Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Truth is this: a Toll is always paid, Something is always gained, and Death is always the end.

An alchemist in search of recognition pays with his country, gains immortality, and will die of old age.

An alchemist in search of her child pays with her fertility, gains knowledge, and will die of old age.

An alchemist in search of a mother’s embrace pays with his body, gains knowledge, and will die of old age.

An alchemist so proud to stand on his own pays with his leg, gains knowledge, and will die of old age.

An alchemist in search of the brother he lost pays with his arm, gains his lost brother, and will die of old age.

An alchemist in search of a brighter future for his people will pay with his sight, will gain knowledge, and will die of old age.

A Dwarf in a Flask in search of the world will pay with his life, will gain despair, and will die at the hands of his kin.

Sometimes, people refuse to pay their dues.

But the Truth will out.

Antioch makes the finishing touches on the large array they have drawn on the ground, a complicated, interwoven piece of art, both magic and alchemy.

It had to work.

He looks over at Cadmus, his brother pale and twitchy where he checks for the upteenth time that their calculations are correct. He, perhaps more than them, is desperate for this to work, is set on it to the point of obsession.

Ignotus only looks scared. “Are we really going to do this?”

Cadmus turns on him with a wild look in his eyes and hisses from between his teeth. “Of course we are! We all agreed!”

“But is it safe?”

“Define safe,” Antioch says dryly, comparing the array with their sketch once more, betraying his nerves. “You can’t jump ship now, Iggy, we need three of us for it to activate. Thrice is the charm and all that.”

“Safety is overrated,” Cadmus bites, finally putting their calculations away. “We are trying to defeat Death, there is no safety here.”

Ignotus makes a displeased sound in his throat. “Defeating Death sounds so silly, Cad.”

“It kind of is what we are doing, though,” Antioch shrugs, taking his spot at the outside of the array. “We have discovered the Truth and will beat it at its own game. Death is only a part of the Truth.”

“And it will no longer apply to us,” Cadmus says gleefully, taking his spot at the edge of the circle as well. “We found the Truth behind the Truth, and we will surpass it.”

Ignotus sighs, giving up on arguing with his older brothers and taking his own spot in the setup. “On three?”

“One,” Antioch says, raising his hands.

“Two,” Cadmus says, bending his knees with gleeful anticipation.

“Three,” Ignotus says, and their hands make contact with the array.

Red lightning arches, then blue, then sickly green like death, and then there is white.

There is white, and a Gate, and the Truth.

The eldest brother, a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence.

“I have defeated you,” Antioch Peverell, who will become a fairytale, says to the Truth, the Gate behind him closed shut and withered. “And I want power over death, to best all those who dare cross the path of the Master of Death.”

The second brother, an arrogant man, chose to further humiliate Death, and asked for the power to recall the deceased from the grave.

“I have defeated you,” Cadmus Peverell, whose line will not end with him, but will end nonetheless, says to the Truth, the Gate behind him closed shut and cracked. “And I want power over death, to bring back those taken before their time as the Master of Death.”

The third and youngest brother, who was the most humble and wise, did not trust Death and asked for something to enable him to go forth without Death being able to follow.

“I have not defeated you,” Ignotus Peverell, whose line will go on for many generations, and not end for many more, says to the Truth, the Gate behind him closed shut and whole. “And I do not ask for power over death I have not earned, nor knowledge I have not paid for. I merely wish to go and live my life until my time has come.”

Antioch Peverell will go on to die in his sleep, cut down by a coward, and his Elder Wand taken. For the Toll he paid for his folly was the life he could have had, and thus Death came for him before his time, as it comes to all things living. And the Elder Wand will go on to be soaked in blood and bring premature Death to all those who fancy themselves above the Truth: that all things must end.

Cadmus Peverell will go on to bring his beloved back from beyond the Veil with the Resurrection Stone, but find her lacking. She had moved on from the fickleness of Life and resented her beloved for taking her away from the peaceful embrace of Death. Cadmus, unable to bear it, will follow her beyond the Veil. But the Resurrection Stone will remain with his line, and so will the obsession with Death, and avoiding its inevitability, and it will be futile.

Ignotus Peverell will go on to live all the years he was always meant to have, and go beyond the Veil without remorse, and so will all those of his line who follow in his wake. For he had known the Truth, unlike his brothers: that all things living must end, and Death comes to all. What matters is how you decide to meet it.

The brothers ended up paying their dues, in time.

Someone else did not.

Edward Elric opens his eyes and sees white, and a Gate, and the Truth.

He sits up, wincing at the pulsing pain in his abdomen and the aches all across his body.

“Ah,” the Truth says, grinning. “I see you’ve woken up, my little alchemist.”

“Why the fuck—,” he groans, gingerly crossing his legs, hand at the hole in his abdomen. It doesn’t bleed, but beneath his fingers the flesh is still open and lethally wounded. “Why am I here?”

“Glad that you asked!” They exclaim, and it’s like deja vu. “Did you really think using your own soul would make it not human transmutation? Why wouldn’t it drag you before the Gate, bringing yourself back from the brink?”

Ed hesitates, automail fingers digging into his thigh. “Was I that far gone?”

Truth hums. “I’d say you had about two minutes left, before the transmutation. That makes this the second time you drag your half-dead ass here, doesn’t it?”

“So what’s this about then? Want another arm or leg? I thought a couple years would be enough for some hasty patchwork.”

“Oh, it would be,” Truth shrugs, using Ed’s stolen arm to scratch at where their cheek would be. “But given the general state of the world and everything, I thought I’d make you an offer. You know, for old time’s sake. We’ve been through so much together after all.”

Ed frowns. “And if I refuse?”

“I send you back, no memory of this encounter, a few years shaved off your lifespan and half-dead.”

He bites his lip. “What’s the offer?”

A feral grin spreads across Truth’s featureless visage. “Ever heard of the multiverse theory?”

Ed raises his eyebrows. “Are you joking?”

“Nope!” Truth spreads their arms wide. “There are in fact an immeasurable number of worlds out there, and today I’d like to offer you the opportunity to see one for yourself.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch, just an exchange, alchemist.” Ed frowns but waits for Truth to continue. “There is a world where not everyone can perform alchemy, and it works by different rules. They call it magic, and those who can use it live separate from those who can’t.”

“Magic?” Ed wants to roll his eyes but refrains. “You gotta be kidding.”

“I’m not. Their alchemy — magic — is temporary. Some of their spells last longer than others, centuries even, but eventually they dissipate. It still uses the energy of the world, but it is channeled differently.”

“Is normal alchemy still possible?” No way was he going to some wacko world where they use magic if he can’t use normal fucking science.

“Yes. Some of them have actually studied it, but most don’t. It doesn’t work within the same framework as the magic they are used to.”

Ed frowns in thought. “Would magic be possible in Amestris? If the reverse is possible.”

“No,” Truth hums, seemingly happy they get to talk so much. If they can feel happy in the first place, that is. “Their magic works on the basis that not everyone is born with their own Gate, there can only ever be a set amount of people capable of magic in their world. In your world, everyone can use alchemy if they put in the work.”

“Okay,” Ed ponders this for a moment. “Why do you want me to go to that world? What would the exchange be?”

Truth’s grin falls. “There is someone who has gotten it into his head to become immortal. Sound familiar?”

“You want me to deal with another one?” Ed buries his head in his hands, ignoring the pain from his abdomen. “Are you serious right now?”

“As a heart attack,” Truth deadpans. “He has split his soul into multiple pieces and attached it to things and living beings in an attempt to escape death. The last people who tried that didn’t last long, but he’s been… persistent.”

Ed feels bile rise up in his throat and wonders if he can puke in this place. “He… split his soul?”

“Yes,” Ed can’t be sure, but it almost looks like Truth is frowning. “I ask you to go to this world, destroy all the pieces of his soul and bring him to the Gate. In exchange I return you to the moment you performed the transmutation on yourself, but you will be fully healed. And once you return the homunculus Father to the Gate, you may take your brother’s body, free of charge.”

Truth grins at whatever face he must be making and offers him a hand. His stolen right, the fucker. “So, what say you, little alchemist?”

It was never a question, was it?

Ed takes the hand, and shakes it.

Chapter Text

[Wednesday, 1 September 1993, Hogwarts Express]

Ed wakes up on a moving train, and it’s such a common occurrence that it takes him several long moments to realize that he’s not supposed to be on a train.

»What the fuck,« he mutters under his breath, disoriented, putting a hand to his head. The movement pulls at the skin of his abdomen, and it’s the absence of pain that has him come up short, memories flooding back at once. »Oh shit, right. Parallel universe, magic, oh fuck no.«

He pulls up the white dress shirt and undershirt he’s inexplicably wearing to check for the giant hole that should be there but isn’t. Okay, so that’s that, apparently. He checks for his watch next and finds it hooked into a belt loop and tucked away in his pocket like normal. For a moment he wonders if his automail is still attached before he realizes that it’s still in place. He sighs in relief, but then immediately tenses because… does automail exist here? How is he supposed to get maintenance? What if it breaks?

»Note to self, be super careful with breakable prosthetic limbs.«

He looks around the compartment, empty aside from himself and what must be his suitcase up on the rack. When he gets up to drag it down and rifle through it he notices his clothes properly for the first time. Along with the white dress shirt and undershirt, he’s wearing a loose gray tie and black slacks, though at least he’s still wearing his boots and gloves. He would almost look like Colonel Mustang on a day off, which, just, no. Hopefully there’s clothes in that suitcase that make him look less like the asshole and more like himself.

Ed opens the large suitcase — trunk is probably more apt — and looks through it. He finds a few changes of clothes — sadly the same style as what he’s already wearing — as well as something that looks like a mix between a bathrobe and a coat — a cloak, his mind supplies out of nowhere. There’s a thick winter jacket that almost looks like the coat he’d worn when the fucker Kimblee blew him up, so there’s at least something stylish in this mess.

And books. A lot of them, even for his standards, and a letter.

He reads the letter first.

To my little alchemist,

I took the liberty of getting you all the supplies you’ll need for where you’re going, including your textbooks and a wand! No need to thank me, it’s on the house.

Your wand is ebony, by the way. It’s drawn to those who hold to their beliefs no matter what — I thought that fit well. After all, yours almost got you killed and into this situation in the first place! The core is Thestral tail hair, it’s a magical creature that can only be seen by those who have witnessed death and comprehend it fully. Interestingly, there is only one other wand in existence with the same core, and one I made as well. Maybe you’ll even come across it, who knows?

You have been enrolled in Hogwarts’ third year (normal age for this grade is thirteen years old, so for once you might end up taller than those around you), which is also the same year as a certain Chosen One.

I’m looking forward to how you’ll handle the task before you, and how long it will take. You can’t go home without finishing your business, after all.

I hope you won’t disappoint.

Ed rips the letter apart and throws the remnants out the window. »Asshole.«

He has to go to school.  With little children. Fucking hell. He’s almost sixteen and has to go to classes with thirteen year olds.

In his annoyance he almost misses the way his brain supplies him with information he hadn’t known before, just at the mention of them in the letter. Wands are used for magic, though wandless magic is possible. Different wand woods and cores have different properties and wands are semi-sentient. Hogwarts is the only magic school in Great Britain. Harry Potter is the Chosen One for causing the death of Tom Riddle, commonly known as Lord Voldemort.

»Fuck, this is gonna give me so many migraines, isn’t it?«

With a groan he looks through the contents of the trunk for the wand in question, raising an eyebrow at the polished dark wood. It’s fairly long, and the base of it is covered with intricate carvings that almost remind him of the Gate when he looks at them for too long.

His eyes land on the books he’d haphazardly thrown about the compartment and he sighs, grabbing one at random and plopping back on the plush seat.

»Here goes nothing,« he mutters, pausing when he sees the unfamiliar language on the first page. Then he blinks, and it’s as if a flip is switched in his brain. “What the fuck?”

Ed slaps a hand to his mouth, then removes it hesitantly. “What?” Another pause. »What?« He blinks. “Whoa, that’ll take some getting used to.”

Well, he doesn’t know how long this train ride is gonna be, so he might as well read. At least, if the pattern holds, he might minimize the times his brain will just info dump on him in the future.

He’s made it through The Standard Book of Spells Grade 3, Intermediate Transfiguration and Spellman’s Syllabary  by the time his neck starts complaining, and he stretches, popping the joints in his shoulders with a satisfied hum.

Then he realizes he’s not alone in the compartment anymore and yelps, causing the intruder to yelp in return and jump in his seat. “Who the fuck are you?”

“N-Neville Longbottom,” the boy squeaks, blushing. “I asked if I could sit… sit here, but you didn’t respond? And the rest of the-the train’s full, so… uh, sorry?”

“Oh,” Ed relaxes slightly, feeling silly for his overreaction. This was a train, of course there were other passengers. “Sorry, I kind of don’t notice anything when I read,” he hesitates, then reaches out his left hand sheepishly. “I’m Edward Elric, you can just call me Ed, I guess.”

Neville gives him a confused look, then reaches out and shakes his hand. “So, uh, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before?”

“Yeah, I’m new,” Ed shrugs, making to put his textbooks back in his trunk. Man, he’d really just thrown them around like no one’s business, hadn’t he? Some handy information makes itself known in his brain again, and he tacks it on. “I’m from outside the country, actually. Used to be homeschooled, but there’s some civil unrest back home so my extended family sent me here to be safe.”

“Oh, that’s rough,” Ed feels a little bad for the genuine sympathy he can hear in Neville’s voice. “What year are you in? I’m in third.”

“Me too,” at the boy’s surprised face he grimaces. “Yeah, policy apparently.”

Neville hums. “Were you Sorted yet?”

Ed is really getting tired of this twenty questions thing and the way his brain just decides to dump information on him in response. “No, I think I’ll be Sorted along with the first years, which is just gonna be embarrassing,” he shrugs. “I don’t really care, to be honest. I get that it’s important to you guys, but I think it’s a bit silly.”

To his surprise Neville laughs. “Don’t let people hear that. House pride is important.”

He sticks his tongue out and makes a disgusted sound. “Nonsense.”

As Neville starts laughing harder it occurs to Ed that he hasn’t ever spent much time with anyone his age. Sure, Al and Winry, but do they really count? And he supposed Ling, before he got taken over by Greed, but neither of them were really your typical teenager to begin with.

Given their destination, he’d be spending more time around teenagers than he ever has before.

Oh fuck.

Couldn’t Truth have plopped him in the Ministry? Ed can do stuffy politicians and self-important assholes. He can play the long game if needed, Mustang made sure of that. But teenagers? Being treated like one? Going to school?

Truth did this on purpose, didn’t they?

He should have taken the reduced lifespan and winged the getting-Al’s-body-back part. This would be torture, and not the kind he got military training for either, unfortunately.

He was so fucked.

“So, is English your native language? You’re pretty good and don’t seem to have a foreign accent, to be honest.”

“Oh, uh,” of course this didn’t have a readymade excuse provided by the biggest asshole god in existence. “I’m bilingual.”

“Cool.”

Before either of them can make more attempts at stilted conversation the train comes to an abrupt halt, Ed jerking forward and almost off the seat. “Huh?” He looks out the window where the light drizzle was slowly starting to turn into a verifiable downpour, the sky darkening too quickly to be wholly natural. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know?” Neville is joining him by the window. “We aren’t even close to Hogwarts yet.”

“Maybe a malfunction?” Ed is trying to think back to the couple times the trains he was riding have been delayed, but mostly that had been him taking care of hijackings, and he sort of doubts that someone is attempting to kidnap a train full of children. Maybe if someone like the head of their version of the military was on board, otherwise there’s no real reason to attack this train.

Unless that Potter kid counts, which in hindsight maybe he does.

A sudden shiver runs down his spine, and when he exhales it comes out as a cloud of fog. Another shiver, and he feels his ports go slightly numb, the way they did before Winry had changed his automail out for cold-resistant ones.

But he was still wearing them, and there was no reason for it to grow cold so quickly.

This wasn’t normal cold, was it?

—Winry crying, a gun held in her shaking hands, demanding Scar to give her her parents back—

“What the fuck?” Where did that come from? Beside him Neville lets out a whimper, and he turns to him to ask what’s wrong when he catches something out of the corner of his eyes, and stiffens.

He’d read a story once, about a grim reaper, a hooded figure with a scythe coming to collect the dead. The thing pressing its decaying claws against the window of the compartment door looks exactly like the drawing in the storybook, just a million times worse. The flesh of its hands is blue and black and hanging off the bones like rotten curtains, its long hooded cloak like the weathered shroud of a corpse.

It moves its head and lets out a rattling breath like its lungs — did it even have lungs? — had forgotten what they were supposed to be for, like it was about to choke on viscous fluid and—

—there is pain lancing up his left thigh, blood spurting out in thick gushes. There is the rattling breaths of the  thing  that wasn’t their mother and Al is  gone,  it’s all his fault, he needs to get him back—

—the chimera opens its maw and smiles with human teeth and gurgles out his name and isn’t he just like Tucker, he made his mother a wrong body and killed her again—

“No,” he whispers, pressing his hands against his ears like that could drown out Tucker’s laughter and Winry’s tears and Al’s screams and Nina’s voice. “That wasn’t her, I didn’t—,”

His vision blurs and black encroaches and all he can think is that at least it’s not  white  again.

He prays he won’t wake up to white again.

Ed wakes up to the smell of chocolate and tea. He slowly blinks his eyes open and finds himself laid out on the seats of their compartment, the cloak from his trunk laid over him like a blanket. When he turns his head he sees Neville nervously nibbling on a bar of chocolate and some guy looking worse than Ed feels dressed like a grandpa and holding a steaming thermos and more chocolate.

Ed raises an eyebrow. “I’m not taking candy from strangers.” Fuck, his voice sounds like someone sucker-punched him in the throat.

The guy’s lips quirk. “That’s sound, but I’m actually a professor at Hogwarts, so it should be fine, don’t you think?” He holds out the thermos and chocolate. “Here, this will help with the effects from the Dementor.”

“That what this thing’s called?” He slowly sits up and takes the offerings gingerly, blowing at the tea first to cool it. He takes a careful sip and the heat from the tea seeps into his bones like he’d just been dumped in a bathtub. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“You’re the second kid I’ve had to help, actually. Dementors are nasty, but few children faint in their presence,” the guy eyes him warily. “They make us relive our worst memories. You must have gone through something terrible to react so badly.”

Ed throws him a weak glare, then takes a big bite out of the chocolate bar. At least it wasn’t milk chocolate. “You could say that,” he takes another sip of tea. “How did you know to come here?”

“Your friend Neville came looking for someone who could help when the Dementor left and you wouldn’t wake up,” he says, and beside him Neville ducks his head into his collar like a turtle. “I’m Remus Lupin, by the way. I’m the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

He snorts. “If that thing’s part of the curriculum I’m quitting before I even get to school.”

Lupin’s lips quirk again, like he doesn’t know how to actually smile. “Don’t worry, it’s not. They were looking for Sirius Black.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know?”

“Uh,” Neville speaks up for the first time since the whole thing went down, looking nervous. “Ed’s from another country.”

“Oh, you’re the transfer, then?” Lupin looks at him with renewed curiosity now. “Black is a Death Eater who escaped from Azkaban.”

Ed frowns. “Azkaban is your prison, right?”

“Yes,” he nods, taking out another chocolate bar and holding it out for Neville to take. How much chocolate did this guy have in his coat pockets? “Dementors are the guards there.”

“What the fuck?”

“Language,” Lupin says, more like it’s a suggestion than something he’s actually admonishing him for. “But… yes. It’s not a pleasant place, though I suppose that’s the point.”

»And I thought making prisoners into Philosopher’s Stones was fucked up,« he mutters, sipping more tea.

“Pardon?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry,” Ed hadn’t even noticed he’d switched back to Amestrian. “I’m… bilingual. It happens sometimes.”

“Ah,” Lupin didn’t seem convinced, but whatever. Ed finishes the tea and holds it out to him with a quiet but heartfelt thanks and gets two more bars of chocolate in exchange. Seriously, how much chocolate can you fit in that coat? “I suppose I will leave you to it, then. The train should arrive within the hour, so best get changed and try to relax a little.”

Ed snorts. “Relax, right. Thanks, though, for the chocolate, and the tea.”

Lupin gives him his not-smile again. He looks tired and weighed down, and Ed suddenly knows where he’s seen that before. It’s the same way Hawkeye and Mustang look when Ishval is brought up, like there are too many things dragging them down and not enough to hold them upright. “It’s no problem…?”

“Ed. Edward Elric.”

“It’s no problem, Ed. I suppose I’ll see you at the Welcome Feast.” With that he leaves Neville and Ed to their own devices, still nibbling chocolate.

“... thanks, Neville, for getting help.”

“O-oh, of course! I mean, that De-Dementor? That was scary,  and I felt about ready to cry, but when you-you fainted and wouldn’t react… I got really scared.”

Ed grimaces. “Yeah, that must have been a shock. I don’t even remember fainting in the first place.”

“You just collapsed,” Neville shivers, whether from the leftover chill in the compartment or the memory Ed doesn’t know. “I think you said something, but I couldn’t hear it over—, well, I couldn’t hear it. The thing left shortly after, and when I looked out of the door and it was gone I went to look for someone who’d know what to do.”

He smiles at the other boy. “Seriously, thanks.” He looks down at the bar he has left over — he hadn’t even realized he’d eaten two already — and breaks it in half, holding one part out to Neville. “Here, let’s finish this up and get ready.”

As freaky as that was, considering Ed didn’t plan on getting thrown into prison, it was unlikely he’d have to deal with one of those Dementors again.

