horrified tone, “But that’s all your savings!”

“Oh, live a little Charles,” Raven called out, leaning over the railing, “How else are they supposed to make enough money to start a joke shop? Although I still think that the two of you are wrong; Krum is going to lead Bulgaria to victory.”

“If you two need money, I can give it to you,” Charles insisted seriously, “Ludo Bagman is a bit…how to put it…?”

“Unscrupulous,” Erik answered, frowning slightly, “I’ve heard he has money problems.”

“And we’ve heard that you do ritual animal sacrifice every night, so is there something you should be telling us, Magneto?” Fred shot back with a mulish expression, “Thanks for the offer Professor, but it’ll be fine. You’re already funding our research—”

“—and any more is going to be too much,” George finished stubbornly, “You have to save some of that money for all the adorable little kids that you and Magneto are eventually going to adopt, you know? Don’t worry though, once our shop is up and running—”

“—you’ll be a major shareholder,” Fred said firmly, drawing out a box labeled ‘Trick Wands,’ “Oh, and we brought you some of these to look at. Bagman was impressed by them.”

“As long as you think you know what you’re doing,” Charles said worriedly (he didn’t like Bagman taking advantage of underage wizards and their money, and despite the sheer number of rumors that went on in the Ministry, he was fairly sure that Erik was right about Bagman’s money problems. Between Ludo Bagman and Barty Crouch, organizing the Triwizard Tournament was turning into a much more irritating task than he had initially thought it would be), taking the box from Fred as Sirius butted his head against his leg, “Ah, so Harry is with your family?”

“Him and Hermione,” George replied, “We think—”

“—that Ronniekins has a little crush,” Fred said gleefully, “Want to come with us to tease them?”

“Let’s,” Raven answered happily, turning her hair scarlet with streaks of gold and black, and Sirius followed the three red-heads out the tent.

“Well hopefully he’ll get a chance to talk to Harry,” Charles said, sitting down in one of the overstuffed blue chairs, “I still find it unfortunate that he couldn’t visit us over the summer.”

“His relatives seem rather terrible,” Erik commented, setting up the wizarding chess set on the table, “Shall we also bet on the outcome of the game?”

“Attempt to pit my knowledge of Quidditch teams against yours?” Charles asked in an amused tone, moving his pawn forward, “It seems like a bad idea.”

“I could make it worth your while,” Erik suggests idly, giving him an absolutely filthy look over the board and sending graphic images along to accompany it.

Charles pinks and coughs, “Shall we say that if Ireland wins, you can do all that to me?” he murmurs, giving Erik a hooded glance (and a shared flare of heat and lust), “And that if Raven is correct, you could perhaps wear your old Quidditch uniform to bed?”

“Kinky,” Erik laughed with a flash of teeth, “I will be looking forward to my victory then.”

(And later on, when they see Krum raise up the Snitch from their high, high seats, but Ireland win anyway, to Raven’s shrieks of rage, Charles feels Erik’s breath on his neck as he wraps his arms around Charles’ waist from behind.

“Make our excuses to Tony,” he murmurs into Charles’ ear, “We will be otherwise occupied tonight.”

“Very well,” he murmurs back, snuggling deeper into Erik’s arms.

Losing had never been quite so appealing before.)

--

The yells grow louder, and Erik rolls over, slightly dislodging a sleeping Charles (and he briefly admires his red marks running down Charles’ neck and chest again), to properly yell at Raven and the rest of the Gryffindors (somehow their tent had been invaded by the twins, Hank the lone Ravenclaw in this group, and Oliver after the game, most likely because Tony’s tent already had far too many people in it) to pipe down already when he starts to hear the screams from outside.

Rioters? (Or something worse?)

He doesn’t waste any time in grabbing his wand and shaking Charles awake.

“Hm?” Charles said sleepily, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye, “Erik, what is it?”

“Something’s happening,” he replied shortly, pulling on his pants and robes, “I’m going to go check on it.”

Charles frowned and moved his fingers up to his temple. His eyes widened (fearanger), and he said abruptly, “We have to get Raven and the rest of them out of here.”

“What is it? What’s going on?” Erik demanded, tossing Charles his trousers as Charles scrambled out of the bed and grabbed his wand.

“Death Eaters,” Charles replied shortly, pulling on his clothes.

Something in him freezes, and the tent itself shudders (metal poles as supports because it was easier for all of them to set up) until Charles sends a cool pulse of (calmpeaceIamHereWithYou) to him and takes his hand.

“Come on,” he says gently, squeezing his hand reassuringly as Raven burst into their bedroom.

“Erik! Charles!” she yelled, one hand over her eyes, “There’s Death Eaters outside, so put some clothes on!”

“We’re already dressed, Raven” Charles said in an exasperated tone, pushing her hand down, “How close are they?”

“One poked his head in, trying to scare us I think, but Hank freaked out and punched him,” Raven replied, hurrying down the stairs with them.

“Is he dead?” Erik asked tersely (Hank had developed an impressive amount of strength after his idiotic experiment the year before), taking in the huddled group of slightly fearful looking teenagers filling the tent.