Somewhere, Truth laughs.

Chapter Text

[Wednesday, 1 September 1993, Great Hall]

The professors’ table is unusually abuzz tonight, though Albus supposes he can’t blame his staff. The last transfer student Hogwarts had was long before his time; it was such a rare occurrence that the Ministry policies had never been updated, so now the child had to start two years below his grade. It’s not something Albus would have decided — frankly, he thinks a simple test on his education up to this point should have sufficed, but alas.

“I do wonder what house he’ll end up in,” Aurora mutters to Pomona, hand covering her mouth so as not to make her gossiping evident to the students. “He’s almost sixteen, late Sortings have been interesting in the past, from what I’ve read.”

“Unless he’s a simpleton,” Severus says dryly, eyes fixed on the silverware. “I expect a hatstall for the ages.” His voice drips with disdain, but there is a tenseness in his shoulders that betrays his own interest.

Filius tuts. “It’s a disgrace that he’s placed in the third year! So he was homeschooled, whatever, it’s a different country altogether! Maybe their entire staff is a bunch of dunderheads.”

“If all their teachers were to be like Lockhart,” Severus agrees. “I would homeschool too.”

“Now that’s a bit mean, Severus,” Albus intervenes, though privately he agrees. “The poor man’s entire mind was wiped clean.”

“There wasn’t much to clean in the first place,” Severus snorts. Albus suspects Minerva and Severus would have a rare moment of shared humor if she wasn’t busy shepherding the first years and their newest transfer. He almost wishes he could see it.

Albus wants to roll his eyes a little at the attitude though, but refrains. Severus was always so caustic, it could get a bit hard to hold a conversation, especially when he was technically right. With a quick glance at his pocket watch he gets up and claps his hands to gain the attention of the assembled students, noting that Harry had apparently been released from the infirmary by Poppy. A good warm meal should help chase the remainder of that encounter from his bones.

Though he still worries at Sorting a student after fainting from a Dementor encounter. Remus had told him that he recovered remarkably well — better than Harry at any rate — but still. He’d have to keep an eye on the boy if he was that traumatized, considering they didn’t have too much on him in the first place due to the civil unrest in his country.

Maybe that’s what has him so susceptible to the Dementors.

Well, his staff would have to keep an eye on him.

“Dear students, before we say hello to the newest additions to our school in a little while, I’d like to inform you that Hogwarts will receive a transfer student — the first in two hundred years! Quite exciting indeed. He’s from another country, I hope you will all do your utmost to make him feel welcome and help him accommodate to our ways. Culture shock can be quite hard to overcome, I’m sure some of you who’ve been abroad will see the truth in that.”

He pauses for a moment to look at the reactions of some of the students, then continues. “This is a rare chance for cultural exchange, I hope you won’t let down the school. I’d loathe to hear that any of you made him feel any less welcome than any of the first years we get every year.”

He sits down just as the doors to the Great Hall open and Minerva walks in, followed by a gaggle of scared eleven year olds and a taller teenager with quite a striking coloring. Idly, Albus wonders if golden eyes are common where he’s from. Maybe he’ll get an opportunity to talk to him about his country sometime, he’d enjoy some levity amidst all the current problems he has to deal with.

Minerva clears her throat after placing the Sorting Hat on its customary stool. “First, Elric, Edward.”

The boy frowns as he steps through the throngs of children, his hair, golden as his eyes, gleaming in the candlelight like it’s on fire. His stride is odd, one foot coming down more heavily than the other, yet he walks with a lightness that’s almost dancelike. Albus has only seen this from people with Veela blood, though they are usually paler, with silver-tinted hair and eyes. His back is straight, eyes sharp and taking in his surroundings with a vigilance that would make Alastor weep in glee.

He eyes the hat warily, like he’s afraid it will bite him, as he sits down, Minerva placing it on his head with just the barest hint of hesitation.

As the minutes pass, Albus can only think that Severus had been right again; truly a hatstall for the ages.

Oh? Now you are quite the interesting fellow, aren’t you?

What the fuck?  Ed flinches, and it takes all his self-control not to fling the hat off of his head and cut it apart.

I appreciate the restraint, truly.

This Sorting test is seriously a mind-reading, snarky old rag of a hat? Really?

Yes,  the hat responds dryly.  Surprise.

Oh, fuck you.

My, what a mouth on such a little guy.

I’m not microscopic amoeba waste you piece of garbage!

Merlin and Morgana, boy, relax.

I’m having my mind read by a magical dishrag in front of a wholeass school of magic children and you want me to relax?

Yes, your thoughts are quite loud and I can’t do my job with all this yelling. Do you want to sit here till morn?

I’m not letting you sort through my head like a gossip magazine—

Ah, there it is,  the head interrupts him, and it feels like invisible fingers are plucking memories and thoughts from his mind.  Hm, you older ones are always so fascinating, you know? The young ones, they are usually easy to place, still so impressionable, but you… you’ve gone through a lot, haven’t you?

What about it?

And you are quite set in your ways, almost got yourself killed over it, too.

Ed grits his teeth.  So?

Nothing, you just have a fascinating mind. Quite smart, aren’t you? Learning all those things when you were barely five, my, Rowena would have adored you.

But you’re also brave,  the hat goes on before Ed can react or say — think — anything in response.  Reckless, almost, though you can be quite clever about it when you keep a cool head.  That first fight with Greed and the fight in the fifth laboratory flash in his mind, and wounds long healed pulse with phantom pain.  And such loyalty, truly, you are a delight to work on.

Can you get on with it already?

Don’t rush me, boy. Hm, but before all else I see ambition, drive, cunning. No wonder you don’t get along with that man, you are so similar.

Oh fuck you, I’m nothing like Colonel Bastard!

Of course not,  the hat agrees sarcastically.  Nothing alike at all. You didn’t endeavor to achieve what no one had done before. You didn’t get back on your feet in a fraction of the time it normally takes. You didn’t become — what do you call it — right, a State Alchemist at twelve. The Philosopher’s Stone, that conspiracy in your home country, that truly inspired plot to get out of an impossible situation by any means necessary, even if it meant working with that thing.

If it means achieving your goals you don’t let anything or anyone stand in your way… except maybe yourself. Yes, I think I know where to put you.

Then fucking hurry up and—

“Slytherin!”

As the Slytherin table erupts in cheers and Ed quickly takes the hat off, Neville feels disappointment rush through him and he deflates in his seat. He’d really liked Ed, sure he was a little abrasive but he was really friendly and kind underneath. If he’d ended up in any other House, at least, there was a chance they could have still hung out on occasion.

But Slytherin?

“Go figure,” Ron mutters beside him, rolling his eyes. “Someone who just up and decides to go to school abroad gotta be some stuck-up.”

“Actually,” Neville says before he realizes he’s done so. “His home country is going through some stuff and his family wanted him safe.”

Hermione blinks at him from across the table. “How do you know?”

“We shared a compartment on the train,” he shrugs, hoping desperately that the ground will just swallow him whole. Why did he have to open his mouth  now?  In defense of a  Slytherin?  Can’t he do anything right?

“Didn’t someone in your compartment faint from the Dementors?” Ron’s eyes are back to looking at Ed across the Hall. Neville follows his line of sight and watches as Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy start to huddle around Ed, who frankly just seems overwhelmed.

Neville can relate.

“It was Ed, actually,” he finally answers Ron’s question. “I honestly wasn’t doing much better. If it hadn’t left when it did I don’t think I would have lasted much longer either.”

“Ha, loser.”

“Harry fainted too, Ron,” Hermione snarls, and from the quiet yelp of pain it looks like she kicked him under the table. “Don’t be a twat.”

“Well, Harry actually has  reason  to.”

“And Ed doesn’t?” Why can’t he just  shut up?  “You don’t even know him.”

Ron is kept from replying by a loud shout of “Gryffindor!” and they stop their argument to clap for the newest member of their House. Once it’s calm again Ron turns to him. “Well, you don’t know him either, you had like one conversation with the guy!”

“We had one conversation and I decided to be your friend,” Harry points out, which actually shuts Ron up. “Though I admit… a Slytherin, Neville? Really? You know he’ll just end up being as much of an asshole as the others.”

“I don’t know,” Neville shrugs again. “He said he doesn’t really care about Houses, which, I mean, he isn’t from here and will probably leave to go back home eventually, so I kinda get that?”

Hermione hums. “Makes sense, though I doubt he’ll sing the same tune once Malfoy and the others have their claws in him. Having no one in your House can be lonely.”

Ron shifts uneasily and is saved from having to respond by another kid getting Sorted into Gryffindor. By the time it’s quiet enough for their conversation to continue he seems to have gotten over his hangup and huffs. “Still. The fact he got Sorted into Slytherin says more than enough about him, if you ask me.”

“I agree,” Harry says, throwing Ed a look over his shoulder. “Like, is there  anyone  in Slytherin who isn’t an asshole?”

Neville doesn’t respond, because he can’t think of anyone either.

Ed sits down at the cheering table and resists the urge to roll his eyes. This whole House business was so  silly,  but these people took it as seriously as if it was some gospel truth. Whatever, he’ll try to make nice with everyone, it shouldn’t be that different from putting on his polite bootlicker face when Mustang drags him to stupid military functions.

(He vehemently ignores the voice in the back of his head that sounds like the stupid hat and says he’s  similar  to Colonel Bastard.

What does a hat know, anyways?)

“Hello,” one of the boys close to him says, holding out his hand. “I’m Draco Malfoy.” The way he says his name sounds like he’s supposed to recognize it, so he’s probably related to some self-important politician. Better put all that military experience to good use, then.

He shakes the offered hand, careful not to grab too hard lest he notice the automail. “Edward Elric, though I guess you heard that already.”

Draco laughs, though it’s too polite to be entirely genuine. He gestures at a dark-skinned boy by his side. “This is Blaise Zabini. Dumbledore didn’t say, but what year will you be in?”

“Third,” he’s interrupted by someone getting Sorted into Slytherin and claps politely along with the rest. Once it’s quiet again he continues. “I’m fifteen, actually, but because I was homeschooled your Ministry put me two years lower than I should be.”

“Homeschooled?” Blaise raises an eyebrow. “How come?”

Ed shrugs noncommittally. “I grew up pretty rural, so past elementary school you either have to up and move to a bigger city or do it yourself.”

“So your country has multiple schools?” Draco leans forward slightly. “My father wanted to send me to Durmstrang, but my mother didn’t want me to leave the country for most of the year.”

“We do, actually,” it’s not something he has an excuse ready for from Truth, but the bits and pieces of knowledge that filter into his brain are good enough to build one around. “My country doesn’t keep with the Statute of Secrecy. It was a bit of a shock to find out you guys are so isolated.”

“Wait, what?” Draco leans back, surprised. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” more cheering interrupts him. “We all just sort of… mingle?”

“Are you… muggleborn?” The hesitation in the question gives Ed the impression he was going to say something else but course-corrected at the last second. Around them the scattered conversations quiet some.

“No,” Truth’s backstory for him fills in for him for once. “I’m a pureblood, though we don’t really care that much? My best friend is actually a muggle.”

Blaise’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“She’s great,” Ed curses the way he feels a light blush creep up his neck. “Really smart, too. She’s already really well-established in her own line of work,” he scratches his cheek a bit, trying to build on his story in a believable way. “So, for context… my country is  really  into war. Like we constantly start them and annex a bunch of smaller countries, and our military - that’s, like, Aurors, I guess? Anyways, our military has a whole branch just for witches and wizards, and they get assigned to muggle units during war.

“One of the most powerful wizards in my country has a right-hand woman who’s a muggle, and she’s, like,  scary.  Scarier than him, if you ask me. They got really famous during our last civil war a few years back.”

“I can’t really imagine a muggle being scary,” Draco says with a grimace of disdain, and Ed feels offended on Hawkeye’s behalf.

“Do you know what guns are?” There’s more cheering, and when Ed checks there’s still about half a dozen kids to go. “They are muggle weapons, and they can kill you faster than a curse. And her, she is a sharpshooter. That’s a person who can shoot you from over a kilometer away, and she has never missed a single shot in her life. Every time she would take a shot someone would die.”

Blaise and Draco pale, but then Blaise rolls his eyes. “I bet a shield charm would block a gun.”

“Maybe,” Ed wouldn’t know. “But you’d have to know to put one up in the first place. She could be sitting on a building and kill you while you walk down a street, and you’d never see it coming.”

“You seem really fond of muggles,” Draco sneers, and this time Ed does roll his eyes.

“I grew up around them, to me they’re just normal people. I find the way you guys isolate yourselves kinda silly, but I’m not going to go to your Minister for Magic and demand he repeal the Statute of Secrecy because of that,” he tilts his head in faux innocence. “Isn’t it a bit ignorant to demand all countries everywhere do things your way?”

“If you like your way so much better,” a boy some ways down the table snarls. “Why are you here?”

“Cos my country is in the middle of another civil war,” Ed deadpans, staring him down with his best State Alchemist glare. “And my extended family thought ‘You know what? We should probably ship this orphan abroad so he doesn’t get drafted and die’. Sorry about the inconvenience, really.”

Blaise snorts, quickly hiding it behind a fake cough as he smirks behind his hand, shooting the boy a sidelong glance. “You walked into that, Nott.”

“Oh, fuck off,” the boy, Nott, grunts before he turns back to his own conversation.

“Would you really have had to fight?” A girl next to Draco asks, eyes round.

Ed shrugs. “Yeah.” As blasé as he acts, and as much as he hated it, he’s kind of glad for the reprieve from worrying about homunculi and country-wide transmutation circles, even if he has to hunt down soul pieces in exchange. At least this shit doesn’t have a deadline.

Further conversation is postponed by what Ed assumes is the headmaster standing up, clapping his hands for quiet. He hadn’t even realized the Sorting was over.

“Now that everyone has been Sorted, some housekeeping before we finally start to dig in. I once again remind everyone that the Forbidden Forest is, as the name suggests, off limits to students. Additionally, due to the recent escape of Sirius Black, the Ministry has decided to post Azkaban’s Dementors around the school as guards. I advise you all to keep your distance, for they are not known for their mercy.

“Now, some staff changes. Our groundskeeper Rubeus Hagrid will take over as professor for Care of Magical Creatures so that Professor Kettleburn can enjoy the use of his remaining limbs in his well-earned retirement.” Some polite laughter and some cheering, though Ed is kind of hung up on  remaining limbs.  He doesn’t have a lot of those left and would like to keep them, thank you very much. “For Defense Against the Dark Arts, Remus Lupin has agreed to take the position.

“Now, let us eat!”

Ed jumps in his seat as the table before him is suddenly filled with an enormous amount of dishes out of nowhere.  What the hell? Fuck this magic bullshit, seriously.

He eyes the various foods on offer and feels his stomach grumble.

Oh, whatever, food is food.

Ed vows to get whoever made all this food to give him their recipes and bully Winry into learning all of them. That was  amazing,  and he’s certainly not saying that because he’s had nothing but whatever Briggs claims is food for the past couple weeks.

(he hopes there’s proper coffee at breakfasts, that stuff they gave him  sucked)

He follows the rest of the students from his table to where he assumes their dorms will be — he still hasn’t gotten over the fact he has to go to a boarding school of all things — waving at Neville as the boy passes him with the throngs of red-clad students from Gryffindor.

Draco and Blaise, who had been silent during the meal, apparently deemed this offensive enough to start talking to him again.

Ed isn’t sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.

“Why did you wave at  Longbottom?”  Draco’s voice drips with disdain, and yep, definitely a bad thing. He’s too tired for this.

He shrugs. “We shared a compartment on the train.” He can feel the day’s events and the meal catch up to him and he really hopes he gets to fall into something resembling a bed soon. “He seemed nice.”

“But he’s in  Gryffindor,”  Blaise says like that explains anything, and Ed supposed to them it does.

“Okay,” Ed says, slow and deliberate. “Why should I care?”

“Well,” Blaise waves a hand carelessly, almost hitting the person behind him in the face. “We don’t really  mingle.”

“Okay,” Ed repeats, raising an eyebrow and doing his best Mustang impression. He hates that the hat seems to have had a point. “I was under the assumption that you guys are all about ambition and cunning. It seems short-sighted to disregard potential allies and connections because of their House.”

Draco frowns. “What do you mean?”

Ed hums. “So, as I understand it, a lot of you are in the same Houses as your families, correct?” They nod. “And some of you probably know each other from, like, events and stuff? At least wizardborns?” More nodding. “That creates a very limited social circle, and makes it harder to branch out and connect. If you want to go into, say, politics, wouldn’t you want to know as many people as possible and be able to curry favor with them? You can’t do that if you turn your nose up at them for their House.”

“But they’re Gryffindors!”

“Sure, and some of the most influential people in my country are muggles,” Ed rolls his eyes. How were they so thick? Mustang would weep if he was in this position. “With your attitude I’d never make it far if I were to go into politics, or anything, really. If you want to get anywhere in life you should make nice with anyone who could end up useful. That’s just common sense. What if… I don’t know, that Potter kid becomes Minister for Magic? And you want to go into, whatever, law enforcement or something, and he remembers you as nothing but a stuck-up prick. Do you really think you’d get  anywhere?  Like, at all?”

That at least seems to get the cogs turning in their heads, small mercies. Ahead of them one of the students leading them turns down a staircase into what looks like the basement, and Ed is really glad he still has his cold-resistant automails installed. Who the fuck decided it was a good idea to house students in the basement of all places?

“So you’re saying,” Draco eventually hedges. “Even if I don’t like someone or think they’re not worth my time, I should still act like I care because they might help me down the line?”

Ed hums distractedly. Were those chains on the ceiling? “Pretty much. Your father is in politics, right?” He waits for confirmation before continuing. “So I bet the vast majority of people he meets are absolute morons. That’s my experience with politicians, anyways,” Blaise lets out an ugly snort and grins. “But I guarantee he still butters them up and does small, insignificant favors for them so he can rely on them to help him if he needs them for anything.”

“You sound like you speak from experience,” Blaise says, and Ed curses internally. He got a bit too much into this, didn’t he?

“Some,” he shrugs, hoping to appear casual. The kid leading them — a prefect, whatever that is — tells them the password for the month is  nightshade  and the wall in front of them starts opening up, and it takes every ounce of willpower Ed has not to yell in surprise.

“But what about appearances?” None of the others seem to really react to the wall just casually opening and closing. Ed hates it here.

“Well, sure, that’s important too, but in the end those that matter will  know  why you’re making nice with people. If they’re worth their salt, anyways.”

Ed has to amend his previous opinion, this school doesn’t suck  too  badly. The room is pretty stylish, all things considered, all black stone and dark-stained wood and green fabrics. There are several fireplaces scattered around that ensure it’s not as cold as it should be and the windows lead out to what looks like the depths of the  lake.  The whole room is bathed in a faintly green light and there seem to be gargoyles decorating the tops of the stone columns.

All in all it looks like what Ed expects he’d do if he ever started an interior design business. It’s  awesome.

It could use some red, maybe, but he guesses that suggestion would get him lynched in this place.

The prefect walks up to him and lets him know that he’s rooming with the third years, so he just ends up following Draco and Blaise down the long, winding corridors to their bedrooms. It’s more of the same, all black stones and dark woods and an overabundance of green fabrics and much nicer than the military barracks he’s used to. Certainly nicer than the cells in Fort Briggs he’s had to sleep in lately.

He finds his trunk at the foot of one of the beds and doesn’t even bother undressing or saying goodnight, way too exhausted by the whole  everything  that’s been happening since Kimblee showed up at Briggs to do more than drop dead in the middle of the bed.

“Wow, someone was tired,” Blaise shakes his head at the sight of the transfer student just lying face down on his bed and walks over to at least close the curtains around him for some privacy. “Maybe he’s jetlagged?” When he turns around he sees Draco distractedly dress for bed and sighs. “Thinking about his little lecture?”

“Well, yeah,” the other boy shrugs. Idly, Blaise wonders where the other three occupants of their room are but then decides he really doesn’t care much.

Blaise hums. “He isn’t  wrong,  you know? My mom certainly didn’t  like  any of her many dead husbands, but they had money, so she grinned and beared it.”

“Your mother poisons them the moment the ink on the wedding contract’s dry,” Draco snarks, not unkindly. “She’s hardly normal.”

“Maybe, but it seems to be working for her, doesn’t it?”

Draco seems to consider this for a moment before shrugging in agreement. “Fair enough. Still,  Longbottom?”

“Hey,” Blaise raises his hands. “I agree, but he’s also not likely to stay in Britain past the end of whatever civil war is going on back in his place, so he’s probably not taking it all that seriously. I know I wouldn’t.”

The other boy seems to agree with his assessment and yawns. “Good point.”

As Blaise gets ready for bed himself he can’t help thinking that his mother would like Ed a lot. She always liked to say that in order to play the long game, it was necessary to lose a few minor ones.

Lose some small battles, win the war.

Isn’t that what ambition was really about?

Chapter Text

[Thursday, 2 September 1993, Third Year Slytherin Dorm]

Ed wakes up and is confused for all of five seconds before the previous day (days?) rush back to him. He turns over onto his stomach and buries his face in one of the very soft pillows, groaning his frustration out into the void. Moving to kneel on the bed he takes out his watch, eyeing the fingers blearily.

“Really?” He rubs his free hand over his face. “I woke up at fucking 5 AM?”

Putting the watch back into his pocket he opens the heavy velvet curtains around the bed, blinking at the murky green light.  Right, under a lake.  For a moment he wonders who closed the curtains in the first place before he decides that he doesn’t care enough and gets up instead. He fishes a change of clothes out of his trunk, leaving his cloak and shoes behind, and moves to the door he assumes to be the bathroom.