“Was still breathing, so I stunned him, and then we tied him up,” Raven replied gesturing at the hooded, masked man bundled up on the ground, “What’s the plan?”

“We need to get all of you out of here, right now, it’s not safe,” Charles said firmly, gathering the teens together and glancing at Erik, “You have a job to do?”

“I’ll see all of you to the Portkey spots first,” Erik replied adamantly, taking the compressed metal spiders from his robes, and sending them skittering out the door in their full-fledged terrifying glory.

(He wants to rip through these Death Eaters, shake them down until they reveal all they know about Shaw, and then end their miserable little existences, it’s a screaming song in his head. But there is also the thrum of his heart and mind, the constant drumming need for Charles and Raven, for their makeshift little family to be safe that drowns out the crying desire for revenge. He wants Shaw dead; he will never rest until that happens, but at the same time, he can’t risk Charles and Raven’s lives for Shaw’s death. Nothing could ever be worth their lives, and he just can’t.)

Charles gives him one last squeeze of the hand and a smile (the sheer amount of affection and love that he feels staggers him every time), and then begins to herd the teenagers out of the tent.

They walk out not a moment too soon because a group of Death Eaters are attempting to set their tent on fire (but not getting very far because Erik suspected that Charles’ ancestors had either been paranoid or had had too many wild parties and had put enough protecting charms on the tent to withstand a volcano). They are soon either pinned to the ground by one of Erik’s spiders, one or more of their limbs transfigured into flippers by Raven, pelted with Dungbombs by the twins, bitten by Sirius, stunned and punched into submission by both Oliver and Hank, or all of the above.

However, there are more arriving, and Erik bares his teeth in violent exultation as his spiders begin to click at an even higher and faster frequency (kill them, kill them all), when Charles touches his arm gently.

Let me handle this, Charles breathes before focusing on the approaching Death Eaters, putting his fingers to his temple, pointing his wand at them, and saying softly (but terribly), “Stop. Go turn yourselves into the Ministry.”

The hooded figures all stop, sway, and turn and walk away as one. Charles steadies himself against Erik (he feels Charles’ slight disgust at what he has done along with his steely determination to keep all of them safe) as the teens look from the departing Death Eaters, to Charles, and back at the Death Eaters.

The twins are the first to break the (awed? Scared? He can’t tell, but he thinks it’s a combination with the wary way Charles holds himself, so he brushes their hands together again, in mind as in life) silence.

“You’ve gotten new tricks Professor! Why didn’t you—”

“—tell us? And you should have told them to—”

“—do something entertaining like slap themselves or—”

“—light themselves on fire—”

“—transfigure themselves into baboons—”

“—so that the outside matches the inside—”

“—but then they’d have to be snakes—”

“—no offense meant to Magneto though, those compressed spiders—”

“—are bloody brilliant, can we have some?”

“No,” Erik replied, urging his spiders back from the twins (he wouldn’t put it past the two of them to somehow come up with a way to capture one, and he doesn’t even want to imagine the sort of chaos the two redheads could wreck with one of his creations).

“Indeed, no,” Charles echoes apologetically as the twins pout at him in appeal, “I’m afraid Erik’s spiders are rather weaponized.”

“You’re just like mum,” Fred huffed as George attempted to poke one of the spiders with a stick, only for the spider to snap the stick in half with its pincers.

“Perhaps,” replied Charles cheerfully, his composure regained (and mind less jittery), leading their group forward again while Erik takes the back (he just hopes that someone tries to sneak up on them), “It’s not far now; we can all just portkey back to my home and then—”

An explosion, and then a sickly greenish-grey skull rises up into the sky, and it opens it jaws to allow a snake to come slithering out, and it’s like one of Erik’s nightmares come to life.

(He had been screaming, all the metal in the house clashing and whirling in unison with his rage, his mother’s dead body lying on the ground, and his father’s downstairs, but nothing hits Shaw, and his tormentor simply had a delighted look on his face.

“Excellent, excellent!” he had said, turning to his bored looking blonde female companion, “He is absolutely fascinating; I’m going to take him for further studies.”

“As you wish,” she replied, filing her nails disdainfully.

And suddenly, something, someone was crawling around in his mind, jabbing at him with cold, hard spikes until he was overwhelmed with pain and could no longer reach for the metal around him.

As Shaw grabs him by the shoulder, he tuts and then turns around again, “Nearly forgot,” he muses conversationally as he pulls out his wand again and incants, “Incedio, Morsmorde.”

The last sight Erik has of his childhood home is of it wreathed in flames with the green skull and snake rising above it with the smoke of all that he had known.)

He is snapped out of his memories (his nightmares, except that in those sometimes the house that he sees the Dark Mark rise over is the Xavier mansion instead) by Charles wrapping his arms around his waist and whispering fiercely, It’s not going to happen again. You won’t let it, and I will not either, so our nightmares will never come to pass. Never, I promise you.

He manages to nod jerkily, and they manage to hurry the gawking teenagers away to the portkey sight, without any further trouble, although the twins do take the opportunity to test a Canary Cream on Hank, which results in him sprouting feathers. Raven transfigures them off, and gives both twins antlers in retaliation, which they decide they like anyway.

(Everyone pops into the Xavier at some point throughout the night and into the next morning to both check on everyone else and to show that they are unharmed. Tony brags about how badly some of the Death Eaters had pissed themselves when he had revealed the twenty feet tall Stupefy 7000s in his workshop while Pepper scolds him for revealing prototype Stark technology. Darwin wryly tells Erik that Pepper had jelly-leg jinxed both Death Eaters that had been preoccupied by the Stupefy 7000s, and that he and Alex had taken down a few Death Eaters as well, until the Dark Mark had been cast, spooking Alex so badly that he had accidentally cast a flurry of Incendios in fear, which had led to the Death Eaters managing to get away. The Weasley family arrives with a shaken looking Hermione and Harry, who Sirius automatically bounds up to and nuzzles comfortingly. Less welcome guests such as MacTaggert and the Wolverine stop by as well to check on them, and Erik suffers having them here only because Charles is quietly dozing in his arms, and any sort of banishing action will surely wake him up.

Later on, he’s swamped at work trying to figure out who actually cast the Dark Mark, all of the Death Eaters having stampeded away as soon as it appeared. The few that had been captured or compelled to turn themselves in by Charles are relatively small-fry (and he is very disappointed not to see Lucius Malfoy in their number), and do not reveal any new information. Between his new duties as an Auror, Charles’ involvement in the Triwizard Tournament, and Raven’s new position in Puddlemere United, he thinks it’s going to be a busy year.)

--

November 1994

Raven is pulling off her gloves and wondering if her muddy boots were salvageable (it didn’t matter what Charles said; dragon skin boots were the way to go, even if they were heinously expensive) when Oliver bursts into the locker room with the Daily Prophet.

“Raven!” he yells, only to be pelted by various shampoo bottles and combs and shrieks of the other female members of the team, “Oh right, sorry! But Raven seriously, look!”

“What Oliver?” she snaps, throwing a wet towel at him (she didn’t really care if he saw her without clothes on or not since her true form had ridges and scales that covered up anything really private, but it was the whole principle of the matter. Really it was more convenient off a broomstick to go without clothes, especially since she could shift on anything she really wanted to wear, but Charles nearly had a heart-attack the last time she had tried that. Erik had talked to him about tigers, and how you never looked at one of those and thought they were naked, but Charles had replied that tigers were not his little sister who could be ogled at by unsavory people, and he would prefer her to have more layers between herself and said people. She wears normal clothes most of the time to satisfy him, but if she wants a particular sort of dress that she doesn’t feel like buying, well Charles doesn’t need to know about that, does he?)

“Look,” Oliver insists, tossing her the Daily Prophet, before he’s mobbed and pushed out of the locker room by angry female teammates.

Raven takes and unfolds the paper on the bench, and reads the screaming headlines of Boy Who Lived Fourth Champion in Triwizard Tournament! Sabotage: Goblet of Fire Broken?

Sirius was not going to be happy. And what was Charles thinking letting Harry go through with this? What wasErik (who had been dragged into the whole tournament as both security and translator because Erik was ridiculously fluent and Crouch kept looking worse and worse)?

She and Sirius both repeat (more like shout perhaps) the question to her brothers when they arrive home.

Charles frowns as he dusts off the soot from both his and Erik’s robes, “Honestly, I was against it, but Mr. Crouch insisted, as did Mr. Bagman, and they outvoted me.”

“And as security, obviously my opinions count for nothing,” Erik stated sarcastically, hanging his cloak on a hook.

“And Dumbledore allowed this?” Sirius asked, appalled, hands balling up into fists.

“The headmaster seems to think we have no choice in the matter,” Charles replied tiredly, holding up a hand, “Believe me, I tried to talk Harry’s way out of it, but Mr. Crouch kept talking about magical contracts and the Goblet’s decisions, and in the end the headmaster overruled both my suggestion to try to undo the contract and Erik’s idea just to cancel the whole thing.”

“Well obviously they couldn’t cancel it,” Raven said, rolling her eyes, “It’s the Triwizard Tournament! Do you know how long Fred and George took on that Aging Potion to try and get in? I wish I could do it; I knew I should have just blown off my N.E.W.T.s”

“And be like Flint? Perish the thought,” Erik cut in wryly before Charles could start his speech on the importance of N.E.W.T.s and a well-rounded education, “I thought the headmaster would appreciate a break from all the chaos and drama that has been Hogwarts since Harry Potter arrived, but apparently not.”

“It’s not Harry’s fault,” Raven protested, giving a dismissive wave of her hand, “He hates attention. Absolutely loathes it. It’s just that trouble just seems to dodge his footsteps.”

“Regardless, that does bring up the troubling question of who did put his name in the Goblet,” Charles interjected worriedly, sitting down in his favorite overstuffed armchair, “I wanted to bring in Moody to investigate, but apparently he was indisposed. But no matter what, it couldn’t have been just some simple prank; the Goblet is an extremely powerful artifact, to have managed to make it choose four champions instead of three is quite beyond the knowledge or power of a student.”