Might as well shower before everyone else, I guess.

“Alright,” he mutters at the stick in his left hand, sitting in one of the plush armchairs scattered around the common room, the Charms textbook open in his lap. He remembers the whole book courtesy of both his years of studying alchemy and whatever Truth had done to his brain when they sent him here, but he likes to have a reference if he’s not done something before.

Like performing fucking  magic.

He looks at the page one last time, then mimics the movement. “Lumos Maxima.” Before he can feel foolish for doing it the tip of his wand explodes into a blinding bright light. Once he’s blinked the sunspots from his eyes and flicked the wand to end the spell he only stares.

That… certainly felt different.

With alchemy he could literally feel the way the energy moved up from the ground beneath his feet and through him and into his hands, could see it arc over his fingers and smell and taste the electricity in the air.

This magic was nothing like that at all.

The energy still surged through his fingers and into the wand, but it felt like—

He eyes the wand warily. It had felt like the wand had given its own energy to the spell, almost like using a Philosopher’s Stone.

(he still hates that he knows what it feels like to use  life  for alchemy)

Was that a wand thing, or  this wand’s  thing? Truth said there was Thestral tail hair in it, did the beast’s connection to death have anything to do with it? The closest he could come to describing the feeling was what he’d felt using Envy’s core to get them out of the fake Gate, but that didn’t quite match.

What’s more, the energy had come out of seemingly nowhere, or everywhere. It hadn’t surged up from the ground but instead from all around him and from himself.

It was like a high, limitless energy at his fingertips.

Part of him wants to feel that again, another is scared shitless.

Ed looks down at the book in his lap, and flicks the wand. “Wingardium Leviosa,” he mutters under his breath, but it’s enough for the energy to surge down his arm like a shock and lift the tome into the air before him.

“Well shit,” another flick and the spell breaks, and he catches the book mid-fall. “This isn’t scary at all.”

Ed spends the remainder of the pre-breakfast morning reading through the rest of his textbooks and vows to loot the library at the earliest opportunity. He would have probably missed going upstairs to the Great Hall if Draco and Blaise hadn’t taken pity on him and shaken him out of his reading-induced apathy.

“Seriously,” Draco snarks. “How aren’t you a Ravenclaw?”

Ed shrugs. “I mostly study for a purpose, I haven’t really read for the sake of it since I was a kid.”

Blaise hums, but doesn’t say anything, and Draco lets it go.

Ed’s first school day in close to ten years starts with double Potions in the dungeons, and he is beginning to wonder if that’s all he’ll ever see of the castle. Not to mention the obvious hazards of brewing who knows what in a place that you can’t air out.

He looks around the gloomy room, already half-filled by students, then makes a beeline for the free spot next to Neville when he realizes the rows apparently commandeered by Slytherins are full. “Morning,” he says as he plops down in the empty seat and begins to take out the textbook and some writing utensils. At least Truth had had the good grace to pack him notebooks and pens instead of the stupid quills and parchment these idiots seemed to be fond of.

The students around them all stare at him, several of the ones in red throwing him suspicious glares, which just seems unfair considering they hadn’t sat next to Neville either. “Uh,” he starts, blinking at him. “Morning, Ed.”

“What are  you  doing here?” Ed looks up at the redhead who’d spoken and was glaring daggers at him, and just raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I dunno, what’s it look like to you, gingersnaps?”

The black-haired kid beside the redhead snorts, quickly masking it with a cough at his friend’s glare. Then he turns it back on Ed. “Your type sits over there.”

Ed makes a show of looking at the other side of the classroom where not a single free seat remains, then turns back to the angry redhead. “I dunno if you’ve noticed, but the seats are already full. Maybe try your buddy’s glasses if you can’t see that well.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Really? I couldn’t have guessed,” Ed deadpans, putting a hand at his cheek in mock surprise. “How about you mind your own business?”

“Uh,” Neville says beside him, and Ed turns to him, but he’s got his eyes fixed on the redhead. “You really don’t have to—,”

“He’s a  Slytherin,  Neville.”

“You know, it’s funny, Draco said the same thing about Neville yesterday, and I still think it’s stupid,” Ed says offhandedly, opening his notebook to write down the date for later reference, idly contemplating writing his notes in his usual code.  Eh, what for?  “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

The redhead seems indignant at being compared to Draco, which just makes the whole thing even funnier to Ed. “It  does  matter, all you Slytherins are the same.”

“Uh-huh,” Ed waves him off, looking at his watch to see how much longer he has to listen to the guy. “Sure thing, whatever,” he looks at Neville. “Do  you  want me to find another seat?”

Neville blinks at him for several seconds, then shoots a look at the two boys sitting in the row before them. Then he looks at him again. “No, it’s fine, Ed.”

“Okay,” he might have said something snide to the redhead but just then their teacher glides into the room like an overgrown bat. The whole room quiets down even more than it already had, and it’s only then that Ed realizes they had all been watching their exchange.

“Ah, right, our newest student,” the teacher drawls. Ed thinks he might be trying to look intimidating, but all he can think is that the guy needs to learn what soap is. “Perhaps you’d like to sit somewhere else, lest Longbottom blow you up on your first day in our midst, Mr Elric.”

Oh, that’s what this is. “It’s fine, sir,” he sends Neville a glance he hopes conveys that his next words are meant as a joke. “I’m quite used to dodging explosions.”

There are some giggles from the Slytherins and in front of him red and black are sending him death glares. “... very well,” their teacher says, looking like he’s smelling something foul. “I understand you were homeschooled?”

“Yes, sir.”

His dark eyes lock on the green of his tie before he speaks again. “Provide me with a list of potions you have experience with so I can make sure you are level with the class by tomorrow,” he turns to the chalkboard and flicks his wand, writing appearing out of nowhere. “Now, to the syllabus…”

As Ed starts to note everything down he sends another quick look at Neville, biting his lip at the sullen expression on his face. “Hey, you know I was just joking about the explosions, right?”

Neville looks at him, startled. “Huh?”

“The guy was trying to trip me up,” Ed rolls his eyes. “I just told him what he wanted to hear.”

The other boy bites his lip. “Really?”

Ed shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I  do  have experience dodging explosions, but I’m also pretty sure I won’t need to.”

“Oh no, he was serious about that.”

Ed hums at that, then shrugs again. “Eh, just give me a heads up and it’s fine.”

Neville’s smile is wobbly. “Okay.”

“Now, today we will start out with the Wiggenweld Potion to see how much you all forgot over the summer,” the teacher says after giving them less than sufficient time to copy down the syllabus. Ed is so glad he can write and talk at the same time.

He turns to Neville. “You wanna grab the ingredients?”

The boy startles. “O-oh, sure!”

“Good, I’ll start on the fire then,” Ed is already in the process of rearranging the firewood, left hand going through the book to find the pertinent pages for the potion. He vaguely remembers reading the instructions this morning. Once the fire is burning and the water in the cauldron is heating up Ed focuses on rereading the recipe for the potion, taking notes as he goes.

Neville returns with an armful of different bottles and dried odds and ends, plopping it all down on the table. “Ah, thanks,” Ed says absentmindedly, checking that he’s copied everything down correctly, then looks at his partner. “I’ll start while you read up on the instructions, okay? Great.”

Not waiting for a reply he goes to add the weird mucousy green liquid labeled as salamander blood to the boiling water, stirring it and wondering what the fuck the stuff is made of to be turning the water red. Somehow he doubts wizards know the chemical makeup of it though.

“Hey, Ed?”

“Hm?” He looks over at Neville from where he’s stirring flobberworm mucus into the potion, cringing internally at the thought of drinking this concoction.

“Thanks.”

He blinks, taken aback. “No problem?”

Neville smiles at him, then goes back to cutting up the lionfish spines.

It takes Ed approximately five minutes of History of Magic to decide that he’ll skip it every single time, damn the consequences. Not only is their teacher a  ghost,  no, he’s literally just reciting the fucking book at them.

Five more minutes and he realizes there probably won’t  be  any consequences because the ghost doesn’t seem to recall any of their names or faces, and physically can’t take roll call, so fuck it, he’ll just spend these classes in the library being actually productive.

With that in mind Ed opens his notebook for the class and begins to write down all the information Truth had given him on the Horcruxes in his code.

Might as well do  something  worthwhile.

Truth hadn’t been too forthcoming, all things considered.

Ed knows what a Horcrux is — and doesn’t the thought of them make him shudder. He doesn’t know how to make one, but he also doesn’t think he’d  want  to know, nor does he know how to destroy one.

He knows that one has already been destroyed by the Potter kid the previous year, though it’s not like he can just walk up to him and  ask  how he destroyed the damned thing. To be fair, destroying them isn’t too important until he has one, anyways.

Ed covers his mouth with his automail hand as he taps the end of his pen on the page in thought.

His best bet was to look into Dark Magic and curses, as well as how to break them. Maybe there are spells that can detect cursed objects? This would be easier if he could sense chi like Ling; even if they are just  parts  of a soul, they should still be detectable when attached to something, right?

He wonders if the process of making a Horcrux resembles what he did with Al’s soul — it had been the whole of one, recalled from the Gate, not a fraction split off of a soul still bound to a body and the mortal plane, sure, but the binding process might be similar. Would there be a blood seal? That might make the whole thing easy, though he doubts it.

Ed pauses where he’d been thoughtlessly doodling a coded version of the array to transmute a Philosopher’s Stone. Right, they are made from souls, too. It was different from the array used to bind a soul — he’d never actually had to draw it, since he’d used circleless alchemy, and the blood seal was merely what keeps the soul tethered. But they looked similar, shared certain parts and differed gravely in others.

Could he reverse-engineer one to work on Horcruxes?

He’d need to know exactly how a Horcrux is made and how it binds the soul fragment for it to work and would need to dig more into how to break curses to make sure he understood the rules on how they operate, but it  could  work. Truth had mentioned that Riddle had made Horcruxes of both inanimate objects and living things, so if he can manage to isolate the Horcrux part he might be able to separate the soul fragment from the host without killing them, which would really be preferable.

With that idea in mind he flips to a new page and starts to formulate a theory, grinning slightly to himself.

He has ample experience with this, after all.

Ed has been curious about this class more than others, for several reasons.

For one, their teacher, Remus Lupin, had reminded him of Hawkeye and Mustang in a way that made his teeth ache. What, exactly, burdened the man to the point that he walked like a war veteran and didn’t know how to smile properly? Ed knows there had been a war, some twelve years ago, so he supposes that could be it, but it doesn’t feel right, somehow. This wariness runs deeper than that.

It’s deep like Ed’s own scars, healed over but still painful, something that will stay forever. It’s heavy like Ishval’s memory, always fresh and all-encompassing for Hawkeye and Mustang, a reminder at every corner.

So Ed’s curious, sue him.

The other reason is more mundane, really. He heard  Defense Against the Dark Arts  and thought,  awesome.  Using all the things at his disposal to protect others, get the job done, fuck up bad guys? That’s something he  knows,  that he’s familiar with and enjoys. It doesn’t matter that this is using stupid  magic  to do it; it’s a way for him to fuck shit up, so obviously he’s game.

“Hello, everyone,” Lupin starts, looking incredibly tired but smiling his barely-smile anyways. “Now, I know your past two years were… less than ideal—,”

“That’s one way to put it,” the redhead from Potions mutters, and Lupin sighs.

“Right, thank you for your commentary, Ron. Now, if I could continue,” he pauses, raising an eyebrow and waiting for the kid — Ron, apparently — to blush and sink into his seat before speaking again. “I have decided to use this first lesson to evaluate what you  actually  learned and retained, so I can adjust the curriculum accordingly.”

He waves his wand and a stack of parchment flies off of his desk and distributes itself amongst them.

Ed will never get over how lazy these wizards are, holy shit.

“I want you to look at these spells and mark which ones you know, and which of them you feel able to perform. Please be honest, this is just for my own notes,” he pauses as the last of the sheets flutter onto the desks. “The list includes both spells from the past two years’ worth of curriculum as well as some that I’m just curious if you know. Begin whenever you’re ready.”

Ed blinks down at the surprisingly long list and uncaps his pen, frowning as his eyes flit over the spells. Now, courtesy of Truth he knows pretty much all of these by name alone and what goes into casting them, but he isn’t certain he should be honest. Some of these would be downright suspicious to know, let alone think himself capable of. Not to mention he’s cast a grand total of  two  spells so far, easy enough as it was. But what if he claims he’s able to cast one of these and then can’t?

Ed hates school so much.

“You know, I’m actually really curious about your answers, Ed,” Lupin’s voice murmurs from behind him and Ed certainly  doesn’t  flinch, but it’s a near thing. “Just be honest, it’s not exactly helpful to hold back.”

“Right,” he mutters, looking back at the list. The first two dozen or-so spells seem easy and standard fare from what he knows, so likely what’s expected of them to know, so he marks them all down as knowing them and able to cast.

The next batch are ones he’s read in the textbook, so he notes them down as well, though he hesitates at the one for Boggarts. He has no idea what those  are,  let alone if he’d have the wherewithal to use the stupid wand instead of punching it in the face.

He elects not to mark it as one he can cast, just to make sure.

The next three make him hesitate again. Apparently he’s not the only one who’s surprised by their inclusion, because the girl with the wild curly hair that sits with Ron and his buddy raises her hand. “Professor? You… included the Unforgivables.”

“I’m aware, Hermione,” he smiles grimly, arms crossed as he leans against his desk. For a moment his gaze flicks to Ed before he focuses on Hermione again. “I obviously don’t expect you to be able  or  willing to cast them, I was just curious if you knew them. They aren’t part of the curriculum for a few more years.”

Ah, that’s why,  Ed thinks, looking back down at the list. They were included because of him. Technically he’d be preparing for his OWLs right now, if he was in the proper year, so obviously he’s expected to know more than the others. Still, these land you a life sentence in their crazy torture prison…

The nib of his pen hovers next to the first one, wracking his brain for every bit of information he recalls. The Imperius is the mind control one, and requires a strong will to cast and the victim to be susceptible to it in the first place. It’s not  hard,  he doesn’t think, and eventually just decides to fuck it and mark both columns.

He skips the  able  column for both the torture and death ones, because he won’t entertain whether he could cast them or not. Much like the Imperius — and, really, almost all magic — they require the caster to  want  to do it, will it into existence. Ed almost died and is stuck in this mess because he was unwilling to kill, and even if he were to be put in the same situation again, he doesn’t think he’d be able to do it even knowing the consequences.

He doesn’t want to think what would have to happen for him to want to use either curse.

(the truth is that he  knows,  but denial and willful ignorance have always been his forte)

In the end he hands his sheet in with almost all marked as known, and only a select few marked as unable. He can see the moment Lupin gets to the Imperius line on his, because his gaze flicks up to him with something like pale terror. He clears his throat. “Alright, I’ll go through these while you look at the syllabus,” he waves his wand and writing appears on the three large blackboards. “I might ask some of you for a chat in the meantime, but don’t worry about that, okay? Good, first, Neville?”

The boy in question squeaks and almost falls over his feet as he hurries to get up. Beside Ed, Draco and the others snicker but stop when he jabs his elbow in his side. “Can you not?”

“It was funny,” Draco defends himself, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so stuck-up, Elric.”

“Don’t be a twat, then.”

Several more students are asked to the far corner of the classroom before Ed’s name is finally called. With a sigh he gets up from the chair and walks over, not at all surprised. “Yes, Professor?”

“Ah, Ed,” he gives him his weak excuse for a smile again. “Have you recovered well from the Dementor?”

That’s not what he expected. “Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Good, good,” Lupin nods, looking down at the parchment in front of him again. “Now, I obviously expected you to know more than the others, but there are a few things I’d like to address.”

“Sure.” Can he stop beating around the bush already?

“You wrote down that you know the spell against Boggarts but don’t know if you could cast it. How come?”

Ed blinks. “That’s not what I thought you’d take issue with.”

Lupin’s smile shows teeth. “Indulge me, Ed.”

He scratches his cheek. “I’ve never encountered a Boggart, so I wouldn’t know if I’d manage to cast the counterspell.”

He hums. “Understandable, lucky you it’s part of the curriculum this year then, hm? You get to try it out in a safe environment.” Ed isn’t entirely sure this school could be considered a  safe environment  all things considered. There’s a eugenicist death chamber in the fucking basement, for fuck’s sake. “Now, what I assume you were alluding to before—,” he glances his way, suddenly serious. “You think you’d manage an Imperius curse?”

Ed shrugs. “I haven’t  tried,  but, yes.”

Lupin crosses his arms on the table and leans forward. “Elaborate, please.”

“Well,” he should have just lied on the stupid survey. “It only requires a strong mind of the caster, and a weaker will from the victim. It seems easy enough.”

“You sound confident.”

“I haven’t come across something I haven’t figured out yet, once I tried.”

“Is that so?” He slides the survey towards Ed, tapping the empty column. “Then why do you think yourself incapable of the other two?”

The question is loaded like a gun and Ed curses himself for being so careless. Just because this was a school didn’t mean he couldn’t get in  actual  trouble. “I don’t really feel a need to torture or kill people, much less enough to be able to muster the will required for either curse.”

Lupin hums and seemingly lets it go. “The only spells you seem wholly unfamiliar with are those expected from NEWT level classes, so I’d say you are more than capable of the work required for the class. I must agree with Filius, they should have just placed you in the proper year for your age.”

Ed shrugs. “Can’t be helped.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he puts Ed’s sheet away on the rest of the stack by his elbow before he looks at him again. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me, while we’re here?”

He blinks. “Uh,” he’s about to decline when a thought strikes him and he shivers despite himself. “Those Dementors… they aren’t going to come on campus, are they?”

Lupin seems surprised at his words. “No, Ed, Dumbledore won’t let them.”

“... Good, thank you, Professor.”

Ed is sitting in the common room doing his homework when the snarly kid who’d taken offense to him from the start slams a hand down on the desk, hard enough that it almost topples his precarious tower of textbooks. Ed turns to him and raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Yes? Can I help you?”

Nott narrows his eyes at him and it does nothing at all for his face. “Listen, Elric, I don’t care how things are done in your backwards country—,” Ed snorts, which just serves to anger the kid further. That was hilarious from a member of a society that has never even heard of electricity. “But here we actually care about status, alright? So stop hanging out with blood traitors and mudbloods, or else.”

Ed leans back in his chair. “Or else  what?”

Nott crosses his arms. “You’re not making any friends with your disregard for our ways, Elric. Do you really want to have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your time here, all over some lowlifes?”

“Oh, ha, that’s hilarious,” Ed’s voice is anything but amused as he stands up. Nott is slightly taller than him, though much skinnier, but Ed is much too used to people towering over him. It just makes it more satisfying when he beats the shit out of them. “That sounded like a threat, surely I misheard.”

“And if you heard exactly right?”

“Then you’re dumber than I thought, which is an incredible feat, really,” Ed takes a step towards him, not yet touching him. He’s not going to throw the first punch, but he’s sure as fuck going to do everything to goad the other guy into it. “Listen here, fuckface, here’s how this is going to go. You are going to turn around and leave me alone, because if you don’t  you  will be the one sleeping with both eyes open. I don’t give a shit about your stupid blood purity nonsense, and if I ever hear you insult someone for something as inane as who their parents are you’ll wake up in the middle of the Forbidden Forest without your wand, are we clear?”

Nott glares. “You’re talking a big game for someone who’s all alone in a foreign country.”

“I can actually back my words up with actions, can you?”

“Nott,” Blaise suddenly speaks up. “Leave him alone. This is stupid.”

“No, I’m not going to let him ruin our House’s reputation.”

“You’re doing a well enough job on your own with that, asshole,” Ed drawls, rolling his eyes. “How about you go and have a good cry about it?”

“You little—,” the rest of his sentence is cut off, because he has drawn his wand and Ed moves before his brain fully registers what it is. They are standing close enough that Nott wouldn’t be able to cast anything truly harmful, but Ed has been in too many situations where this movement ends with a knife to his gut or the barrel of a gun by his temple to really take chances.

Nott lands on the floor with his feet swept out from under him, dominant arm twisted behind him and held in a death grip by his automail, wand in Ed’s left.

He blinks, coming back to the present. Beneath him Nott struggles against his grip and he instinctively tightens his hold on the boy’s wrist. “Be a good boy or your wand is gonna end up in the fireplace.” Nott stiffens under him and he nods, moving up and replacing his grip on his arm with his left foot to the center of his back. “Little piece of advice? Don’t draw a weapon on someone because of a little squabble, dumbass.” He throws the wand into the corner of the room carelessly and steps off of Nott. “This is a  warning.  Fuck with me again and that wand of yours gets shoved up your arse.”

With that he walks back over to the desk and collects his things before making his way to the dormitory doors.

He really wants to punch Truth in the face for putting him in this stupid place.

“Well,” Blaise drawls. “That could have gone better for you.”

“Fuck you,” Nott growls, face red.

“No, thank you, you’re not my type,” he replies easily, dismissively. “I’m not into morons.”

“Seriously, though, why  did  you pull your wand on him?” Draco shakes his head from the armchair he’s lounging in, the book in his lap forgotten about the moment shit hit the fan. “Even if he hadn’t wiped the floor with you, you would have gotten into serious trouble.”

Nott eyes him angrily. “You saying you a snitch?”

Draco snorts. “No, but one look at your wand and you’re done for. They can check for which spells you cast; Elric just needs to tell Snape and you’re in detention.”