“Unless Malfoy has been training with his Death Eater father over the summer,” Sirius commented darkly, leaning against the banister.

“Draco Malfoy? Please,” Raven said dismissively, perching herself on the arm of Charles’ chair.

Sirius glowers at them and argues, “Lucius Malfoy was one of the most highly ranked of the Death Eaters—”

“And we are aware of that, but the son is not the father,” Charles interrupted in a steely tone, “I’m willing to bleed the Malfoys dry politically and perhaps economically, but I am not about to throw around unfounded accusations that are extremely serious.”

“Plus, you didn’t grow up with him,” Raven commented, grinning as some old memories popped back into her head, “Remember that time Erik made him cry?”

“Which one?” Charles asked dryly, looking up at Erik fondly.

Erik snorts and then says seriously to Sirius, “I’ll keep an eye on him, but I’m with Charles and Raven on this one; if the brat knew magic like that, he’d already have cursed Harry to kingdom come; the brat complains about him enough to sound like a jealous ex-girlfriend.”

“Because of course you have so much experience in that area,” Raven says sarcastically and dodges the pillows her brothers throw at her, “Just saying! Anyway, don’t worry Sirius, Charles is a judge, and Erik’s in charge of security. Harry will be fine.”

(Later when she’s watching Harry zoom around on his Firebolt while dodging the Hungarian Horntail’s fire, Sirius is glaring at her and attempts to shred the sleeve of her new red coat in retaliation.

“Hey!” she hisses, pulling her sleeve from his mouth, “Bite Charles or Erik if you’re so mad! I didn’t have anything to do with this!”

“Neither of us wanted it either,” Erik grumpily mutters, shifting in his seat, eyes tracking Harry’s movements, “Do you know how much trouble it is to import four dragons from Romania? Charles tried to sell them Tony’s robots, but evidently dragons are more ‘exciting,’” he says, disdain dripping from every word.

“Actually, maybe Tony’s robots would have been worse,” Raven amends as Harry manages to scoop up the golden egg, and then winces as the dragon’s tail slams into him, “Or maybe not.”

After rushing Sirius into the first aid tent to see a mostly unharmed Harry, they go out again to hear the results, in which Charles gives Harry a 9, tying him for first place with Krum.

Sirius is wagging his tail and barking in delight, and Raven pats Harry on the back and notices happily that he and Ron seem to have reconciled (Hermione had owled her about it, asking her what to do when your best friends were being idiots, and she had advised the younger Gryffindor girl that you just had to let them run the course of their stupidity, and then eventually they would hopefully make up. Boys.)

The feast later is great, and she can’t wait for the next event.)

--

December 1994

Charles finishes tying Erik’s black bow tie and stands back to beam at him and drink in the dark, straight lines of Erik’s dress robes.

“You look quite handsome,” he says lightly, running a hand down Erik’s chest.

“Handsome enough for us to make our excuses and stay in instead?” Erik suggests hopefully, catching Charles’ hand with his own and sending him ideas of exactly what they could get up to with everyone out of the mansion.

“A very tempting thought, but duty calls,” Charles says regretfully, drawing away and leading Erik to the fireplace.

Raven bounds up to them, twirling around in her shimmery gray-green dress, “How do I look?” she asks.

“Lovely; you’ll have everyone at the ball at your feet,” Erik replies warmly, handing her her cloak.

“You look beautiful, Raven,” Charles says wistfully, smoothing out the curls of her longer red hair, “Our little sister, all grown up and a star Quidditch player now.”

Raven grins and grabs both of her brothers’ hands, “Oh stop, you’re making me blush. Now onto the ball!”

They whirl through the green flames to arrive in Professor Flitwick’s office (who had been so understanding during their years at Hogwarts about the importance of having a link home and had been delighted to maintain it afterwards just so Charles and occasionally Erik could come by to chat) where the Charms professor stops his bustling about with sheet music to beam at them.

“Hello!” he exclaims, hurrying up to greet them, “You’re just in time! The banquet is over, but the dancing is about to begin, although we may need you to patrol the hallways or rosebushes at some point.”

“Chaperoning a giant group of hormone-addled teenagers, so much better than a night spent at home,” Erik muttered sarcastically as Professor Flitwick hurries away.

“And who was it that made us miss the banquet by probably messing around?” Raven asked, hands on hips (and Charles flushes because she’s not far off the mark, but snogging Erik was just so much more interesting than a banquet full of small talk), “You’re still nineteen yourself, don’t act so high and mighty.”

“Don’t worry,” Charles murmurs to Erik, curling their fingers together as Raven happily twirls around to Hank who is nervously tugging at his bow-tie, “I will definitely make it up to you later.”

Erik gives him a shark-like grin as the music starts, “May I have this dance?” he asks smoothly, mockingly bowing to him.

Charles grins at him as he places his hand on Erik’s proffered arm, “You may indeed, sir,” he says teasingly, blue eyes dancing with merriment.

Erik places his hand on Charles’ waist and drags him close as Charles places his hand on Erik’s shoulder. He and Erik move in tandem across the dance floor, Erik spinning and catching him easily, and Charles is quite thankful for childhood dancing lessons (with Erik as his partner, through a dint of pleading, begging, large sad wide-eyed looks until Erik had caved. The dancing instructor had pointed out that Charles really didn’t have to learn to follow, but even then he had enjoyed Erik, always taller than him, guiding them across the floor. Besides, he could learn to lead with Raven instead.) when he sees Neville Longbottom stepping on Ginny Weasley’s foot multiple times, Harry’s date practically dragging him across the dance floor, and Ron’s sulky expression with his date.

“Having fun?” Erik asks, as he lifts Charles up into the air.

“I can’t remember the last time we did this,” Charles laughs as Erik sets him down again.

We could do it again, sometime, if you like, Erik offers awkwardly, sending a picture of the grand, empty ballrooms of the Xavier mansion to him.

A party? Erik, you hate large numbers of people coming to the house, Charles points out as the music slows down into a more romantic ballad.

But you would like it, Erik points out softly, drawing him closer.

Charles lays his head on Erik’s shoulder to smile up at him, I love you, you know that?

Because I let you have parties? Erik asks, amused, still swaying them slightly to the soft music.

Because you are wonderful, Charles corrects, closing his eyes, and you are mine, and I am yours.

(And it doesn’t matter that it’s been nearly five years since he had kissed a stunned Erik by the lake for the first time, he still is sometimes overwhelmed by the feeling of how lucky he is when he wakes up in the morning to see Erik either sleeping soundly by his side or tracing patterns down his back with his long, long fingers. He’s fairly sure people are not meant to be this lucky, to be this happy. He knows Erik thinks that as well, and he knows that this peace cannot last. You-Know-Who has been gone a long time, long enough for most of the wizarding world to have deemed him dead, but he hears fearful whispers in the Ministry, and Erik has been getting disturbing reports. Something will happen, and he only hopes that they will wear it out and return here again.)

“Yes,” Erik says seriously, tilting Charles’ chin up so that they look each other in the eye, “Always.”

“Always,” Charles agrees, leaning in just a little closer to give Erik a chaste peck on the lips.

Erik grips his arms tight when he tries to draw back, deepening their kiss and cupping the back of his head. Charles is curling his fingers through Erik’s hair, surging forward, when someone coughs and kicks him in the shin.

“Professor McGonagall wishes for me to inform you two that they need you to go patrol the rose bushes,” Raven says merrily, grinning as Erik glared at her, “She also wishes me to remind you that they don’t want a repeat of your sixth year’s end of year feast.”

“Those were extraordinary circumstances! And we still haven’t seen Professor Moody yet!” Charles protested, trying to smooth out his tangled hair.

“He’s probably around,” Raven replied cheerfully, giving them a shove toward the door, “Off you go then, emotionally traumatize as many random students as you like out there!”

(While Erik does manage to frighten at least half a dozen couples with his spiders to Charles’ exasperation, and they team up with an irritated Professor Snape at one point who seems especially vicious after a strange hurried conversation with Professor Karkaroff, they never do see Professor Moody, and most of their night is spent comforting a crying Hermione along with Raven and Pepper.

“Ron is such an idiot!” she sobs, grabbing another tissue from the huge pile Charles had summoned.

“All boys are,” Raven nodded sagely, patting her on the back, “But they grow out of it.”

“Most of the time,” Pepper amended, casting another Knockback Jinx as Tony tried to approach.

“It’ll be alright,” Charles said soothingly, taking the cake and cup of hot tea Erik had brought and setting it in front of the crying girl, “You’ll see.”

“Definitely,” Raven said, still nodding, “If these two emotionally constipated boneheads could get it together, Ron can too.”

“We weren’t that bad,” Charles protested as Erik sat down next to him.

“You were,” Pepper replied placidly, “Worse even. You don’t know how many people rejoiced when they two of you finally figured it out.”

“You still haven’t told me who bet on us,” Erik said bitterly, pointing at Pepper.

“And I never will; client confidentiality and all that,” Pepper replies with a luminescent smile.

Hermione gives a choking laugh as she sips her tea, “Thanks,” she said softly.

“Don’t worry about it!” Raven said cheerfully, drawing her up, “You can talk to me or Pepper anytime about boys and their idiocy; we have lots of experience.”

“I want it noted that I resent being compared to Tony,” Erik muttered as Raven and Pepper began to share their stories with Hermione.

“Don’t worry my dear; you are much more handsome,” Charles says teasingly before Erik pulls him in to resume their interrupted kiss in the ballroom.)

--

February 1995

Hank thinks something is really wrong when he gets the third notice from Mr. Crouch saying that he was too ill to come to work, and he’s voiced his concerns to Charles who is also mildly worried, but neither of them can really do anything until the Second Task is over anyway.

He really should be back in the lab (the Jericho Spell-Missiles are nearly done, but he still wants to check everything over anyway), but Raven had insisted that he take a break and accompany her to watch the tournament. Sitting shivering above the lake, waiting for the champions to come back (because it seemed that no one had thought to inform Tony until it was much too late that scrying spell robots to follow the champions into the lake and project what was going on up above would be nice to have), would be unpleasant if it weren’t for the fact that he’s sharing a blanket and thermos of hot chocolate with Raven.