“You know,” Blaise hums. “Elric doesn’t seem the snitching type. He would have probably just poisoned Nott’s pumpkin juice at breakfast.”

“Not everyone is your mother, Blaise.”

“Fair enough,” thinking about it some more, Elric  did  seem more like the type of guy to fuck you over without you seeing it coming and no one able to pin it on him. He’d probably enjoy every second of it, too.

Not that Blaise is one to talk.

“Well,” Pansy says airily, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “At least he isn’t boring.”

[Friday, 3 September 1993, Hogwarts Grounds]

The day ends up just as overall uneventful as the previous, with much of the classes taken up with administrative stuff or revision of previous year’s curriculum and Ed is bored out of his mind.

Well, for the most part.

Care for Magical Creatures seems like the type of subject Al would  adore,  a thought that sends a pang of longing and homesickness through him that leaves him dizzy. It’s only been three days, but who is to say how long it will actually be before he gets to see him again?

Fuck, this isn’t good.

“Hey, are you alright?”

He blinks at the girl that had spoken to him during the Welcome Feast, frowning at him, and he tries to act nonchalant. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She gives him a dubious look. “Are you sure? You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

“Just a bit homesick,” he shrugs. “I’m used to being around my family, this is a kinda big change, I’m fine.”

“Ah,” she nods, turning her gaze back to their surprisingly feral textbook and flipping a page like she’s afraid it’ll bite her. Not an irrational fear. “Yeah, I suppose it must be weird,” she sends him a smirk. “Chin up, don’t want Nott to think you’ve turned into a pushover overnight.”

Ed’s glad for the change in topic. “Right, the day he pulls one over me is the day I tell my dad I love him to his face.”

She gives him a puzzled look. “What?”

“Oh,” he scratches his cheek, now the one turning his attention to their textbook. “He left when I was very little and I kinda hate his guts for it. If I ever see him again I’ll break his jaw in greeting.”

The girl snorts. “Why am I not surprised?”

He grins at her.

Then he yelps, because the book bites at his hand.

Note to self, only touch this thing with my right hand.

“Are you guys alright?”

The two boys sweating over what looks like Charms homework turn to him with twin expressions of surprise. “Huh?” They say in unison, and it’s almost impressive.

“Just… you two looked like you were about to spontaneously combust.”

One of them shrugs. “Just homework.”

“I can see that,” Ed replies dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Do you need help?”

The other one blinks. “You would?”

He shrugs. “Sure? I’m done with mine.”

The two exchange looks, then turn back to him. “No one ever offers to help.”

“We aren’t really smart.”

“Okay, so?” Something occurs to him then. “What’re your names, anyways?”

“I’m Gregory Goyle,” boy number one says at the same time as boy number two says. “My name’s Vincent Crabbe.”

“Nice to meet you, then,” he says, sitting down across from them and picking up one of the pieces of parchment littered with scribbled and crossed out answers. “Ah, you’re mixing up the wand movements.”

“Yeah,” Goyle mutters dejectedly. “I can never remember them.”

“You seemed fine in class though.”

“It’s fine when I use the spells,” he shrugs.

Ed looks at him, wondering if he was being serious and deciding by the look on his face that he was. “You could try doing the wand movement… without your wand?” The look on his face makes Ed weep for common sense in this world. “Just… try that? Go through the questions once and I’ll look over your answers after?”

Goyle nods, and beside him Crabbe is trying to find a clean sheet of parchment.

Why did I fucking offer? This is suffering.

(he knows the answer is his stupid helper complex, and he hates his own guts for it)

[Saturday, 4 September 1993, Hogwarts Library]

This is where Ed belongs.

He  knows  libraries. While he is fairly certain he won’t be able to find a book on how to find and destroy Horcruxes — because that would be too convenient — he’s sure he can get something  close.

At least he hopes so.

“Curse Theory, Detection Spells, How to Identify Dark and Cursed Objects… what else?” He’s pulling out books and tomes as he goes through the rows upon rows of shelves, trying to think of what might help him with the construction of the transmutation circle he’s started to design. “Oh, how to break curses and curse-specific runes, is there anything here… there.”

Armed with about a dozen different books he can barely look past he makes his way to one of the tables scattered about the large library, blinking when he sees it already occupied by the girl that had sat with Ron during DADA. He hadn’t expected someone in the library this early on a Saturday.

“Uh, is this seat taken?”

She blinks, eyes widening a little when she sees his wobbly tower of Cursebreaker Mountain. “No?”

“Great!” He sets the books down and goes to divide them into neat little stacks sorted by topic while the girl — what had her name been? Something really weird — still stares at him, which he ignores. Instead he sits down and pulls his Horcrux notebook and pen out of his robe pocket and leaves through it to a new page.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wizard use a fountain pen before.”

Ed snorts, making note of some runes that seem promising. “Yeah, it’s silly. Those quills are so messy.”

The girl seems to ponder whether she should say anything more, but in the end curiosity seems to win over. “Are you a muggleborn?”

“No, I’m a pureblood,” he looks up at her, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Just… wizardborns, especially purebloods… they tend to ignore muggle things.”

Ed hums, flipping a page. It’s interesting how much overlap wizard runes have with alchemical ones. “I’ve noticed. I really miss lightbulbs.”

She makes a strangled noise. “Me too! God, it’s annoying to have to fumble for my wand and cast a spell just to use the bathroom at night.”

“So you’re not a wizardborn then?” She flinches as if he’d slapped her, her face suddenly closing off. “What? Did I say something wrong?” He can’t see how, she had asked him the same thing just a moment ago, after all.

“Nothing,” she says, voice strained, focusing back on her own work.

He frowns, then looks at her tie, a bright scarlet thing, and wants to hit something. “Did you just act like I threatened to throw you out the window cos I’m a Slytherin?” He rolls his eyes.  “You  asked if I was a muggleborn, I don’t see how turnabout is rude just cos of my House.”

“It’s not that,” she says, eyes stubbornly glued to her book. “I just—, you’re friends with Malfoy.”

“Eh, I’ve known the guy for like two days, wouldn’t call that friendship.”

She makes a sound of frustration and glares at him. “Don’t be obtuse. He only hangs around blood purists,” she shakes her head, muttering to herself. “Stupid, I should’ve known—,”

“Known what?” He is starting to get a little frustrated. “Listen, I don’t give two shits about blood purity and all that nonsense. My best friend is a muggle, for fuck’s sake.”

The girl leans back, startled. “What?”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “My country doesn’t enforce the Statute of Secrecy and we all just mingle and shit. I don’t give a single fuck about blood status, so please miss me with that bull, okay? If you don’t like me as a person that’s fine, but don’t judge me based on nonsense like tie colors and my parents being able to use magic.”

“I would never—!”

“You literally just did,” he says dryly. “You’re all massive hypocrites. I’ve been here for three days and am already sick of it,” with that he turns back to his work and ignores her offended expression.

It’s not until he’s through the whole book on curse-specific runes that she speaks up again, voice quiet. “I hate it too.”

Ed sighs, folding his arms on the table and looking at her, face deadpan. “Then why play into it?”

“Last year,” she starts, biting her lip. “Malfoy called me a mudblood.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Please tell me you broke his nose?”

She lets out a startled laugh, quickly covering her mouth before it can travel and pull the librarian’s ire to them. “No, but Ron tried and failed to jinx him.”

Ed nods to himself. “Understandable.”

There is another moment of silence before she continues. “Do you know what happened last year?”

“Do you mean the eugenicist death chamber in your basement? Cos that’s all kinds of fucked up.”

There’s mirth in her eyes, but also something haunted. “Right, that. Everyone thought Harry was the Heir of Slytherin because he can talk to snakes, it was a whole thing. I got attacked.”

“I’m sorry,” mentally he’s freaking out about  can talk to snakes,  because what the fuck?

“It could have been worse, I could have died,” she shrugs in a nonchalant manner that makes Ed worry for her sanity. “But it’s just… the Chamber of Secrets and the Basilisk were put there by Slytherin, and everyone in Slytherin was really eager for muggleborns to die. It’s easier to just… not bother.”

Ed hums, fiddling with his pen in thought. “I get that, kinda, I just don’t agree. Nothing changes if no one is willing to beat some sense into people.”

Her lips twitch. “I suppose you’re right,” she hesitates for a moment, then holds out her hand. “Hermione Granger.”

He takes her hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. “Edward Elric, but Ed’s fine. So,” he points at her scattered work, almost as numerous as his own. “What’re you working on?”

“Homework.”

“I can see that,” he says dryly. “I meant which subjects.”

“Oh,” she blushes. “Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, Charms and Transfiguration.”

“Have you ever heard of this thing called sleep? Cos it’s great.”

Hermione shrugs sheepishly. “I couldn’t decide on which electives to take,” she points at his own collection of books. “And you?”

“Side project,” he replies.

Her eyes flit over the titles of the books that she can see. “Do you want to be a Cursebreaker after school?”

That works as an excuse, he supposes. “Maybe.”

“Ron’s brother is one working for Gringotts.”

“No offense, but I don’t think Ron likes me much.”

“Ron didn’t like me either at first, he can be a bit of a git,” her gaze lands on his tie. “Though I suppose your House doesn’t help.”

Ed sighs, absentmindedly sorting the books into new piles based on what he’d gathered from the one on runes. “I figured as much during Potions.”

Hermione hums. “I could write to Bill and ask if he’d be willing to answer any questions you have, if you’d like.”

An actual expert on curses? “That’d be great, thank you!”

“No problem,” she smiles, then gestures at their assortment of books. “I guess we should get back to it so we can make some headway before lunch.”

“What. The. Fuck.”

Harry looks up from his plate to Ron, frowning. “Huh?” His friend only points to the doors of the Great Hall, and as Harry follows it he sees what has him so upset. “Oh.”

It’s not a very intelligent reply, but he’s a bit too stunned to really vocalize anything else, because there’s Hermione, book bag packed to near bursting, talking animatedly with  Edward Elric.

What the fuck indeed.

“You can’t just skip classes,” Hermione exclaims in indignation, only for Elric to roll his eyes.

“Say it a bit louder, why don’t you? I think the teachers haven’t heard you yet,” he grouses, shoving her shoulder none too gently. “And I’m just  saying,  History is a waste of time! Binns doesn’t even remember our names, do you really think he’ll notice if we’re there or not? I might as well just memorize the textbook and take a nap.”

“But you’ll get in trouble,” Hermione pouts, not seeming bothered by his earlier assault.

“How? Binns doesn’t take attendance, so if I spend that time in the common room no one will notice.” They plop down at the table in unison, not even bothering to acknowledge anyone else. Beside Harry, Ron looks like he’s about to blow a gasket. “And I was serious earlier, you should definitely drop a couple classes, your eyebags will have their own postal code at some point.”

Hermione sniffs, turning to put some food on her plate. “Rude.”

“It’s not,” Elric retorts, moving to get some food of his own. It’s at this point Ron seems to regain his senses and speaks up, face red.

“You’re not welcome here,” he snaps, which Elric just snorts at, unperturbed.

“I’m having a conversation with Hermione, so I’d say that makes me welcome here,” he says easily, pouring himself some pumpkin juice. “And I maintain that you should drop Divination, sounds like a bunch of nonsense.”

“We haven’t even had Divination yet,” Hermione says, but Elric just shakes his head.

“So, let’s assume some people  can  see the future, which just sounds like bogus, but let’s pretend. Then that is likely a genetic predisposition and not something you can learn, ergo it’s a waste of time. Just drop it,” he waves a hand. “QED.”

Hermione sighs, put upon. “You’re stubborn.”

“I do my best,” he takes a bite from the steak pie he’d loaded onto his plate, entirely unfazed by Ron’s valiant attempt to use wandless nonverbal magic to set him on fire. “On that note,” he continues the moment he’s swallowed. “I don’t see the point in Muggle Studies—,”

“Of course you don’t,” Ron bites, not that he’s one to talk. “Why would a  Slytherin  care about muggles?”

“I just think it’s interesting to see the wizards’ point of view,” Hermione says, ignoring Ron’s remark.

Elric does the same. “But you’re  muggleborn,  you probably know more than the teacher, unless they’re muggleborn, too. For all you know they have no clue about anything. I bet you they’ve never sat in a car before or know how electricity works.”

Hermione frowns. “But don’t you think there’s merit in seeing another point of view?”

“Oh, sure,” he agrees easily, sipping from his glass. “But you might as well just read the textbook for that, don’t you think? If it’s just academic curiosity you’re better off reading about it in your off time and actually  sleep  at some point.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Oh fine, perish of exhaustion for all I care,” he sighs, focusing back on his food.

Ron seems to decide that he’s not getting anywhere with his glaring, so instead he turns to Hermione. “What the fuck, ‘Mione?”

She raises her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

He waves at Elric, almost toppling over his own glass of juice. “Why’re you talking to this guy?”

“Because he’s nice,” she says breezily. By her side Elric chokes on his food.

“You think I’m  nice?”

Hermione blinks at him. “Yes?”

He shakes his head. “You’re nuts.”

“See?” Ron gestures wildly. “He’s an asshole!”

“He’s not, at least not anymore than  you,  Ronald,” she narrows her eyes at him. “Or have you forgotten how  we  started out?”

Ron winces. “That’s different.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Hey,” Elric says, and it takes Harry a moment to realize he’s talking to him. “Could you pass the gravy?” He does so, wordlessly, unsure what is even happening. “Thanks… uh?”

“Harry Potter,” he says on autopilot and Elric’s eyes widen slightly.

“Oh, you’re the kid who can talk to snakes, right? Hermione said that earlier, and I don’t get it. How does that work? Snakes don’t have ears! How do they even realize you’re talking to them? Is it some magical ability that just projects your thoughts into the snake’s brain? Do you understand them? Why did everyone think you were related to Slytherin because of that?”

“Uh…” Harry isn’t sure he caught even half of that, and Ron whips around.

“Why do you wanna know?”

Ed shrugs. “It just sounds interesting, I’ve never heard of being able to talk to snakes.”

Ron blinks, taken aback. “Are you muggleborn?”

“Why does everyone ask me that?” Elric shakes his head. “No, I’m a pureblood, not that it matters.”

“How does it not?” Ron frowns. “You’re a  Slytherin,  of course it would matter to your kind.”

“My kind?” Elric raises his eyebrows. “What the fuck?”

But Ron doesn’t seem to really listen and instead turns back to Hermione. “After everything they’ve done,  how  can you buddy up to this guy?”

“I told you,” she grits out, eyes burning. “He’s  nice.  Maybe have a proper conversation with him before you start being your usual antagonistic self.”

Ron and Hermione devolve into a full blown argument and Harry wisely decides to stay out of it. He clears his throat, throwing Elric a wary gaze. “So… I don’t know how snakes hear me? I actually didn’t know they don’t have ears?”

Elric hums around his fork. “So, do you just, like, speak like normal and they somehow get the gist?”

Harry shakes his head. “I speak a different language, apparently. I don’t hear it myself, but only parselmouths understand it.”

“Wait, what?” Elric frowns. “It’s just another language?”

He shrugs, scratching his fork around in the gravy on his plate. “It kinda is? But you can’t learn it, you need the genetic ability to speak it, I guess, and then you can just do it.”

“How the fuck does that make any sense?” Elric is gesturing with his hands and frowning now. “So you are born with the full understanding of a whole ‘nother language that’s unlearnable, but how? Language isn’t genetic! I wasn’t born with the full mastery of my native language! This is complete bullshit,” he pauses. “Wait, do all snakes across the world speak this parsel-whatever the same way, or do they have dialects?”

“I don’t know. I once spoke to a boa constrictor from Brazil, but it was hatched in the zoo, and the Basilisk last year wasn’t exactly talkative.”

Elric snorts. “No shit. I wonder if you could talk to a parselmouth from another country  in  parseltongue and understand each other, that’d be really weird but make sense if it really  is  nothing more than a random genetic quirk in some magical people,” his eyes are gleaming. “I wonder if there’s books on that in the library!”

“Why aren’t you in Ravenclaw,” Harry blurts out without thinking, blushing and quickly sipping from his juice.

“You know, I get that a lot.” Elric takes another large bite from his pie and chews thoughtfully. “The stupid hat was debating between all four Houses, actually,” he rests his head in his left hand. “I think it thought that putting me in Slytherin would temper my more reckless tendencies a bit.”

“You were a hatstall between all four Houses?” Hermione interrupts her bickering with Ron to ask, which seems to annoy him. “That’s rare.”

“Is it?”

She nods. “It’s usually just two.”

Elric hums. “It mentioned older ones are more interesting.”

Ron is elbowing him in the side. When Harry turns around to him he has a betrayed expression on his face. “Why are you talking to him?”

“You and Hermione were kinda too busy to talk to me,” he snarks, before amending. “He doesn’t seem… prejudiced towards her, and she and Neville both say he’s nice. We can at least give him a chance, don’t you think?” Harry was still a bit wary of the guy, but he seemed sincere enough during their conversation and was easy to talk to.

If he turned out to be an asshole they can still kick him to the curb.

“Maybe he’s just playing the long con.”

“Why would he?”

“I don’t know!” Ron throws a glare at Elric, who’s busy shoveling food into his mouth as he listens to Hermione talk about previous Sortings of older students. “Maybe Malfoy put him up to something.”

“I don’t know, Malfoy seems kinda mad he’s sitting with us.”

He and Ron turn to the other side of the Great Hall where Malfoy and his posse where glaring daggers at them at large and Elric in particular.

“They’re what?” Elric turns in his seat and frowns when he sees his Housemates quickly avert their gazes. He hums low in his throat and gets up. “Excuse me,” he says, stomping across the Hall to come to a halt in front of Malfoy and the others, talking down at them in what looked like a heated rant. At one point he gestures first at Nott, then back towards their table, and Malfoy seems to try and placate him.

“I wonder what they’re talking about,” Ron muses, sounding suddenly unsure about his previous opinion of the guy.

Whatever it was, Elric ends up sitting down across from them and loading his plate, still seemingly giving them clipped and annoyed responses when they try to engage him in conversation.

“Whatever it was,” Harry says, turning back to his own plate. “Seems he wasn’t happy with them.”

[Sunday, 5 September 1993, Slytherin Common Room]

Ed is still (rightfully) irked with the other Slytherins for what they pulled the day before, but he’s also deeply bored this afternoon. He’s worked through all the library books that seemed promising for his little endeavor and doesn’t know how to get into the restricted section without arousing suspicion, so he can only wait for Hermione to get back to him about Ron’s brother the Cursebreaker and ruminate on his research so far.

In other words, he needs a break, and his classmates might as well provide some entertainment.

He walks over to Blaise, because he’s pretty much the one person in this House who seems to have common sense, and plops down on the couch beside him. “Hey.”

Blaise raises his eyebrows at him. “Oh, you talking to us again, sweetheart?”

Ed leans back. “Sweetheart?”

He shrugs. “Not a good petname? Do you prefer honey? Dear?”

“I wasn’t aware that we’re a thing.”

“We aren’t, but flirting’s fun,” Blaise drawls, flipping a page in his book. “I’ll stop if it bothers you.”

“My little brother always calls me a bisexual disaster, so, eh, whatever,” he looks around the common room, frowning when he realizes who’s missing. “Where’s Draco?”

“Trying to find a replacement Seeker,” Blaise mutters, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “One of the Chasers went into reserve because he’s focusing on his NEWTs, and Draco would rather play that position, so he has to find someone to play Seeker now or Flint won’t let him.”

“I understood all those words, but it still didn’t make any sense.”

Blaise raises his head with a frown. “What?”

“Is this about this Quatsch game you guys like to play?”

Blaise opens and closes his mouth a few times, then closes his book with a loud slam and shuffles on the couch to fully face him, legs crossed. “Are you telling me that you don’t know anything about Quidditch?”

Ed snaps his fingers in his direction. “That’s the bitch.”

They have somehow attracted the attention of several other students in the room, who are now gathering around them like a crowd unable to look away from a car crash. “Alright,” Blaise says, voice deadly serious. “Your ignorance is disgusting.”

“Okay,” he says, unimpressed. “You get to call me ignorant when you manage to explain electricity to me.”

“Miss me with that muggle stuff,” Blaise waves him off. “We’re gonna explain Quidditch to you now, and you’ll  enjoy it.”

“I doubt that.”

“You don’t get a say in the matter,” one of the boys standing around them says. “Because I’m the Quidditch captain for our team and I won’t stand for this.”

Ed suppresses a smirk as they all start talking over each other to explain the rules and cultural significance of the sport to him, eventually veering off into technicalities and historical precedents and guesses and bets on the World Cup taking place the next year.

None of it really interests him, even as additional information filters into his brain thanks to Truth’s meddling, but he listens anyways. It’s the first time they’re not being stuck up about nonsense and instead all acting like actual children, which does a lot to endear them to him.

Even if the sport sounds like actual bullshit.

“But if that golden ball is worth 150 points, why do the other players even bother?”

This was evidently the exact right — or wrong, depending on perspective — thing to ask, because they all immediately go onto a tangent about historical matches that ended with the team of the Seeker catching the Snitch still losing.

Eventually one of the kids explaining the game to him wanders off to a shelf in the corner of the room and returns with an old, thin book that he thrusts into his hands. “Here,” the guy he now knows is called Flint grunts with an eyeroll.  “Quidditch Through the Ages,  that’s your homework for tonight.”

Ed feels his lips twitch, barely suppressing a smile. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” everyone choruses.

“We need you up to speed for the first match of the year,” Blaise says with a sniff, crossing his arms. “Can’t have you cheering at the wrong times, after all.”