“I think Fred and George have some problem with Bagman,” she confides to him, sipping the hot chocolate.

“Like what?” he asks, blinking owlishly at her.

“They won’t tell me, but I think it has to do with that bet during the World Cup,” Raven said grimly, passing him the thermos.

“You could try asking Mr. Bagman,” Hank suggests, taking a long drag of the hot chocolate (spiced with just the hint of pepper, an odd combination that Raven loved and had introduced him to).

“Like he would tell me,” Raven replied crossly, kicking the stand in front of her idly, “It’s annoying, people having so many secrets. They won’t even tell Charles, can you believe that?”

“Mm,” Hank replied awkwardly, scooting closer to Raven.

(Their relationship had endured despite the long hours he spends in Stark labs and she spends on the practice fields. He had thought that it couldn’t, that she would soon find many other more glamorous, more gregarious people to be with who share her interests, and that she would wonder why she is wasting her time with him. She’s still here though, dragging him out of the lab or sitting up with him and bringing him food when he really can’t leave. He goes to all of the games that she plays in and cheers as loudly as he can, and maybe he can hope for a little longer that this will last.)

“Where is Harry?” Raven groused, shifting in her seat and glancing at the clock, “It’s already been an hour. Any longer, and Erik’s going to have to dive in there, and then Charles is going to fret and fret.”

“Harry used gillyweed, and there is a debate between herbologists about whether fresh water versus salt water affects it or not, but generally the effects last an hour,” Hank begins to muse out loud, clutching at the blanket, “Given that it has been more than an hour—”

Harry’s head bursts out of the water, along with Ron’s and a small blonde girl’s. As they swim to the shore, the Beauxbatons champion runs toward them along with Percy Weasley (standing in for Mr. Crouch again, and it was really strange because the impression he had got from working for the man over the course of the summer as the liaison between Stark Industries and the Triwizard Tournament was that Mr. Crouch wouldn’t let a plague stop him from going to work, much less a long-lasting cold).

“Typical,” Raven sighs as Harry hands the small blonde girl over to the tearful Beauxbatons champion, “He really doesn’t go looking for it, but he always ends up the hero.”

“He is the Boy Who Lived,” Hank pointed out as Charles quickly wraps all of the dripping people in heat-charmed blankets.

“But he never acts like it; he’s so ordinary most of the time, until he gets into situations like this, and most of the time he’s not even looking for it; they just happen to him,” Raven argues back, “It’s just weird that someone so unassuming ends up being the hero every time.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Hank says, confused at why Raven is persisting in this point.

“Yeah I know, it’s just—it’s odd. Things just keep happening with him around,” Raven says, running a hand through her hair before eagerly asking him, “Are you coming to Erik’s birthday party?”

Hank nods, grinning weakly, even though he would rather go to Afghanistan himself to demonstrate the Jericho Spell-Missiles (Tony’s insane plan once they were finally done that even Pepper couldn’t talk him out of) than have to try to pick out a gift for Erik Lehnsherr.

“You can’t go wrong with a tie,” Raven assures him, reading his worried expression, “Or one of those black turtlenecks Erik loves. It’ll go great with the dragon-skin coat me and Charles are getting him, and it’ll be fine, you’ll see!”

(The party is surprisingly quite fun, even though every time Hank tries to slow dance with Raven, Erik glares at him until Charles chides and pulls him away, but not without giving Hank a warning glance.

“I’m surprised that Erik agreed to have such a big party,” he ventures, carefully trying to not step on Raven’s feet.

Raven snorts and gracefully lands back into his arms, “He’s doing this to make Charles happy,” she explained, “He promised a big party in the house, and since Charles’ birthday and mine are both far away, he said his could be the party.”

“That’s surprisingly selfless of him,” Hank says, disbelievingly.

Raven gives him a wry look that says that she knows exactly how terrified Hank is of Erik, “I’m sure Charles will make it up to him,” she says with another roll of her eyes, “And our birthday parties are definitely going to be smaller. Did you know that Tony tried to bring in strippers?”

Hank goggled at her. He couldn’t believe anyone would try the wrath of Erik on his home turf, but then again, it was Tony.

“Yeah,” Raven continued blithely, “Pepper put a full body bind on him though and cancelled the order.”

The music speeds up at this point, to a peppy song that thrums through the room, and Hank, seeing Raven’s look of excitement, asks quietly, “Do you still want to dance?”

“Are you sure?” she asks, glancing at him, “If you don’t feel like it—”

“I do,” he insists, moving awkwardly to the beat.

And he really does in the end, because it’s a pleasure to watch Raven move sinuously to the music, even if he can’t entirely keep up. He loves her, as much as it terrifies him, and it’s wonderful to see her so full of joy and happiness.)

--

June 1995

The maze is a security nightmare. It’s not just the creatures that had to be imported (he still doesn’t see the necessity of a sphinx, or the legality of Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts, but Charles had been absolutely delighted by everything), the maze itself had been charmed to move around and attack, and it gave Erik a headache trying to figure out the security measures necessary.

“It should be fine,” Charles reassured him, fidgeting in the stands, “If they get into any real trouble, they’ll send up sparks, and off you go.”

“The problem is what is left of them by the time I manage to get there,” Erik grumbled, keeping his wand out warily, “If I run into that Blast-Ended Skrewt, it could take awhile. Those things can melt my spiders.”

“They are interesting creatures, aren’t they?” Charles said with a grin, “I’ve been talking to Hagrid about them; did you know he bred them himself?”

“Why does that not surprise me? And you do remember that that’s illegal? And that you’ve already used up most of your favors with the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures last year?” Erik reminded him, nudging his shoulder.

“Director Fury cleared it,” Charles declared primly, attempting to settle into Erik’s side, “And he also checked all of the maze’s security, so it should be fine!”

“Which is of course why you can’t stop fluttering around worriedly,” Erik pointed out, placing a hand on Charles’ jittering knee to still it.

Charles laughs awkwardly, ducking his head down, “I thought that the tournament would be quite fun, but I haven’t really enjoyed any of the tasks,” he admits, smoothing a hand down Erik’s leg, “Too many dangerous scenarios. And Mr. Crouch’s death was just strange.”

“Indeed, but we’ll get to the bottom of it,” Erik reassured him, drawing Charles closer to his side, “And just be glad they hadn’t decided to do it last year, or else Raven would have certainly tried to be the Hogwarts champion.”

Charles shudders, “Thank god for small mercies,” he says with conviction, glancing at Raven who was down goofing off with the Weasley twins and hanging off of Hank’s arm.

“You might have to go through the attic again,” Erik said wryly, following Charles’ gaze, “Do the Xaviers have traditional wedding things?”

“We have some rings, but those are reserved for the head of the family. There is a lovely wedding veil though that my mother used to marry my father,” Charles said absentmindedly before snapping back up to meet Erik’s amused look, “But Raven is far too young to get married.”

“I agree,” Erik stated, clasping Charles’ hands in his, “But she seems unfortunately fixated on that boy, so the better question is probably when they are going to get married, and which one of us should give her away during the wedding.”

“I don’t even want to think about it,” Charles moaned, pressing his head into Erik’s shoulder, “Our little sister, married! But we should both give her away, on that sad, sad day.”

“Indeed we will,” Erik agreed with Charles amiably, lightly stroking his hair.

Charles brightened and looked up at him, “Although, on that sad, sad day, perhaps we can order multiple kinds of cakes? It would be absolutely lovely—”

There is a bang, and Harry Potter lands in the middle of the stands, clutching something (someone?), and the band begins to play its raucously cheerful, triumphant, congratulatory song to the cheers of the onlookers. Harry doesn’t look happy though; he’s still crouched over the person lying on the ground (injured? But even from here, Erik can see the unnatural angle of the body), rocking back and forth (sobbing?).

Charles suddenly stands up, angerfearworrysadnesspanicanger rolling off of him as Amos Diggory also stumbles to a stand.

“Get him out of here,” he tells Erik seriously, as Amos Diggory begins to walk slowly down the stands, “Get him out of here now, Erik.”

“That’s my son,” Amos Diggory says numbly, and then his face crumples, “That’s my boy!”

And Erik is shoving his way forward (is he dead?), using the metal stands to rattle away the people who stand in his and Amos Diggory’s way (could something like that happen here?), and he barely manages to drag a screaming Harry away from the body (but in the end, hasn’t he always known that nowhere is safe?), having to hook the zippers and various metal bits of his clothes to get him away.

“He’s back,” the boy sobs, still staring at Cedric Diggory’s body, “Voldemort is back.”

Erik freezes, staring at the crouched, tear-stained face of the Gryffindor boy.

(There had only been one time when Erik had seen the head of the Death Eaters, Shaw’s Dark Lord having decided to come see what had been so preoccupying his pet scientist for so long.

He still remembers his cold, clammy hands jerking his head up, and the way he had to force himself not to flinch, not to shudder, not to scream because whoever he was looking at could not be human. His flesh was the pale gray of a corpse, he had slits where his nose was supposed to be, and his eyes were livid red, flat, slitted, and cruel.

“This is the boy?” he rasped, jerking Erik’s head forward to look him in the eyes, “You disappoint me, Sebastian; I expected something better.”

“With all due respect my lord, his Occlumency is astounding for his age,” Shaw said respectfully, still bowing on the ground, “Emma is having a harder and harder time forcing herself in. And he has an interesting affinity toward metal.”

“Very well,” he said disdainfully, shoving Erik away and wiping his hand on his robe in disgust, “You may continue your research in this area Sebastian, but mark my words: if any of your other work falls behind, you will regret it.”

“Of course, my lord,” Shaw replied, “My work on prophecies and the Fidelius Charm are going well.”

“See to it,” he had commanded, striding away, and Erik had known at that moment that he has to get away, because he had felt the touch of his mind, and it was rotten, disgusting, and decayed, somehow far worse than the sharp, cold pain of Frost’s, and he’s trying not to retch, and he has to get away from this thing because otherwise he knows, he will die.)