“Right,” he nods, mock-serious. “That won’t do.”

“At least you’re seeing reason, sweetheart.”

“You gotta take me on a date before you get to call me petnames, Blaise.”

He rolls his eyes, put upon. “Fine, first Hogsmeade trip lunch is on me.”

“It’s a date, then,” Ed smirks, yelping as Blaise kicks him off the sofa and sends the small group into fits of laughter.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Blaise deadpans, not sorry at all, smirking as Ed flips him off.

Just when he was starting to like that prick.

Chapter Text

[Monday, 6 September 1993, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom]

Turns out Boggarts are shapeshifting beasts that show you your worst fears.

You’ve gotta be shitting me.

Ed can’t deal with this. Not only will he have to face another shapeshifter, no, this one will actually show him his worst fears. In front of the entire class.

Wonderful. Awesome. Fan-fucking-tastic.

It certainly doesn’t help his mounting anxiety that he can’t even be certain what the Boggart will turn into. Ed barely even registers the others’ fears as his mind races with countless possibilities and worse and worse outcomes.

The failed human transmutation? The Gate? Truth? Nina? Winry shooting Scar after all, all because of his stupid big mouth? Losing Al for good? Getting stuck in the fake Gate? Getting assimilated by Envy?

Or—

“Ed!” He blinks out of his reverie, scattered laughter and upbeat music echoing around him. Neville passes him by, a wobbly smile on his face, and Ed looks up to see Snape in the most ridiculous outfit he’d ever seen.

Fuck, he thinks, gloved left hand tight on his wand as he makes to stand in front of the Boggart. His heart is beating like crazy, pulse echoing in his ears.

Ed blinks, and when he opens his eyes—

He sees Winry and Granny on the ground, eyes unseeing. Beneath them the country-wide transmutation circle glows, red energy arcing towards the ceiling. His breath hitches and he watches as their bodies melt, looking so much like Envy’s true form that the world tilts and he smells rotting blood and fire. Then there’s Al, Mustang, Hawkeye—

»You left us behind.« It’s all their voices, overlapping and accusatory, and their heads all turn as one, their unseeing eyes like judgment. »You left us all to die.«

He shakes his head, hands coming up to grab at his hair. When had he let go of his wand? »I didn’t, I swear I didn’t, I—,«

»Liar.« The chorus of voices bears down on him. Beneath their bodies the ground splits open into a bottomless pit, an eye opening and hands gripping at them all and—

“Ed!” There are hands on his shoulders pushing him behind someone, the red light replaced with misty white before Lupin flicks his wand and exclaims. “Riddikulus,” the Boggart vanishing back into the wardrobe.

But all Ed can truly comprehend is the deep sense of dread and urgency constricting his lungs like he’s being sucked back through the Gate. What am I doing? I need to get back I need to stop them I need to save everyone I—

“Ed,” Lupin’s voice reaches him like through molasses, hands firmly but gently gripping his upper arms. Ed can’t see anything but red alchemical energy and the eye of the Gate, his breathing coming out shallow and desperate.

»I’m so sorry,« he whispers. »I’m trying, I swear I’m not leaving you.«

A part of him, a muffled part that’s holding onto sense and reason knows he’s having a panic attack, but the fear gripping him isn’t natural, isn’t rational. It’s like the Dementor, but instead of despair it’s all his fears and self-doubt clouding his head like thick fog.

There are gentle hands on either side of his face, and when he blinks he’s looking into Lupin’s green eyes instead of the abyss of the transmutation. His cheeks are wet and he wonders when he’d started to cry when he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d done so.

“Are you back with us, Ed?”

He has to blink a couple more times before he starts fully registering where he is and what’s going on, his stomach roiling. He slams a hand to his mouth, trying his level best to keep his breakfast down. Lupin’s eyes widen and he quickly drags him over to the trash bin in the corner.

They get there just in time, bile and half-digested food escaping him against his will.

“Fuck,” he groans, his sight swimming again. He half-expects Lupin to chastise his language again, but the man only continues holding him up and rubbing his back.

“I’m sorry,” Lupin says eventually, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t expect you to have quite such a reaction.”

Ed shakes his head, doing his best to get his breathing back under control. He can’t believe this stupid thing made him freak out like that. “You—, you couldn’t have k-known,” he croaks. “I don’t usually re-react like—, like that.” I don’t usually have mental breakdowns, he means but doesn’t say. Judging by the look Lupin gives him the man understands.

Someone clears their throat behind them and Ed sees dark skin out of the corner of his eyes. “Here, Professor, he dropped his wand,” Blaise says quietly, dark eyes looking anywhere but at him.

“Ah, thank you, Blaise,” Lupin takes the wand from him and puts it in Ed’s robe pocket for him when he sees his hands shake too much for him to do anything but grip at his knees. “Would you be so kind as to walk him to the Hospital Wing? You already did the Boggart, after all.”

“Of course,” Blaise mutters, waiting silently as Lupin helps Ed stand back up. His ports ache something fierce, and he’s reminded of the day he and Granny unearthed that thing.

He almost retches again at the memory.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, rubbing his gloved left hand over his face. Blaise snorts, and when he checks he can see Lupin give him a look.

“You are not, Ed,” he raises his hand when Ed opens his mouth to protest. “You just had a panic attack, you are going to the Hospital Wing, are we clear?”

He scowls, swallowing his protests. “... fine.”

Madam Pomfrey eyes them with the kind of contempt reserved for doctors who have to deal with too many reckless patients. “And what exactly happened that you were sent here?”

“Nothing,” Ed grits out, throwing Blaise a warning look. “Professor Lupin just worries too much.”

“He had a panic attack and threw up after facing his Boggart,” Blaise says eerily, ignoring him entirely when he slaps at his shoulder. “Professor Lupin asked me to bring him here for a check up.”

“Traitor.”

“Moron.”

“Enough!” Madam Pomfrey snarls, hands on her hips and glaring daggers at them. “You,” she points at Ed. “Sit down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he sighs, trudging over to the bed she pointed out and plopping down, grumpy and sulking.

“Well,” Blaise drawls, dropping Ed’s book bag beside him. “Have fun, I suppose.” His grin is all teeth when Ed flips him off, turning around with a flutter of waving fingers and billowing robes.

Madam Pomfrey returns with three vials of different potions. She holds up the first, a blue color. “Calming Draught against shock and trauma—,”

“I’m not traumatized,” Ed grumbles, but one look at her face has him accept the bottle and swallow it in one go, the peppermint taste not as bad as he feared it would be.

Next she holds out the turquoise one, a silver mist rising up as he uncorks it. “Draught of Peace against any lingering anxiety.” This time he doesn’t complain and instead just drinks it, knowing better than to argue. “And finally an Invigoration Draught to give you energy and counteract the sleepiness from the other two.”

The orange potion goes down as well, and he raises an eyebrow at her. “Can I leave now?”

“No,” she gathers the empty potion vials with practiced motions. “You will stay here until lunch so I can make sure you’re going to be alright, Mr Elric.”

He sighs, bending down to take off his shoes. This was stupid. He’s perfectly fine and doesn’t need all this fussing—

“May I ask if that is a normal Boggart reaction for you, Mr Elric?” The edge to her voice makes him certain that if he said yes she’d rip him a new one for not telling Lupin ahead of time.

“No, this was the first time I’ve seen one,” he responds, lying back on the bed and putting an arm over his eyes.

Madam Pomfrey hums. “Very well, I suppose it couldn’t be helped, then. Try to rest and I’ll wake you for lunch.”

“Sure,” he mutters, listening as she closes the curtains around his bed and walks away. “I’m fucking pathetic.”

By the time he gets to lunch word about his freakout has spread far and wide and Ed is done. One look at the expression on his face is enough for Blaise to get the memo and wordlessly offer him the roll basket.

Others do not.

(he’d been right about Blaise being the only one with any common sense, apparently)

“So, I can’t decide which of you was more pathetic, Potter or you,” Nott jeers at him, chuckling at his own remark. Around them the table is quiet, their last altercation still fresh in everyone’s minds.

“You’re afraid of zombies, you’re hardly one to talk,” Blaise sighs, looking very much done with it all.

Ed has his gaze locked on the roll he’s buttering, trying his best to sound nonchalant. “What was Harry’s Boggart?”

“A Dementor,” the other boy says with the same blasé voice, doing a much better job at it, the prick. “Lupin had to step in for that one, too.”

He hums, putting some ham slices on his sandwich in the making. “Can’t blame him.”

“Oh right,” Nott cuts in again, not to be ignored. “Didn’t you faint on the train? Maybe that’s why you’re friends with Longbottom and that mudblood bitch—,” he’s cut off, eyes widening as his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Nott makes several choked noises, growing red in the face with anger, while Ed ignores him, slowly putting his wand back in his robe pocket underneath the table.

Blaise smirks into his juice. “Langlock jinx?”

Ed hums, taking a bite from his sandwich. It’s answer enough.

For the rest of lunch people leave him alone.

It’s not until dinner that someone tries to bring it up again, and to Ed’s great surprise it’s Draco sitting down next to him with a frown on his face. “Your Boggart—,”

“What about it?” Ed is purposefully turned away from him, intently drowning his mashed potatoes with gravy.

“Just—,” the boy bites his lip, looking mighty uncomfortable. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“You had a pretty bad reaction—,”

“Draco,” he cuts him off, finally turning to glare at him. “Unless you want either a fist or a jinx to the face, you are better off dropping this topic right now. Just ask Nott.”

Draco reels back. “I’m trying to be nice—,”

“I didn’t ask you to be nice, alright?” Ed knows he’s being an asshole, but he doesn’t give two fucks about it. “Go and cry to your daddy about it.” Before he can see Draco’s reaction he’s standing up from the table, dinner forgotten, and making his way towards the dungeons.

He needs a fucking nap.

[Tuesday, 7 September 1993, Great Hall]

Elric — Ed? He keeps calling him by his first name, after all — had already been asleep by the time Draco had gone to bed, and he isn’t sure whether to be glad or pissed off about it.

“I’m only gonna say this once,” Ed’s voice suddenly sounds from across the breakfast table, startling Draco out of his reverie. He looks up only to find Ed frowning at him, looking uncomfortable. “I’m sorry about snapping yesterday.”

Draco raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh?”

“Shut up and let me finish,” the other boy growls. “Listen, my Boggart… is complicated, and I don’t wanna get into it. It was my first time seeing one, I didn’t expect what it turned into, and my reaction was over the top and embarrassing. Regardless, I shouldn’t have gone off at you for trying to be nice, and I apologize,” a bright blush spreads over Ed’s face then. “Now let’s forget any of this ever happened.”

He considers this for a moment. Normally, he wouldn’t let it slide to have someone rebuff him like that and insult him on top of it, but—

Ed had been right, it’s important to make nice with people, to let small things slide for gain down the line. Sure, he could stay mad, but chances are Ed would stop talking to him, and does he really want that? The guy was weird, yeah, but he also had that something that just seemed to draw people to him, even Blaise, who was notoriously aloof. He’d stood up to Nott and won. He had sat with Gryffindors — with mudbloods and blood traitors and Potter — and yelled at them all for taking umbrage with it.

And not one of them had dared to take offense to it again. Not when he seemed perfectly able to use nonverbal jinxes on them all without getting caught — and no Slytherin worth their salt would ever snitch on another.

Ed was scary, and smart and resourceful enough to make you regret crossing him.

For all his faults and disregard for status he was a force to be reckoned with, wasn’t he?

Wouldn’t it be the exact opposite of cunning to rebuff him for something so minor?

“You owe me for being a rude bitch,” Draco sniffs, smirking as Ed sputters and reels back in indignation.

“... fine.”

He nods, and they leave it at that.

“Harry’s checkmate in three turns,” the snake’s voice suddenly drawls from Ron’s left, and he wants to throw his glass of pumpkin juice at the jerk.

He looks at the board and curses low under his breath.

The git’s right.

“Huh?” Harry looks between him and the intruder, then at the board. “Where did I go wrong?”

“Easier to tell you where you didn’t go wrong.”

He’s right, but he doesn’t have to be so mean about it.

Ron glares at him. “Oh, like you’re better.”

Elric raises a frustratingly perfect eyebrow at him. There’s a barely-healed scar over it, giving Ron pause. Why didn’t he get that treated? “Why’re you the one who’s offended?” He blinks. “And I’m not good, but I’m probably better than him.”

“A troll is better at chess than me,” Harry snorts, tipping over his king and surrendering. He waves at Elric. “How about you and Ron give it a shot?”

Elric shrugs and looks at him expectantly.

Drat, it’s not like he can decline now, it’d look like he’s scared, and he isn’t scared of some stupid Slytherin.

“White or black?”

“White,” Elric says, already moving to set up the board. He starts out with a pawn to C4, and the game is on.

The game goes on for much longer than Ron’s usual ones, and for once he’s forgotten about lunch as Elric eventually moves his rook to B7. Ron moves his king out of the way to H8, only for Elric to move his rook in position for checkmate again.

Ron takes it with his queen and loses his knight to Elric’s bishop.

That’s irrelevant though when he moves his queen to G3 and grins. “Checkmate, Elric.”

He sighs, watching his king remove his crown. “Told you I’m not good.”

Is he for real? “You’re alright,” Ron surprises himself with the admission and quickly moves to pack up his chess set. Lunch would be over soon, and he needed to make sure he’d get some food in his stomach to make it through Charms. “You got pretty close to winning, anyways.”

The smile Elric sends him is all teeth and way too flattered, and Ron hates that he enjoyed the match. It’s rare for him to get an actual challenge these days — nothing quite compares after that game in first year, one day he ought to find the guts to challenge McGonagall for real — and Elric had been close to winning, closer than most people got.

“Thanks for the match,” Elric says, turning to the empty plate in front of him and filling it with food, ignoring the fact that this wasn’t his fucking House table. Again.

“... likewise,” he mutters, stuffing a too-large bite of fish in his mouth at Hermione’s smug face.

What does she know, anyways?

[Thursday, 9 September 1993, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom]

Ed had been tense throughout the entirety of DADA, just waiting for stupid comments from people in the class or for Lupin to make a big deal out of his… overreaction, but they merely went on with the syllabus and started on Grindylows. He’s just finished packing his stuff when the teacher calls his name, and he sighs.

He should have known, really.

He walks up to the teacher’s desk, feeling utterly tired and done already and incredibly glad it was his last class for the day. “Yes, Professor?”

Green eyes scrutinize him for a brief moment. There’s no judgment there, much to Ed’s relief. “Are you doing alright?”

“Yes,” he replies, curt, voice cold.

Lupin waffles for a moment, and it’s almost enough to make Ed feel bad about his attitude. It’s normal for him to be concerned after what happened, and it speaks to him as a person that he waited for after class and is even asking him in the first place; more than a few teachers were frosty towards him for his House alone.

Ed sighs, deflating a little. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

“It’s perfectly alright,” Lupin placates quickly, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “I really just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

“Thank you,” Ed says and means it, really, but this was awkward as all fuck.

The teacher hesitates for a moment. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” he says, doing his best not to go back to being a prick and not doing a very good job at it. “My Boggart’s none of your business, no offense.”

“None taken,” Lupin’s lips twitch like he’s resisting a smirk. “It’s an open offer, though. If you need to talk to someone I’ll be happy to listen, Ed.”

Ed flounders. “Oh. Uh, thank you, Professor,” he makes to turn, gauging if Lupin wants to say more, but he merely smiles and waves him off.

Thank fuck.

Just as he’s about to breathe a sigh of relief he stops short again, noticing Draco and Blaise standing by the open door of the classroom. The former raises an eyebrow. “You done here?”

He blinks. “Yes?”

“Good,” Draco rolls his eyes and grabs his wrist. “Let’s get to dinner, I’m starving.”

[Friday, 10 September 1993, Hogwarts Greenhouses]

Ed is focused on the textbook when someone sits down beside him. He looks up, surprised at Neville’s presence. “Huh?”

“Wa—,” Neville frowns, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before he tries again. “Wanna team up?”

Ed gapes at him. “You realize I somehow managed to kill the Mandrake sapling I was supposed to raise, right?”

Neville raises an eyebrow at him. “You teamed up with me in the class I notoriously suck at, I figured I should return the favor.”

“Are you sure?” He turns to look at the wilty leaves of the new sapling he received from a very reluctant Sprout.

“Yeah, we need these to actually grow up, can’t have you kill one per week, mate.”

Ed sighs, letting his head fall onto the textbook. “Okay. Thank you, Neville.”

“No problem,” he hears him respond, walking away to gather his things and move them to his spot in the greenhouse.

“Why are you short on Mandrakes, anyways?” Sprout had said they needed to raise a bunch of them to replenish the school’s stores, but hadn’t mentioned why. The rest of the class had seemed to know, but no one had bothered to tell him.

Neville looks at him in confusion for a moment before he seems to realize something. “Oh, right, you weren’t here,” the boy looks around to make sure no one is listening, lowering his voice to answer. “So, last year a bunch of students got petrified by a Basilisk, and Mandrakes are the main ingredient for the potion to cure that.”

Ed frowns. “Don’t Basilisks kill?”

“Yeah, normally. It was seriously lucky no one died; everyone looked at it through reflections, so they only got petrified.”

“Huh, that is lucky,” he admits, taking the various bottles of plant fertilizer from Neville. “So because you needed so much of the potion the Mandrake store is low?”

“Pretty much,” he shrugs, making to measure out the exact solution of the fertilizer they’ll need, Ed relegated to merely handing him the vials he needs. For someone who sucks at Potions Neville is surprisingly good at mixing this. Go figure.

“Hey Neville?” The boy hums, intently focused on the mixture. “Thanks.”

He throws him a blinding smile, then returns to work.

Chapter Text

[Wednesday, 15 September 1993, First Floor Corridor]

Ed first sees her when he ducks around the corner into the library hallway to skip History of Magic.

Her hair is a wild mess of silver-blond, her pale face tipped up towards a wooden beam running across the ceiling. Following her gaze Ed sees several pairs of shoes dangling from it, and, checking, finds her feet bare.

He comes to a stop beside her, one eyebrow raised. “Need a hand?”

She doesn’t startle, but turns her face towards him. Her eyes are the same pale color as her hair, and Ed idly wonders how odd they must look next to each other. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

Ten minutes later he has levitated her shoes off of the beam and sat down beside her, trying to untie the knotted laces. “So, how did they end up there?”

“The others don’t like me much, so they like to pull pranks like this.”

Ed frowns. “That’s stupid.”

She lets out a quiet breath through her nose like silent laughter. “I’m Luna Lovegood, by the way. Thank you for your help, Edward.”

He almost asks how she knows his name, but then remembers that almost everyone must, at this point. “It’s a given to help people, if you are able.”

“It’s not, but it should be,” she hums, slowly putting a pair of shoes she’d untied on her feet. “You’re a very kind soul.”

“I don’t know about that,” he mutters, finishing with the last of her shoes. “Is there any other stuff I can help you get back?”

Luna tilts her head, and it reminds him a bit of a puppy. “No, it’s too early in the year for it.”

“That doesn’t exactly make me feel better about leaving you to your own devices.”

She smiles. “Don’t worry about me.”

Ed rolls his eyes and gets up, offering her his left hand to help her up. “I’m an older brother; I always worry about my juniors,” he rubs at the back of his neck, averting his eyes. “If you need help or someone bothers you, just give me a holler; I’ll make sure to… let them know what’s wrong with their behavior.”

Luna’s smile grows a little wider. “I will keep that in mind, Edward.”

[Friday, 17 September 1993, Hogwarts Grounds]

Looking at the giant… Chimera-thing — Hagrid had called it a Hippogriff, but that thing was a fucking Chimera, no way is that natural what the fuck — he very much understands the comment about the previous professor’s remaining limbs from the Welcome Feast.

He is staying well the fuck away from that, thank you very much.

“Ts,” Draco mutters next to him, rolling his eyes at the startled yelp Harry lets out as the beast fucking takes flight. “If Potter can do it the thing can’t be as sharp and dangerous as the big oaf claimed.”

“Draco,” Ed starts, giving him a deadpan look. “Did you see that thing’s claws? They were the length of my forearm, I’m staying right here with my feet firmly planted on the ground.” I’ve had enough encounters with Chimeras to last me a lifetime.

He’s startled out of his sudden reverie by the thing landing back on the ground with a very disheveled and flushed Chosen One on its back.

And then things go to shit, because when have they ever not?

Draco pushes forward from the huddled group of Slytherins with the kind of swagger that tells of pain to come at the hands of Fortuna and common sense, and Ed seriously debates just letting it all play out because he’s not Draco’s fucking mother.

But as he’d told Luna, he can never leave well enough alone where people younger than him are concerned.

The Chimera-Hippogriff-fucking-whatever rears back onto its hind legs, wings spread and claws extended, ready to maul a very stupid rich brat to ribbons. Before it can come to that, Ed has pushed Draco out of the way and raised his right arm up to protect his face from the attack.

The sound of claws scraping against steel screeches throughout the clearing and confuses the beast enough to make it recoil. Hagrid is quick to reign it in and distract it with food, while Ed makes sure that his automail is still in one piece because he kind of doubts a fucking Reparo is enough to handle it if it is broken.

It’s intact, though slightly scratched, and he sends a quick thank you to Winry for her immaculate handiwork before he rounds on Draco, still sitting on the ground covered in wet leaves. “You! What the fuck was that, huh? Are you fucking suicidal?” He throws up his arms, heedless of the fact that his right sleeve is absolutely shredded and his automail on full display. “I swear I should have just let that thing maul you and teach you a lesson on common sense! I can’t believe—,”

“Uh, Ed?” He whirls around, some choice expletives on the tip of his tongue, only to come up short when it’s Hagrid who’d spoken. “You and Malfoy should… probably go to the Hospital Wing.”