“I’ll take him from here,” Moody said abruptly (where had he come from? This is the first time he’s seen Moody since all those years ago), tugging Harry away from him and through the crowd.

He’s trying to move the Diggorys to a more secure location (and refrain from punching or strangling a bleating Fudge who is claiming that Cedric Diggory is simply injured), when Charles flits into his mind and asks urgently, Where’s Harry?

Moody has him, Erik replies distractedly, trying to give the Diggorys (and Fudge) a Calming Draught.

He feels the reverberations of Charles’ mind hopping forward to check on Moody, and then the explosion of panicpanicThat’sNotMoodyDeathEaterErikGetHereNowI’llGetReinforcementsGoUpThereNow!

He’s rushing up the stairs, and he can hear all the suits of armor and his spiders skittering up with him (a Death Eater, right under all of their noses, how did this happen, what had Dumbledore, what had Fury, what had he himself been doing all this time to have missed this?), and he arrives in front of Moody’s door at the same time as a tight-mouthed Charles (mind a tempest), and a hard-eyed Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape.

Nodding at each other, they burst through the door together, and the three professors fire off Stunning Spells at a Moody who is pointing his wand at Harry while Erik makes his spiders pin him to the ground, and Charles walks forward, fingers on his temple, wand outstretched, and says, “Stop. Who are you?”

The man who wears Moody’s face laughs and says, “I am Barty Crouch Jr. Oh, and Erik Lehnsherr? Herr Shaw sends his warmest regards. He understands you have a wonderful family now.”

Erik snarls (he’s back, he’s there, he knows where he is, he has to find him and kill him, he dares to threaten Charles and Raven, he has to die), clenching his fist to make the spider wrap its long, thin legs around the Death Eater and squeeze, but Charles gently touches his arm.

No, he says gently, (a warm wave of protectiveness and fierce love washing over his mind), Don’t let him provoke you, don’t let him win. He still has to tell us everything that he knows.

Erik takes a deep breath (he needs him alive to find Shaw) and waves his hand to let the spider loosen its grip on Crouch.

Crouch’s features ripple, and his twists and turns to reveal a gaunt, blonde young man. Under Charles’ quiet but unyielding interrogation, he confesses to everything: how he had gotten out of Azkaban, how he had captured Moody and impersonated him for an entire year, how he managed to get Harry into the Triwizard Tournament, how he had manipulated everything so that Harry would win, how he had killed his father, and how the Dark Lord was once more alive due to an ancient dark ritual and Harry’s blood.

All the metal is shaking and rattling in the room by the time Crouch is done, and it’s only because they have to take the real Moody (much frailer looking than the gruff Auror he remembers) and a shaking Harry (no longer a child) to the hospital wing that he manages to drag himself away from the room, flicking his wrist and flattening out a chandelier into a makeshift gurney for Moody.

McGonagall is stationed to watch the Death Eater, and they walk down to the hospital wing, Erik taking deep breaths to try to maintain the steady glide of the gurney.

It’s starting, he says blankly to Charles who is clutching his hand as though it is a lifeline, After so long.

Yes, Charles replies simply, pulling his hand up and brushing a kiss over his knuckles, And we will fight and come out of it, I promise you this Erik.

But you can’t, he replies bleakly, feeling his hands tremble, You can’t promise that.

But I will try my best to, as long as you do as well, Charles replies, steely (and he feels as though the room has stopped spinning somewhat), Trust me Erik.

He may not have much faith in many things, least of all promises made during a war (“Alles ist gut, Erik, alles ist gut,”), but he has trusted Charles for so long (since he had promised that he would never be alone again), and so he nods and squeezes his hand.

If there is to be another war, at least this time he will not have to face it on his own.

(Later, Charles has to restrain him from attempting to murder the minister for administering the Dementor’s Kiss to Barty Crouch Jr.

That was our one lead! Erik yells furiously, trying to twist out of Charles’ grip, Our one chance!

And there will be others, Charles says seriously, gripping him even tighter, But Erik, you need to calm down. I am not letting you lose control over this.

He only stands down when Harry brokenly asks for there to be no further violence (he forgets sometimes that the Boy Who Lived has actually lived a more peaceful life than him in some respects), and Dumbledore takes over, trying to convince the cowering Fudge that the Dark Lord has returned.

Fudge refuses to believe however (coward and fool, and he hates that he’s in charge), and storms out of the hospital wing angrily.

Dumbledore sighs and looks at Charles and Erik.

“The Order will have to be reinstated,” he said tiredly, looking as though all his years were weighing upon him, “However, many of the former members are now gone. Would you mind, Mr. Xavier, Mr. Lehnsherr, trying to recruit new ones?”

Charles looks at Erik, We could use some friends, he says softly.

We could, Erik agrees. (They need all the help they can get, actually.)

Charles nods to Dumbledore, “We will try,” he says calmly, sliding his hand into Erik’s once again.

“Very well,” Dumbledore says sadly, “Good luck.”

And if there is to be another war, at least this time he will not have to face it on his own. At least this time, he will have Charles by his side.)