“We’re fine,” he rolls his eyes, waving at Draco with his right hand, dismissively. “The most this idiot got is a bruised ego, which is the least he deserves.”

“Your arm—,”

“Is fine—,”

“Please?” Hagrid is fumbling with his fingers, obviously nervous, and Ed deflates. He was a freshly-minted teacher, of course he was overly cautious.

“Alright.” He turns back to Draco and hauls him up by his robes like an unruly kitten and pushes him ahead of himself, never relenting his hold. “Let’s go, you stupid bellend. If you’re lucky I won’t beat your ass before we get to Pomfrey.”

Back with the rest of the class, Ron speaks up into the silence left by Ed’s truly remarkable string of expletives. “So, I wasn’t hallucinating, right? His right arm’s metal, right?”

Madam Pomfrey looks at them the exact same way she had the previous week, deeply annoyed at their presence and a hair’s width away from slapping sense into them.

Ed is inclined to let her do it, to Draco, at the very least.

“What happened this time? Can I not go two weeks without seeing your face, Mr Elric?”

He gives her his best blank stare. “Don’t yell at me, this is all on Draco; the dumbass thought it was smart to start a fight with a Ch—, Hippogriff and I had to save his ass. Hagrid was just worried, but if Draco has more than a bruised ego and tailbone I’d be surprised.” He throws his friend a withering glare.

(when had he started considering this dumbass his friend anyways?)

“And you?”

He blinks, turning back to her. “Huh?”

“Are you injured?”

Ed snorts, not thinking when he waves his right arm in her direction, the sleeve ripped apart up to his elbow and automail on full display. “Nah, the thing just got my automail, only left a few surface scratches on the plating.”

“What in Merlin’s name is that?!”

He leans back at her suddenly raised voice, looking between her horrified face and his arm, before it dawns on him and he curses himself. So I guess automail is not a thing here. “A… prosthetic?”

“Why,” Draco croaks, expression pallid. “Do you have a prosthetic arm?”

“Because… I lost my regular one?” He intends to say it like he thinks the question is stupid, which he does, but it ends up sounding a little unsure. Can wizards regrow limbs and this just makes him suspicious?

Both Pomfrey and Draco pale even further, taking in twin breaths of apprehension. Madam Pomfrey’s voice quivers when she asks. “How did this happen, if I may ask?”

How the fuck am I supposed to answer that?

Aw, fuck it, when in doubt just use his tried-and-true excuses. “Last civil war, when I was eleven,” he hesitates, then pulls his pant leg up for good measure. “Left leg from the mid-thigh down, too. Arm from the shoulder.”

Draco turns around, muttering repeated what-the-fucks under his breath, and Ed thinks that’s a bit of an overreaction. Then again, he doesn’t actually know how common lost limbs are in this world, so maybe his standard of ‘every other person is missing at least something’ is not a good fit for this place.

“Are you telling me,” Pomfrey says, voice pressed. “That you lost two limbs to Dark Magic when you were eleven?”

Eh, close enough. “Yeah?”

“Merlin and Morgana,” she mutters. “Why didn’t you tell me? Do they need special maintenance or medical care? How do they even work, you seem able to move them like regular limbs, I’ve never seen something like this before!”

He blinks, momentarily lost. “Was I supposed to tell you?”

“Were you supposed to tell the school nurse about your medical history?” She glares, looking ready for slaughter. “Yes!”

“Fair enough,” he concedes with a shrug. “I can do basic maintenance myself, it’s just cleaning and oiling for the most part. Cold and pressure changes like storms make the ports ache, but for the most part it’s fine.”

Pomfrey looks green in the face. “Ports?”

Ed sighs and loosens his tie, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his shoulder joint. He doesn’t miss the way Pomfrey’s eyes first lock on the scarring there, and then take quick inventory of the scars scattered across his torso. He gestures at the joint. “So, the automail — that’s what this type of prosthetic is called — connects to these ports, and there are wires connected to my nervous system so my brain sends impulses through them, which in turn moves the limbs. It’s more complicated than that, but I’m no expert.”

“You have metal screwed into your body?!” Ed had almost forgotten Draco was even there. “Why the fuck.”

“I mean, I didn’t wanna walk around two limbs short, you know? Kind of a hassle. My country is sort of known for these types of prosthetics, because of the constant warmongering. Got lots of vets with lost limbs around. Most people don’t even get them because the surgery is so painful; you can’t get anesthetics or painkillers because it involves your nerves, so you have to be conscious and stuff.”

Pomfrey takes a deep breath. “And you were eleven?”

“Uh, yeah?” Why is she so hung up on that? Suddenly feeling self-conscious he starts buttoning his shirt back up but gets stopped by her hands on his.

“And these other scars?”

Ed shrugs. “I’m accident-prone.”

“Why didn’t you get these wounds treated so they wouldn’t scar?”

That’s a thing? “Didn’t see the point.”

Pomfrey looks like she very much would like to slap some sense into him, which, rude, Draco is right there, but seems to think better of it. “... Both of you, sit down until the end of the school day, I’ll send for Albus to talk about… the incident in class, I suppose.”

They do as they are told, Ed buttoning his shirt all the while. Draco, for his part, looks like he’ll hurl at a moment’s notice.

Oh, right, he almost forgot.

“So, Draco,” he starts, voice overly cheery. “I’ll ask you again, what the fuck was that stunt?”

His friend — he needs better friends — startles. “I—,”

“Because,” he cuts him off. “Let’s assume you were right and the Hippogriff was harmless, what would that have accomplished? Nothing. And worst case scenario you’re wrong — which you were — and fucking die. I was so fucking tempted to just let you fall on your ass back there, and you are so fucking lucky I stepped in because you would have gotten ripped to shreds by that thing if I hadn’t. Do you have any common sense? Are you suicidal? Are you just a goddamn fucking moron?”

Draco blinks, cheeks coloring slightly in embarrassment. “No, Ed, I just… Potter always has to make everything about himself, and it’s annoying. I figured—,”

“You do realize that you made everything about yourself earlier? And give the kid a break; he got orphaned at one, and almost killed every school year, let him have some fun if that’s what he wants. You’ve got parents and friends and don’t have various killers after you all the fucking time,” Ed sighs. “If he annoys you so much then just ignore him. If he wants attention, which I don’t actually think he does, then the best thing you can do is not give it to him.”

He leans back on the bed and stares at the ceiling. “I think you’re a good kid, deep down, Draco, but you make it very hard to like you when you pull shit like this, and it gets very hard to justify to my other friends why I hang out with you, you know? Just… get over yourself, because this? Isn’t a good look, my guy.”

Ed sees Draco look at him for a moment out of the corner of his eyes, before he sighs and takes out his wand, muttering a quiet Reparo to fix his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“You better be,” he snorts, nudging him with his shoulder. “Moron.”

They wait in companionable silence for Dumbledore and Pomfrey to show up, and the headmaster looks surprisingly serious for once. “Hello.”

“Hey,” Ed mutters, waving lazily. He almost smirks at the glare from Pomfrey.

“Now,” Dumbledore starts, seemingly unperturbed by Ed’s lack of respect. “What exactly happened?”

Ed exchanges a look with Draco, raising his eyebrows as if to say watch your mouth. Draco swallows and looks at Dumbledore, looking appropriately contrite. “I… was reckless, and provoked the Hippogriff during class. Ed intervened and saved me, and neither of us got hurt. It was my mistake, I’m sorry.”

Ed watches as Dumbledore’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise before he schools his features, and Ed almost bursts out laughing. “... I see. Ten points from Slytherin, for your lapse of judgment, Mr Malfoy. Fifteen points for Slytherin for helping your classmate, Mr Elric. I hope you will think about the consequences of your actions next time, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco bites his lip like he has to refrain from a dumb comment — so he can learn — and nods, silent.

“Very well,” Dumbledore says, turning to Pomfrey. “Now that this is settled, I will leave them in your capable hands, Poppy,” with that he leaves in a flurry of purple robes and silver hair, and they lapse back into silence as they wait for Pomfrey to finally release them from her clutches.

(Ed thinks it’s mostly punishment for being reckless)

A little after class is supposed to end Blaise and Pansy show up in the Hospital Wing with their bags in tow, and Pomfrey finally lets them go. As their little group makes their way towards the Great Hall for an early dinner Pansy holds Ed back, face troubled and hand hesitant on his right arm.

“Yes?”

“Just,” she bites her lip and frowns. “Thank you, Ed, for saving Draco. He can be a bit of a reckless git.”

Ed snorts. “I’ve noticed. It’s no problem, Pansy.”

She hesitates again. “Your arm—,”

“A prosthetic,” he shrugs. “It’s old news, don’t worry about it.”

Pansy looks like she wants to protest and pry, but thinks better of it. “... alright, let’s go get dinner, I guess.”

It’s evident that news about his automail has spread because if anyone gossips more than small towns and the military, it’s teenagers at a boarding school. Whispers and not very covert glances follow him to the Slytherin table, and if he was less used to it he might feel on edge. As it is he’s just bored.

“You know,” Blaise hums, offering him the bread roll basket. “That explains why you are using your non-dominant hand all the time, actually.”

(Blaise is easily Ed’s favorite person at this school for his overabundance of common sense in the face of generalized idiocy)

“You noticed?” Ed rips a roll apart and dunks it in his tomato soup, taking a thoughtful bite.

“Not at first, but when you beat the snot out of Nott—,” Pansy hides her laughter with a cough into her hand. “You led with your right hand, and I’m told that’s how you can tell someone’s dominant hand.”

Ed whistles. “You’re right. It took a bit over a year to get the surgery and rehabilitation over with, and since I don’t have a sense of pressure with it I had to train myself to do more delicate stuff with my left.”

Draco pales again at the mention of surgery, while Pansy and Blaise look confused but decide to shrug it off. All three of them let the topic go, though, and Ed is grateful for the fact.

Especially when things inevitably escalate.

It’s Nott, because of course it is.

Ed isn’t entirely sure just why the guy has it out for him this badly. He had made it abundantly clear that he was not impressed with him, not scared by him, and didn’t think he was worth his time.

Yet, somehow, Nott insisted on trying to rile Ed up, and it was getting old very, very fast, faster even than being locked in a cell in Fort Briggs.

(fleetingly, Ed even considers that he’d rather invite Ling out for an All You Can Eat Buffet for a week straight than exchange another word with the kid, and isn’t that a testament to his exasperation?)

“Oi, freak.”

Ed is uncomfortably aware that the way he groans internally is likely how Mustang felt whenever Ed was being a little shit, and resents Nott for that just a little bit more. “Yes?”

“How did that happen?”

It’s a rude question from anyone but medical personnel, mechanics and people Ed calls at the very least close acquaintances, even coming from a culture where automail was ubiquitous and lost limbs just another fact of life. But it was especially rude from this fucker. “None of your business.”

“Oh, I see,” Nott says, and Ed is inclined to think he doesn’t actually see at all. “You fucked around with Dark Magic and blew off your own arm, huh? Go figure.”

It was uncomfortably close to the truth, if Ed considered magic and alchemy as equals, which, technically, they were. Truth had said they work on the same principles, but he refused to entertain that line of thinking out of sheer, asinine stubbornness. He’d already let Pomfrey and Draco assume it had been Dark Magic that cost him his limbs, though gave them the same excuse he’d given Wrath, years ago when the leash of his silver watch had merely been metaphorical.

But Nott, in his stupidity, had somehow hit the nail on the head, and Ed feels disdain like acid rush through his veins.

“What if I did?” He meets Draco’s gaze across the table they were sitting at, pale blond eyebrows raising in question. There is a glimmer in his eyes that tells of faint amusement, likely from Draco’s own tendency to fuck with people. “Heard your daddy likes to fuck around with Dark Magic himself. Pot and kettle and all that, don’t you think?”

Nott frowns, baring his teeth. “Watch your mouth, freak, not like you know anything.”

“I know more than you think, I’d wager,” Ed drawls, turning slightly in his seat and draping an arm lazily over the back of his chair. He’s bluffing hard, completely relying on the bits and pieces of disjointed knowledge Truth had provided him, but he seems to have hit bullseye with the way Nott is reacting. Ed takes a stab in the dark, and hopes it won’t backfire as badly as Mustang’s last gamble had. “Hey, which was it, again? Left or right arm?”

The sudden silence in the common room could drown a man, and Nott pales, turning to Draco with a look of hatred so fierce it almost takes Ed aback. “What did you tell this foreign piece of shit, Malfoy?” He hisses the question out from between grit teeth, but the room is so quiet he might as well have shouted it.

“Draco didn’t tell me shit,” Ed steps in before Draco can even think to answer. “I’m just not as ignorant as you lot seem to be. There’s such a thing as books and newspaper articles you can read in this place called a library. Maybe try that sometime.”

“Oh, fuck off—,”

“No, you fuck off,” Ed says, voice edged with warning. “Or I’ll start actually being serious.” He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Ed hadn’t faced fucking Kimblee with deadly intent, and he wasn’t gonna face a literal child with it either.

(he ignores the voice that tells him that Nott was a year older than Ed had been when he had become a dog of the military, a human weapon, that most would consider him a child, too)

But Nott didn’t know that, probably. And perhaps the last time Ed had thrown him on his ass was clearer in his mind than he suspected, because indecision flits over his face. He gets up and walks closer to Nott, just to make sure the lesson sinks in for sure this time. “Listen closely, because this is your last warning, okay? I’ve dealt with worse shit than a little brat like you, and last time? That was child’s play, shitface. I’ve done much worse for much less, and if you don’t want to find out just what that looked like, I advise you to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. Are we clear?”

Ed doesn’t actually wait for an answer and instead turns his back on Nott in clear dismissal, making it obvious that he didn’t consider him a threat on any level, and gathers his homework, walking right past him and to the dorms.

Not for the first time he wishes he could be dealing with the Ministry of Magic instead of children.

[Saturday, 18 September 1993, Quidditch Field]

Draco had suggested it at breakfast in an obvious and piss-poor attempt to distract from what had happened last night in the common room, the very obvious words between the lines of what Nott had spit: that Draco’s father had been a Death Eater the same as Nott’s.

(the thing is Ed didn’t not care that one of his friend’s dad was a fucking magic nationalist with genocidal ambitions, but he also didn’t feel like he could really judge — his country had committed atrocities out the wazoo, and he was a part of the same military that had perpetuated senseless genocide, had only escaped the fate of having to commit one himself by the skin of his teeth.

Besides, Draco was his own person and not his dad, and it would be unfair to judge him for that)

“You’ve really never sat on a broom before?” Draco and Blaise are looking at him like he’d grown a second head, though given the general state of the wizarding world they might not have actually batted an eye at that turn of events.

“Nope,” he says, popping the p and eyeing the sleek black and silver brooms in question lying innocently at their feet. “Never ever.”

“Weirdo,” Blaise snorts, rummaging in his pockets and coming up with a stopwatch and a golden ball, handing both to Draco. “Are we sure you’re a pureblood?”

“We just don’t care for flying and Quidditch back home,” Ed lies through his teeth, straight-faced. “And I don’t see why I have to start caring now just because I’m in Great Britain.”

Draco rolls his eyes, having both brooms fly up into his and Ed’s hand with a twist of his wrist. The unexpected impact has Ed stumble slightly and sends the other two into a fit of snickers. “I told you, one of the Chasers wants to go into reserve to focus more on his NEWTs and I’d rather play Chaser than Seeker, but I have to find a replacement first.”

“And your best bet is the guy who’s never sat on a broom and doesn’t give a shit about this silly game?”

“My best bet is the one guy I haven’t asked yet. Everyone else either didn’t want to or sucked ass.”

“I don’t want to, and probably suck ass.”

“Probably is the important detail here. We don’t know until we try.”

“Merlin’s beard, you two sound like an old married couple,” Blaise gripes, making for the stands. “I can’t listen to this.”

“You’re the one who keeps flirting with me,” Ed shouts after him, grinning as the other boy flips him off over his shoulder.

Draco shoots him a look. “You flirt back.”

Ed shrugs. “I’m a bisexual disaster,” he turns to the broom in his hand, leaving it at that. “So, how does this work?”

“You sit on it.”

“Harhar,” Ed rolls his eyes but does it anyways. “I feel silly.”

“It is a little silly that you’re so stupid about this,” Draco agrees, mounting his own broom. “Now you kick off. You know, easy.”

“I will figure this out just to kick you off of your broom,” Ed growls, watching warily as Draco ascends into the air. This is all so fucked. He looks down at the ground, then frowns at the broom he’s clutching tightly. “I swear, if you pull something funny I will do like Colonel Bastard and turn you into a torch,” he mutters under his breath before kicking off the ground.

Then he’s several meters in the air and it’s awesome.

“Whoa,” he breathes, leveling the broom to stop his ascend, looking over to see Draco a few meters away and raising a mocking eyebrow.

“Great, you managed the bare minimum,” Draco snarks, but it lacks any true intent to offend. At this point Ed was sure that Draco wielded snark like Hawkeye her deadpan, liberally and mostly for show. “Now—,”

Ed holds up a hand, focused entirely on the feeling of the whole thing. “Let me try to figure it out first.”

“Are you sure?” Draco actually sounds slightly worried, and out of the corner of his eyes he can see him throw a cautious look at Blaise.

“Yeah,” he affirms, frowning slightly as he thinks. “Blaise can catch my fall with a spell if I fuck up.”

“... that doesn’t fill me with confidence, Ed.”

But Ed is already not listening anymore, slightly pressing his weight to the right as if he was riding a bike rather than a flying fucking broom. And just like with a bike he moves in a light curve. He hums, trying the same with moving left. If he moves his weight to the front slightly, so does the broom, accelerating with the amount of weight he puts into the movement. Up and down are a little harder, mostly because that does not at all translate from riding a bike, but it’s easy enough.

He looks up and tries to move closer towards Draco without staring at the broom like he’s afraid it will buck underneath him and throw him to his untimely death at the hands of gravity.

“Okay,” he nods, more to himself than his friend. “I think I can do this.”

Draco leans back, somehow not making the broom move. That’s something Ed will have to figure out next. “Are you sure? Snitches are fast.”

“Yeah, sure,” he nods, impatient. “I’m used to learning on the fly, just let me try this,” he thinks about his words for a moment. “The pun was not intended, but still funny.”

“Alright,” Draco hesitates, throwing Blaise another look. The boy already has his wand out, the fucker. He holds out the Snitch. “Close your eyes and count to five.”

Ed does, and on five opens his eyes and hears the click of the stopwatch. It takes him three seconds to survey the stadium, another to find the Snitch, and one more to shoot off.

It takes him longer to catch it than he’d anticipated, mostly because he doesn’t have as fine a control over the broom’s movements yet as he’d like. It’s as clumsy as his first few circleless transmutations were, but that had become second nature quickly enough, so he doubts this will be much harder, if he cares to put in the work.

When he gets back to Draco with the struggling little ball in his hand and awkwardly stops his movement beside the other boy, he raises an eyebrow. “How was that?”

Draco gapes at him, then looks at the stopwatch, then at him again. “That was thirty seconds.”

Ed frowns. “Drat, I thought I’d be faster. I overshot a few times, but I think I can get the hang of it with some practice.”

“Ed,” Draco sounds strangled. “Fastest catch ever was three and a half seconds. Thirty seconds is insane.”

“It is?”

“Yes! Especially for someone who’s never sat on a broom in his life!”

Ed mulls this over for a moment, then looks back at the other boy. “So… does that mean I take over as Seeker or…”

“Yes, Ed, of course it does!”

Below them, Blaise lets out an unenthused whoop.

Chapter Text

[Friday, 24 September 1993, Hogwarts Greenhouses]

“For the coming weeks I’ll have you foster your own field of Valerian. You will make sure the plants grow healthily, and use magic to support their growth where you deem it necessary. Additionally, I want a five feet long essay on all the uses of Valerian you can think of, in as much detail as possible. You will work in groups of two. Begin.”

Herbology is the only time anyone ever wants to willingly team up with Neville, and he hates it. Because always, inevitably, he ends up doing the majority of the work without being asked, even when he teams up with someone like Hermione who pulls her own weight, simply because she expects him to do the practical work while she does the research.

He hates it.

On the other side of the greenhouse the Slytherins make a wide berth around Ed — even those he seems to be friends with — his inability to keep anything even vaguely belonging to flora alive already infamous.

Ed, who even when told that Neville blows things up on the regular in Potions class, had partnered up with him. Whose knowledge in Potions doesn’t seem to extend to fertilizer. Ed, who almost beat Ron in chess once, who doesn’t seem to give a troll’s ass about blood status, who doesn’t care about Quidditch but somehow ended up Slytherin’s new Seeker. Ed, who heard that Harry can talk to snakes and didn’t freak out but instead asked him a million questions on how it works.

Ed, who doesn’t take crap from anyone and helps without being asked.

(Ed, who is one of two students to faint when faced with a Dementor, implying he has trauma at least similarly bad as Harry Potter. Ed whose Boggart was something out of a fucking nightmare or the fucking Department of Mysteries. Ed, who apparently lost an arm when he was eleven.)

“Hey, Neville,” Seamus taps his shoulder, smiling and looking unsure. “Can we team up? I almost failed Herbology last year.”

He hates it so much.

“Sorry, Seamus,” he says, voice a bit louder than he intends it to be, decision made without conscious thought. “I was gonna ask Ed to be my partner, actually.”

The entire greenhouse is suddenly, eerily quiet, even Professor Sprout pausing where she’s handing out the Valerian seeds. A pair of eyes the color of galleons blinks at him from across the building, lips parted in surprise Neville thinks is really not warranted at all. This isn’t the first time they’ve partnered up, and their Mandrakes are still miraculously thriving despite Ed having been within one foot of them.

Seamus’ lips thin, hand dropping to his side. “Alright, go hang out with the snake again, see where that gets you.”

“Ed’s my friend,” he says with more courage than he thought he possessed. “Maybe I’d be more inclined to team up with you if you talked to me outside of asking me for help.” He gathers his things and walks up to Professor Sprout, wondering at her smile as she hands him the seeds, and walks over to Ed’s spot in the greenhouse, sitting down with something like finality.

“Hey,” Ed says, half a smile on his face as he raises an eyebrow, the scar above it glimmering in the green-tinged light. “That was pretty gutsy.”

“Everything I said was true,” Neville maintains, mentally plotting out their field for the best yield. “Seamus only ever talks to me when he needs my help for something.”

Ed hums, grabbing all the different ingredients for the fertilizer they need. So he can learn in that regard. “I guess a brave Gryffindor shouldn’t surprise me,” there’s something teasing in his tone, and from anyone else it would sound sarcastic. Instead, he sounds sincere. “For what it’s worth, you are a great friend, Neville.”

Neville smiles.

And then promptly rips the vial of Veela tears away from him before he can make the whole greenhouse explode.

“Never ever mix Veela tears with Salamander blood, Ed!”

“Oops?”

[Saturday, 25 September 1993, Quidditch Pitch]

Harry only went out to the Quidditch pitch to fly a few rounds and get his mind off of the misery that is his life. Between crazy serial killers, happiness-sucking demons and the prospect of spending Hogsmeade weekends all by his lonesome he really needed some distraction.

He didn’t expect to see one Edward Elric, newly minted Slytherin Seeker, flying rounds where he had planned to do the very same.

The other Seeker notices him as he makes to do what looks like a somersault, freezing like a deer caught in the headlights. Even from the distance he can tell that he’s scratching his cheek like he’s debating what to do, then looks like he sighs before slowly descending towards him.

“Hi,” he says, face rosy and hair ruffled from the wind. “Want me to leave you alone?”

The offer takes Harry aback and he blinks. “Uh, no, I mean you were here first-,”

“Yeah, but I can leave if you want me to.”

Harry really needs to get used to the thought that Elric was nice. Elric, the pureblood Slytherin who’s friends with Draco Malfoy, is nice. He looks at him, really looks at him, the way his braid is pretty much a lost cause after who knows how long he’s been on a broom, eyes a shade of gold even Madam Hooch couldn’t claim her own. He’s wearing the uniform without his tie, and if it wasn’t for the green trim of his cloak he wouldn’t know the difference from any other House member.

When he looks closely he can see scar tissue and metal peeking out from the open collar of his shirt, see what must be oil stains on the white glove he wears to presumably cover the prosthetic he now knows is there. There is a slim scar over his right eyebrow, and it just now occurs to him that he hasn’t seen scars on pureblooded wizards before.

Elric holds himself with an easy confidence that Harry envies. It’s the type of confidence gits like Malfoy try to emulate but can never get close to. Both Malfoy and Elric seem to come from similar backgrounds, and yet Elric comes closer to anything he’d describe as aristocratic than Malfoy could ever even dream of.

Give him a chance, Hermione had said. He’s my friend, Neville had practically shouted at Seamus. He made Malfoy apologize for upsetting Buckbeak, Hagrid had told them when they visited him.

You would have fit well in Slytherin, the Sorting Hat had told him twice.

It’s our choices that show what we truly are, Dumbledore had said.

The stupid hat was debating between all four Houses, actually, Elric had admitted, off-hand.

Harry would have fit well in Slytherin. Elric would have fit in any House.

Elric chooses to be nice in the face of suspicion, chooses to disregard convention, chooses that which is hard when there is an easy way out.

It’s our choices that show what we truly are.

Gryffindors are meant to be brave, and what’s braver than taking chances?

“You know,” he starts, feeling suddenly unmoored. “I wouldn’t mind seeing what Malfoy’s replacement’s got going for him.”

Elric blinks, then smirks and mounts his broom again. “It’s on, then.”

They race each other for a while, stopping when the sun has passed noon by some wordless agreement. They’re just idly drifting across the pitch now, Elric carelessly lounging on the broom like he’s lying on a patch of grass, left leg crossed over the other and arms folded on his chest.

Harry, feeling like he’s been brave enough for one day, opts to sit on his broom like a normal person. “So… why were you out here in the first place?”

Elric’s eyes blink open, his head turning just slightly to look at him before he looks back to the cloudy sky above them. “Figured I should practice some before I make a fool of myself next month.”

Harry frowns at him. “Huh?”

“Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know,” he shrugs. “Last week was the first time I ever sat on a broom, and I’m pretty sure if I had to play any other position I’d get lost on what the fucking rules are.”

He almost drops off of his broom. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah, my country isn’t big on brooms and Quidditch. We use cars and trains like normal people.”

“But,” Harry is so fucking confused. “You’re… a pureblood?”

Elric sighs. “Yes. My country does not enforce the Statute of Secrecy. We all just mingle. Unlike the idiots here I actually know what fucking lightbulbs are, write in actual notebooks with a pen, I can ride a bike, know not to trust that a fucking Protego can keep me from getting shot with a gun — scratch that, I fucking know how to shoot a gun,” he turns back to him, raising one perfect golden eyebrow. “When I said that I don’t give a fuck about blood status? I meant it. It’s nonsense.”

“Huh,” is all he manages to say to that, and it makes Elric snort.

“So, why were you here?”

Right, he supposes turnabout is fair play. “Trying to get my mind off of how much my life sucks.”

“You’re thirteen, how much—, wait, nevermind, Chosen One, Defeater of Voldemort, hunted by a deranged serial killer. Right, yeah, I can see why you’d need a break.”

Harry blinks, taken aback. “You… said his name.”

Elric frowns up at him. “Yes?”

“Huh,” is all he says again, ignoring the other teen’s confusion. “So, you can really shoot a gun?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Learned when I was twelve, not a fan, but I’m really good.”

“Why did you learn it when you were twelve?”

“Military dictatorship, gotta teach ‘em young.”

He kinda gets that, but—, “You’re a wizard though.”

Elric stills, something dark flashing over his face for a moment. “Riddle me this: if Voldemort had pointed a gun at you when you were a baby instead of trying to use magic, would we be here right now, talking, or would you be six feet under?”

Harry shudders, and not just at the uncomfortable coincidence of Elric using the word Riddle in a conversation about Voldemort, but because he doesn’t know. Would his mother’s protection have extended to muggle means?

“You guys were really lucky,” Elric suddenly says, cutting right through his sudden dread. “If he’d just thrown you out the window he would still be alive and kicking, but nah, gotta do it with his fancy magic stick so everyone knows how super duper awesome he is. Fucking idiot,” he turns to look at him again, and suddenly he looks much older than fifteen. “Magic is, ironically, not a magic fix-it-all. There are some things in this world even magic can’t do, and it would do you lot well to remember that.”

Harry swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “Like what?”

“Like bring back the dead,” he says it with conviction, like he knows it for a fact. “Death is the one single constant in this world, Harry, and no one can escape it.”

He wants to argue. He’d faced Voldemort’s living shadow, faced his memory brought to life but—

Was that truly life? Was that being alive?

Was escaping death truly worth it to exist like he did?

Harry wants to say something, anything, ask him how he can be so certain, when Ron’s voice calls up from the ground, and they both turn to look at the redhead and Hermione standing at the edge of the pitch.

“Huh, guess it’s time for lunch,” Elric says, voice no longer heavy with gravitas and instead back to its light snarkiness. “Didn’t think we’d been out here that long.”

They land, feet meeting the ground in tandem. Harry doesn’t miss the narrowed glare Ron sends Elric’s way — should he call him Ed? He uses his first name…

“Hey, Ed,” Hermione greets the boy with a bright smile, chuckling lightly. “Maybe fix your braid before you go to lunch.”

“Huh?” Ed blinks, hands feeling for his bird's nest mess of hair. “Shit, guess that’s to be expected,” he groans, fingers moving impossibly quickly. Not for the first time he wonders what kind of prosthetic works like that; if he didn’t know about it he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

“Can we go?” Ron grouses, looking like he’d eaten a particularly foul Berty Bott’s Bean. “And sit at the proper table for once?”

Ed rolls his eyes at the pointed barb, his broom flying off to the utility shed with a flick of his wrist. “I love you too,” he snarks, then throws Harry a glance. “Hey, could you show me what parsel sounds like some time? Just curious.”

That catches him off-guard. “Uh, I can try? I’ve only been able to do that with real snakes, mostly, but—,”

“That’s fine, I’m sure we can find a garden snake or something,” Ed shrugs, like it was the easiest thing to just find a random snake slithering about the grounds. “Or conjure one, I don’t know. I really just wanna know how it sounds, and I don’t really buy the whole can’t learn it shtick.”

Harry blinks. “... sure?”

“Awesome, thanks,” he says, patting his shoulder and strolling past them, seeming very intent on getting to lunch for someone who had lost track of time.

“Mate, do you really think that’s a good idea?”

He turns to Ron and shrugs. “I mean, what’s the harm?”

“You and ‘Mione need to be less trusting, seriously.”

“He’s nice,” Hermione snarls, and, well…

“I agree,” Harry finds himself saying, only slightly surprised. “He’s a bit weird, I guess, but we had fun.”

“Harry—,”

“No, Ron, seriously. Give him a chance, okay? He really doesn’t seem like a bad guy.”

Ron doesn’t respond, and Harry supposes that’s for the better.

[Sunday, 26 September 1993, Library]

Maybe Elric can fool the others, but Ron would find proof that he’s just another fucking snake.

Even if said snake is spending his Sunday in the fucking library.

Ron squints from behind the shelf to try and make out some of the titles of the dozens of books surrounding Elric like a wall, frowning when he sees nothing but stuff on curse theory and detection spells. None of that had anything to do with their current classes, and it just made the guy more suspicious.

“You know, if you want to spy on me you ought to get better at sneaking around, Weasley.”

Busted.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath he emerges from behind his hiding place and walks over to the guy, frowning down at him when he doesn’t even have the courtesy to look at him. “I don’t trust you.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me,” he deadpans, turning a page and writing something down in his weird muggle notebook thing with his strange muggle writing thing. “Do you dislike me as a person or is it all because my tie happens to be green?”

“Listen here,” he says, finally getting Elric to look up at him, face bored. “You might be able to fool everyone else, but I know your type.”

Elric’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he turns in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the back of it. “Oh? And what, pray tell, is my type?”

“You’re a pureblood—,”

“Pretty sure so are you,” the git cuts him off with a derisive snort. “And so is Neville, isn’t he?” Elric sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, fuckface, I’ll be very blunt with you, because evidently you are being purposefully obtuse: I do not care about blood status. It’s nonsense. Absolute fucking trash. I don’t give a shit about your Lord Voldemort—,” Ron can’t help but flinch, and it earns him a very unimpressed look from Elric. “And his Death Eaters. I don’t give a shit about who your parents are or what jobs they have or how much money you’ve got stored away in a vault somewhere. You know what I care about? Whether you’re a fucking asshole.”

“And yet you hang out with Malfoy,” he spits, refusing to back down. His little speech was all nice and well, but he’s not fucking buying it for a second.

Elric snorts. “Oh, he’s a git, for sure, but you know what’s really funny? You two are so fucking similar it’s uncanny. So stuck in your ways, so fucking hypocritical. It’s getting very tiring, but at least Draco tries. You? You are just a bellend,” Elric gets up from his chair, and Ron hadn’t even realized he was a little taller than him. “I know your type, Weasley, and I don’t give a fuck whether you like me or not. But I like Hermione and Neville and Harry, and if you can’t fucking deal with it that sounds like a you problem to me. Now leave me alone, will you?”

Ron watches as he sits back down, an even clearer dismissal than his words had been, and goes back to whatever he’s doing with more books than he’s ever even seen Hermione read at once.

“What’s your fucking deal?”

Elric sighs, running a hand over his face and turning back to him. “Excuse me?”

Ron throws his hands up, exasperated. “You show up, don’t give a flying fuck about anything and just, what, I’m supposed to believe that you don’t have any ulterior motives? Give me a break!”

“I dunno what to tell you, Weasley,” Elric says, sounding put-upon. “But not everything in the world revolves around your ilk’s antiquated bullshit customs and not everyone you don’t like is out to get you. The sooner you learn that the sooner you can stop being an asshole. Now shoo, I’ve got work to do.”

Ron would have stayed and pestered him further, but the unmistakable steps of the librarian are making their way towards them, and Ron knows better than to be in the vicinity of her ire.

So he turns around, and decidedly doesn’t flee.

Chapter Text

[Thursday, 30 September 1993, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, Day of the Full Moon]

Snape storms into the room like a bat out of hell, and Ed is confused.

“Turn to page 394,” he says, the blinds of the windows closing with every choppy flick of his wand. Ed does so, mostly out of curiosity, and pauses at the subject matter.

“Professor?” Hermione sounds timid, which is not very in character for her. “This is the section on Werewolves, we were only at Redcaps—,”

“Yes, Ms Granger, I am aware,” Snape snarls. “Five points from Gryffindor.”

Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Ron open his mouth, indignant, and Ed wants to sigh. He raises his hand. “Professor Snape? May I ask where Professor Lupin is?”

Snape pauses, his dark eyes moving from Ron to Ed. His jaw twitches, and Ed wonders if Snape’s blatant favoritism is going to win out over his temper. “Professor Lupin has fallen ill, but Madam Pomfrey is certain he’ll be able to come back to teaching by Monday. Now, Werewolves—,”

Ed frowns, turning his eyes back to the book and letting Snape’s voice wash over him, barely heard. These fucking wizards can fix bones in a millisecond, regrow limbs, but the common cold knocks them out? That doesn’t sound right—,

“Pf, why we even gotta learn about them?”

He blinks and turns to Draco. “Huh?”

His friend rolls his eyes. “Just, not like they’re worth learning about.”

“In DADA? Yeah, I guess,” he shrugs, idly reading over the symptoms of the disease. “I mean, they’re still people, lumping them in with beasts is pretty dehumanizing.” There’s silence in the room, and he only now realizes their conversation hadn’t been as quiet as he thought. “Did I… say something wrong?”

Snape tilts his head at him, watching him like he can’t quite figure him out. “It’s an, ah, unconventional viewpoint, Mr Elric.” For your kind, specifically, is implied but not said.

Ed frowns. “But… it’s an illness, right? Just because they transform into overgrown dogs once a month doesn’t make them less human, does it?”

“They’re dangerous,” some kid in yellow pipes up, and he rolls his eyes.

“So is every single person in this room,” he snorts. “There’s an unblockable instant death spell at our disposal but a huge puppy scares you? Really?”

“As fascinating as this debate is,” Snape drawls, sounding anything but fascinated. “The official stance of the Ministry is that transformed Werewolves are beasts, and as such they are part of the curriculum,” he smiles dryly. “If you are so passionate about this topic, feel free to petition for change after graduation, provided you remain in the country, of course.”

As much as Ed would love to keep arguing, because how fucked up is this shit, like seriously, he seems to have once again put his foot in his mouth, several furtive and suspicious glances cast his way.

Oh, they think I’m a Werewolf now, don’t they?

Because why else would a precious pureblood argue for them, right?

»You knew exactly what you were getting me into, didn’t you, Truth?« He mutters under his breath, turning back to the lesson at hand as Snape continues his lecture.

When Snape gives them a seven foot long essay on Werewolves as homework, Ed decides that, fuck it, he’ll write a ten foot long essay on why the Ministry policies are bullshit.

They have to hand it in to Lupin, anyways, so what does he care?

[Sunday, 3 October 1993, Quidditch Pitch]

The third of October dawns gray and cold and fits Ed’s mood perfectly. The air is misty with the type of fine rain that’s more like a very heavy and wet fog; too much to be comfortable, too light for an umbrella to really make a difference.

And Ed, wanting to be left the fuck alone, decided these were perfect conditions to go for a ride on a broom. No one in their right mind would be out and about in this weather, and he’d get nice and numb just like he liked it on this particular date.

The moment he steps out of the castle it’s like it dropped ten degrees, which, given he rooms in an underwater dungeon, is a feat.

Usually this day is spent ruminating on all the stupid choices and mistakes that led him to this point, but this year it has a distinctly different flavor to it.

Not least of all because he’s alone in a different universe and after a month of research is still no closer to making it back home. How is he supposed to find and destroy a bunch of knock-off homunculi when he’s stuck in a fucking school?

Admittedly he’s really starting to like some of the people — of the friends — he’s met here, but none of them really compare to what he has back home.

And that’s the crux, isn’t it? This is all temporary, won’t last long enough to really matter if he’s lucky… isn’t getting too attached just going to hurt him in the end?

… will Truth even let him remember any of what’s happening here once it’s all said and done? Will they let him just to hurt him further, missing people and a world he’ll never see again for the rest of his life, like a whole new slew of regrets?

Will anyone back home even recognize him once he’s back, or will his time here — months, perhaps years — have changed him beyond recognition?

Will he even recognize himself?

He growls, wiping his wet, disheveled bangs out of his eyes as he stops his broom, sharp and too abrupt. “Get a grip, Elric. Just focus on your job like you always do.”

Sighing he turns to fly back towards the edge of the pitch and call it a day when he notices something move out of the corner of his eyes. He turns more fully towards the area and stops short at the large black dog traipsing along the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Ed tilts his head, slowly inching closer on his broom. He didn’t think regular dogs lived around the castle, and its behavior wasn’t really normal, either. Most dogs Ed knows hated rain, but this one was just… taking a walk right at the edge of the treeline?

If he didn’t know better he’d think it was almost… scouting the perimeter.

Yeah, that’s what it reminded him of.

He’s just passed the spectator seats when the dog’s head snaps around, its dark eyes meeting his across the distance and stopping him in his tracks.

Then the dog turns and runs off into the general direction of the weird sentient willow tree Neville had told him about, soon lost in the haze of rain and gloom.

“I’d say that was weird,” he mutters to himself, making his way back to the broom shed at the edge of the pitch. “But this isn’t even the weirdest shit I’ve seen this month.”

Maybe, he reasons, the apparent mundanity of it all was what unsettled him. Dogs were normal, its behavior was not. Magic and Dementors and what-have-you were out there and strange in their entirety, but this?

This was weird.

If I still remember this by Wednesday I’ll bring it up to Hagrid, he tells himself, and decides to leave it at that.

Draco watches as Ed makes his way towards the table, drenched from head to toe and looking miserable.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen him all day, not even during breakfast or lunch, and if there was one surefire way to run into Ed it was then. Not to mention the weather had been abysmal enough to keep most everyone confined to the castle, what in Merlin’s name had made him go outside?

“Hey,” Ed mutters, right hand reaching for the tea kettle. The movement is stiffer than usual, and Draco vaguely remembers him saying that cold hurts his prosthetics. He sighs after the first sip from the steaming black tea and seems to melt into his seat, eyes closed. “Fuck, I needed that.”

Taking pity on him Draco flicks his wand to dry Ed off, suppressing a smirk as he startles. “Why were you outside of all places?”

Ed’s eyes stare at him, catlike and unreadable, then he blinks and takes another sip of tea. “Wanted to be alone.”

“But weren’t there better places to be alone?”

More staring, and it only occurs to him then that Ed is remarkably good at not blinking. “Maybe, but flying was guaranteed to give me time alone,” another sip, and still no blinking. “Considering Slytherin’s reputation you’d think you guys would be more antisocial, but you’re surprisingly chatty and clingy.”

“You’re a Slytherin too,” Draco argues for arguing’s sake, and finally Ed blinks, finishing off his cup and pouring himself another. “... did something happen? That you wanted to be left alone?”

Ed snorts into his cup, mirthless. “Lots of shit happened, but no, it’s just the day that’s fucky.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “You had a shit day and decided to catch death outside?”

“No,” the other boy shakes his head. “I mean the date.”

He seems to deem the conversation over with and pours himself a bowl of chicken soup.

Draco, meanwhile, tries to make heads or tails of this new information. The date? What’s so special about today?

Lots of shit happened.

Truth be told Edward Elric was both incredibly blunt and honest and closed off and cryptic, and it was hard to figure out the things that he wanted to keep hidden.

The easiest explanation was probably that it was the anniversary of some death in his family, or maybe of when he lost his limbs, but that seemed too mundane, somehow. Normal explanations and Edward Elric just didn’t want to mesh in his head.

His Boggart, maybe? That had been freaky, not least of which because he had not the faintest idea what it even was. There had been people, and while Draco didn’t have much experience with that sort of thing he had gotten the distinct impression that they’d been dead, their eyes somehow empty and unseeing.

If anything, Ed’s reaction confirmed it in his mind.

He’d only known him for a month but he couldn’t reconcile the controlled force of nature that was him with the crying mess that had thrown up in a waste bin.

Had the Boggart shown a hypothetical fear or… had that actually happened? Ed had mentioned multiple wars with nonchalance, and had lost limbs to Dark Magic. Had he seen these people die to… what even was that thing? There had been runes, and he’d read about alchemy using runes and circles to work, but… could alchemy even do something that creepy? All he’d ever read about it suggested it was concerned with conversion of matter, a more stable and enduring form of Transfiguration and prolonging life.

Draco looks on as Ed finishes off his second bowl of soup and fills himself a third, grabs for the tea kettle again.

Ed is an orphan. He’d almost forgotten over everything else, but—

He can’t imagine losing his parents, being left all by his lonesome or having to go live with his blood traitor aunt and mudblood uncle. Ed acts so normal — or his version of normal — most of the time it’s hard to remember that his life is apparently as fucked up as Potter’s, or even worse.

He’s only here so he doesn’t have to fight in a war.

Now that Ed’s dry and has eaten and warmed himself the pallor of his skin and bags under his eyes are obvious. Has he been having trouble sleeping? Draco hadn’t even noticed, and they shared a fucking dorm.

Wow, he thinks to himself, for the first time. I’m kind of a shit friend, aren’t I?

He presses the vial into Ed’s hands that night without a word, feeling silly for the gesture.

Ed raises an eyebrow and stares with his unblinking cat eyes again, until Draco breaks.

“It’s a sleeping potion, I asked Madam Pomfrey for it. Your eye bags are embarrassing, Elric.”

He blinks in surprise, but his lips twitch with something like amusement as he uncorks the vial and downs the potion in one big gulp.

They are silent as they get into bed, and Draco almost thinks Ed is just gonna leave the whole thing to never be talked about again, when he speaks up, voice unusually subdued. “Thanks.”

[Monday, 4 October 1993, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom]

Ed walks up to Lupin sitting at his desk and throws his essay — really, he might have gotten a little bit too into it and written a wholeass thesis, but whatever — in front of him, the thick stack of papers landing with a heavy thud. Lupin blinks, his quill still poised to write whatever he had intended to, and looks up at him, confused. “Ed? What is this?”

“The essay on Werewolves Professor Snape assigned in your absence, sir.”

More blinking. “That… isn’t due until two weeks from now,” Ed shrugs, watching as Lupin reads over the first page and stiffens. “I also don’t recall it being on the topic of ‘Why the British Ministry of Magic’s Treatment and Classification of Werewolves is…” He clears his throat. “Dehumanizing Bullshit in Need of Reform’.”

They stare at each other, and Ed smirks. “Is that a problem, sir?”

To his surprise Lupin snorts, putting a gentle hand on top of Ed’s monster of an essay. “Not at all, Ed, it’s always good to see students so passionate about their classwork.”

Remus reads the entire thing in one sitting and marvels at the fact that Ed had written it in the span of three days. Even more he marvels at the way that any argument he has ever heard or can think of to detract from his stance is shot down with an eloquence he didn’t expect from him. It’s amazingly well-sourced, well-written, well-structured and almost makes him cry.

“Where the fuck did he manage to get all these sources from?” Remus hadn’t even heard of a fraction of these and he was in the thick of the subject matter.

“You alright, deary?” He looks up at Pomona’s question, a steaming mug of coffee held out to him that he takes gratefully.

“Yes, just… that essay Severus assigned my class?” She frowns, nods. “Ed handed his in today.”

Pomona chokes on her drink and vanishes the splatters with a flick of her wrist. “Really?”

“Yes,” he snorts, pushing the monster of an essay over to her. “Completely disregarded the original prompt and needs to learn to stay in the page limit but I’m not even mad.”

Her gaze flies over the first page, and she carefully sets her own mug of coffee aside, skimming over the next twelve pages quickly. It’s not even a fifth of the stack. “I—, Remus what in Merlin’s name?”

“Right?” He sips from his coffee, waving at the essay vaguely. “Every argument you can think of I promise he has eviscerated, every assertion he makes is backed by at least five sources. Pomona, he wrote a budget proposal for the Ministry to fund free Wolfsbane Potion and it’s just a side tangent. This is iron-tight and I have half a mind to just let him walk into Fudge’s office at this point.”

“This would never fly—,”

“Pomona, after reading this essay I’m not worried about whether it would go through or not, but what the everloving fuck this kid would do if it didn’t. Three days. He wrote this in three days.”

“Merlin and Morgana.”

“Is something the matter?” They both turn and look at Albus and Severus walking into the teachers’ lounge, and Remus has never been nice enough not to cause drama.

“I must really thank Severus for assigning that essay last Thursday, Ed handed his in today and I’m ecstatic.” He puts the pages Pomona read on top of the stack again and pushes it over for the both of them to read. “I might be inclined to worry that he is going to topple the Ministry, but I’m not insane enough to try and stop him.”

Severus loses control of his features for a single, glorious moment, before his face goes back to looking like he sucked on a lemon. “I was joking.”

“Pardon?”

“My, what an extraordinary young man,” Albus chuckles, stroking his beard as he flips to the next page. “Though I must wonder at a pureblooded student from abroad being so incensed over this particular topic.”

Remus pauses in his revelry at Severus’ scrunched up face. “That… is a good point, actually. Why does he care about—, oh,” he feels the blood leave his face. “Is… he isn’t, right?”

Severus straightens, his hands hiding in the sleeves of his cloak. “He seemed perfectly healthy on Thursday.”

“He’s fifteen,” Pomona points out, eyes lingering on him for a moment. “Depending on how long—,” she cuts herself off, eyes wide. “He lost two limbs when he was eleven.”

“He told Poppy it was Dark Magic, during a civil war,” Albus says, but—

“That could have been a cover story,” Remus says, throat dry. “If he lost them to a Werewolf, they would have been unable to be regrown by magic means.”

“She did mention that his torso is quite scarred,” Albus concedes. “Said he ‘didn’t bother’ to have them healed properly to prevent any scarring.”

Severus looks quite ill in the face now. “If he is, then he’s not receiving Wolfsbane from me.”

Remus wants to puke. “He’s not just dealing with this on his own, is he?”

“We don’t know for sure he is a Werewolf, Remus,” Albus points out, brow pinched in worry. “Though I believe you should try and… gather some intel, in that regard. Even if he’s not,” he smiles wryly as he taps the essay with a long finger. “He doesn’t seem so prejudiced he’d spread rumors about you, if our worries end up unfounded.”

He swallows. “Right.”

“In the meantime,” Albus says, cheerfully gathering the essay in his hands. “I believe I know what I’m reading before bed tonight. Have a good evening, everyone.”

The three of them are silent for a long moment after Albus has left, then Remus clears his throat. “So, Severus, what was that about a joke earlier?”

[Tuesday, 5 October 1993, Great Hall]

A massive honey-colored owl lands in front of Ed and somehow manages not to step on his scrambled eggs or topple over his coffee. “Uh, hi?”

It hoots once, sounding both haughty and friendly, somehow, and lifts one of its wings to reveal a small letter attached to a harness.

Ed blinks, gingerly taking the letter from the owl and awkwardly offering it a slice of bacon. It gobbles it down with grace and flies off without another look his way, leaving him flabbergasted.

“Letter from home?” He looks at Pansy and frowns, inspecting the parchment more closely.

“No, I don’t—, oh,” a smile breaks out over his face when the name on the back of the envelope registers. “Awesome.”

He rips it open, ignoring the inquisitive stares from his friends as he reads over Bill’s letter.

Hello Edward (Ed? Hermione didn’t mention which you prefer)

 

So, this is a little awkward since I don’t actually know you, and only know Hermione from stories my family tell me — I don’t even have a mental image to address for this letter, at least you can just imagine a more handsome version of my brothers!

Anyways, Hermione said you might want to become a Cursebreaker after school and that I could maybe help you out by answering some questions you might have? I’m totally down for that, within limits, of course (I have to run all my letters by a Goblin from Gringotts to check if I’m sharing confidential or sensitive information with outsiders, so don’t be too disappointed if I can’t answer something, please).

I know you’re not from Britain, so I don’t know how career prospects or limitations might be like where you’re from, but I’m sure you’ll have considered that, since it’s kind of a dangerous and competitive field to begin with.

Well, I hope to hear from you soon. I gotta go and figure out if the Egyptian wizards cursed trespassers with black boils or spoiled harvests before we open the next tomb. Considering my Herbology grades back in the day the latter might be an improvement to my gardening exploits.

Regards, Bill Weasley

 

PS: Hermione mentioned Ron being a twat to you. Best advice: be a twat right back. It runs in the family.

[Wednesday, 6 October 1993, Owlery]

Hi Bill

 

Bold of you to assume I haven’t been a right asshole to your little brother, guess Hermione didn’t mention I’m a dick (to be fair, she thinks I’m nice, so her opinion isn’t valid anyways).

Jokes aside, thank you for reaching out, I’ve been pretty stuck in some of my research here since I’ve gone through all the relevant books in the regular section of the library already, and I have no idea how to get into the restricted section. Can I even manage that? When I asked, Madam Pince just glared at me and I haven’t dared to ask her again…

Right now I’m mostly focusing on detecting curses and how they work in general. It’s not a field of study that’s very popular where I come from, and I’d kind of like to change that when I go back home eventually. Is there any literature you can recommend?

(I will never understand why the runes for black boils and spoiled harvests look so similar, whose bright idea was that? Almost as bad as happy life and life filled with strife, way to make it a toss up between blessing or cursing someone, I guess)

Oh, and don’t feel too bad about being awkward, I’m not exactly a genius at writing letters either. I barely even call home—, wait, you’re a pureblood, do you even know what a telephone is? Whatever, point is, I’m more likely to stick my foot in my mouth between us, so…

 

Hope to hear back from you soon.

Ed

Chapter Text

[Thursday, 7 October 1993, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom]

Lupin is watching Ed, and it’s starting to put him on edge. Did the guy think he was a Werewolf, too? Was everyone just gonna ignore that he has spent every night in his dorm room, including one full moon, or did they just not care?

Fuck, he really hates attending school. Especially after all the research he did for his essay. The Ministry was so fucked, he wishes he had the bastard with him so they could do quick work of the government. You know, as a trial run for back home.

Truth, he must be getting desperate, wishing Mustang of all people to be stuck here with him.

Mustang can never find out that he’d rather do politics with him than go to school. The smug smirky smirk would be stuck to his face permanently.

To be fair, Ed had never done well in school settings. It simply bored him to tears.

“Ed, since you deem my lecture so boring you seem close to falling asleep, can you answer my question?”

Ed straightens with a jerk, cursing low under his breath at the snickering coming from most of his classmates. “They primarily inhabit places of great bloodshed, like battlefields,” he starts, trying not to imagine them bathing in the blood of slaughtered Ishvalans. This world was going to traumatize him to hell and back. “They dye their caps with the spilt blood of their victims, hence their names. Their eyes and nails are also red in color, and they are three to four feet tall,” he stares at Lupin. “Did I miss something?”

His teacher makes a face somewhere between impressed and annoyed. “No, that was practically textbook, five points for Slytherin. But, still, at least pretend to find the material interesting.”

Maybe don’t make me feel like a bug under a microscope and I’ll actually look at you, Ed thinks contemptuously, but chooses to push down his annoyance and indulge Lupin. The man isn’t wrong, after all, he’s just fucking bored.

»Never have I wished to be caught up in a train kidnapping more than right now,« he mutters to himself, and despairs.

[Sunday, 10 October 1993, Great Hall]

Hey Ed!

 

Ah, I see you know what’s up, are you a big brother? I swear little brothers are the worst, but somehow you love them anyways. Also have you considered that, perchance, you might be nice? Shocking to consider, I know, but if the shoe fits…

The restricted section is actually a bit tricky, it’s usually reserved for sixth and seventh years preparing for their DADA NEWTs because of all the potentially dangerous shit in there, but… how old are you? Hermione mentioned you’re a bit older. Maybe I can figure something out for you.

Detecting whether a curse is there is kind of the point, innit? Usually you can just tell, because the aura of curses disrupts the energy around you. There is something Dark and foreboding around, but if there are shielding charms that can get difficult again. Hm, man, I wish we could just talk, I hate letters! I’ll be visiting my family during the summer, maybe we can arrange something then?

I remember there being a really good book on curse mechanics in the restricted section, Maleficent Beauregard’s Theory on Curse Mechanics and Manufacturing. Sounds stupid, I know, but it was very insightful, when she wasn’t fawning over how ‘pretty’ a good curse is… well, you know what, I’ll do my best to get you into that section, promise!

Thank you! I fucking hate those runes with a passion. Even better when it turns out the caster was just an idiot and fucked up.

 

Regards!
Bill

[Wednesday, 13 October 1993, Astronomy Tower]

“Try again, Mr Weasley,” Professor Sinistra tuts over the redhead’s shoulder before moving on to Hermione. “Well done, Ms. Granger. No letting Mr Weasley copy.”

Ron is grumbling under his breath as he looks over his calculations. “Where did I go wrong?”

Ed watches their teacher move down the row towards a group of Ravenclaws before he scoots over and peers over Ron’s shoulder. “There,” he says, pointing at the mistake. “Rounding error, so the extension—,”

“Who asked you?” Ron snarls at him, earning himself a smack to the shoulder from Hermione.

“Okay,” Ed shrugs, returning to his spot beside Neville. “See where the stubbornness gets you.” Maybe that was a bit hypocritical of him, but even Ed had never been so boneheaded about schoolwork, of all things.

Neville sighs as he scratches out a half-page worth of calculations. When Ed checks he sees that he had somehow managed to get a 1000 day moon cycle, however the fuck he did that. “Ron being a twat?”

“As always,” Ed snorts, looking where Sinistra was before covertly nudging his notes over for Neville to see. “Didn’t even give him the solution, just told him where he made his first mistake.”

“Ron’s like that,” Neville shrugs as he quickly jots down Ed’s numbers. “He doesn’t care for school, but also doesn’t like getting help he didn’t ask for. Some weird complex, probably.”

“If you say so,” Ed says, quickly snatching his notes when Sinistra turns to walk down the other line of students at their backs. “You gotta make sure to round correctly, and this is a spot you gotta multiply, not divide.”

“Aw, fuck,” Neville groans, correcting his mistake. Ed was starting to have a bad influence on his vocabulary, it seems. “How are you so good at this? Whenever I see you work on anything it has nothing to do with classwork.”

That’s because he bullshits his homework in an hour every evening in the common room, when he’s not incensed enough to write a screed against the government, that is. “I’m technically supposed to be a fifth year, Neville.”

“Ah, right, my bad,” his friend winces, pointing at his newest attempt at a solution. “Does that work?”

Ed glances at it. “Sure, if you’re on Neptune and trying to figure out when Triton’s made it ‘round the block,” at Neville’s sound of despair he snickers, clapping his back. “If you haven’t figured it out in the next try I’ll walk you through.”

“You will not, Mr Elric,” Professor Sinistra says from behind them, scaring the shit out of both of them. “Let Mr Longbottom do it on his own, it’s not like you can take his exam for him, after all.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ed sighs, giving Neville an apologetic shrug.

“If you’re bored, Mr Elric, how about you give me the dates for all the full moons for the rest of the school year?”

“... days to avoid nightly forest walks, coming right up,” Ed grits out, feeling suddenly reminded of a certain blonde major general. Something twitches on Sinistra’s face before she moves on. “Shit, she’s scary.”

“Right?”

With some resignation Ed flips to a new page and starts calculating the next several full moons, and the last couple, just for good measure. When he’s done he looks over them again to make sure he didn’t end up fudging the numbers in his haste to get done with it, and pauses.

“Weird.”

Neville hums, looking up at him. He’d somehow managed to get ink on his left eyelid. “What is?”

“Nothing, just… it’s funny, when Snape did the session on Werewolves? That was a full moon.”

“Huh, that is funny.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, voice trailing off. “Funny.”

He stares at his list a bit longer, then shrugs, deciding it was probably a coincidence, or maybe Snape had some very niche sense of humor.

At her next pass past them she looks at his list and nods, giving him ten points and, seeing Neville no closer to getting it right, begrudgingly gives him permission to help his friend.

By the time class is dismissed he has forgotten all about the full moon.

[Thursday, 14 October 1993, Slytherin Common Room]

“If you’re not writing home,” Pansy says, leaning over the back of the emerald velvet sofa. “Then who are you writing to?”

“Bill Weasley,” Ed says distractedly, scratching out a phrase and trying to reword it. “I am thinking of being a Cursebreaker after school, and he’s talking to me about it. Well, tries to, cos the Goblins are really particular about what he’s allowed to share over letter. Hey, is this wording okay?”

Pansy hesitates as if she wants to comment more on the fact he’s penpals with a Weasley, but seems to think better of it. She squints at his chicken scratch. “Are you sure you should call his little brother a stubborn dickhead who needs to get his priorities checked?”

“You’re right,” Ed agrees. “That’s too nice.”

“... that’s not what I meant, actually.”

“Oh, I know. Only child, huh?” He nods sagely at her as he replaces dickhead with piece of shit. “Once you’re an older sibling you’ll know that this is us being very loving.” Pansy stares at him like she’s torn between wanting to ask more about it or just leave him alone, and he snickers at her visible consternation. “Seriously, part of being an older sibling is hating the little menace while simultaneously being willing to murder people in cold blood for making them cry.”

Her lips twitch like she’s trying not to smile. “I’ll take your word for it, I guess.”

Ed wants to respond when Nott interrupts him, frowning at the windows like he’d be able to see beyond the murky depths of the lake if he tries hard enough. “Is it raining?”

Blaise sighs tiredly from his spot lounging by the fireplace like the cat he probably secretly is. “No, why?”

“It smells kinda like wet dog, so I figured Elric must have gotten caught in the rain, is all,” Nott says like he just told the best joke he’d ever heard, and Ed rolls his eyes so hard he swears they might get stuck that way.

“Woof,” he deadpans, prompting some snickers from his friends scattered around the common room.

Really, he thinks as Nott scowls and leaves. I’ve heard better dog jokes than that.

[Monday, 18 October 1993, Great Hall]

Hey Ed

 

So about that restricted section thing, I might have figured something out.

Enclosed you’ll find pictures and transcripts from a site I’m working on (all in accordance with my supervisor, naturally). I’ll ask you to get back to me with an approach on how you’d handle identifying and breaking this particular set of curses.

If you do well, my supervisor agreed to pen a letter of recommendation with me to give to your DADA teacher or Head of House (wait… you never said, what House are you in?) to hopefully get you access to those bad boy books in there. The flip side is that the Goblins might now be interested in getting their hands on you. Sorry about that?

Anyways, good luck with your homework! ;)

 

Regards, Bill

 

PS: Ron is deathly afraid of spiders. You did not hear that from me.

Ed shakes out the envelope to look at the pictures Bill had sent, alongside the transcripts and some additional information he might need, mostly historical and cultural explanations.

He tries not to think of what his reaction will be when he hears he’s a Slytherin. He’s been really enjoying their back and forth, and he’d be loathe to lose that over something so silly.

“What the fuck?” Ed blinks, looking up from a particularly gruesome-looking mural he thinks might be giving intruders teratoma — he’d have to look at a dictionary for that one — to see the trio of Harry, Ron and Hermione just a little bit away, obviously on their way out the Great Hall and Ron staring at the photographs in his hands. “I saw that one, that’s where Bill works!”

“Uh,” Ed says, trying to quickly cover Bill’s addendum on the letter, big bro code and all that, before looking back at Ron. “Yeah? He sent them to me.”

His ears go scarlet as he kind of seems to be blowing up into a balloon where he stands. “Why?”

“Homework,” Ed deadpans, because it’s not technically a lie.

“No, I meant, why is my brother sending letters to you?”

Ed is entirely too petty to give this a dignified response. “Hasn’t he told you? We’re soulmates.”

Ron’s face goes from scarlet to burgundy, a truly impressive feat, and Ed quickly gathers his things and leaves the breakfast table before Ron can find his voice.

[Thursday, 21 October 1993, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom]

“Oh, Ed, could you stay back for a bit? Now that everyone has handed in their essays on Werewolves I’d like to have a chat with you about yours, if you don’t mind.”

Ed curses under his breath and turns back from the door, awkwardly waving his friends ahead of him. Lupin gestures at him to come to his office off to the back of the classroom, and Ed knows instantly that this is not just about his essay.

I’m an idiot.

His teacher lights the fireplace in his office with a flick of his wand and sets about making them some tea. “Do sit down by the fire, Ed, I’ll be right there.”

“... of course, Professor.”

Lupin sits down with a small, weathered tray carrying two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, offering them with a wave of his hand. “Now, Ed, first of all: you didn’t really abide by the initial prompt of the homework, you’re aware, right?”

“Yes,” Ed admits with a shrug and sips his tea. “Did I give you the impression that I care?”

Lupin suppresses a snort, faking a cough instead. “No, certainly not,” he concedes, sipping from his own cup. “And I’ll be frank, I was very impressed with all the work you put into it. Three days is incredible, really.”

“It was more like two,” Ed says sheepishly. “I finished it Saturday night.”

“... I see,” Lupin says faintly. “You’re a remarkable student, aren’t you?”

Ed shifts uneasily in his armchair. “I don’t know about that, the topic just… annoyed me.”

“Ah, so it was a matter of spite, then?”

“You could say that,” he mutters, reaching for a biscuit and gnawing it idly. “I don’t like people getting railed on for things they can’t help, or that aren’t their fault to begin with.”

Lupin regards him for a moment, green gaze piercing, then he hums, leaning forward in his seat. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Ed freezes in his movement, left hand outstretched for his cup, and he sits back, careful to school his face into a mask of neutrality. “I don’t like playing games, Professor.”

“Who says I’m playing games?” Even as he says it his face betrays his true thoughts. He miscalculated, and he knows it. Ed is getting really tired of wizards and their silly issues.

He smiles and reaches for his cup, draining the rest of it and setting it back on the saucer with a porcelain click. “It was great chatting with you, Professor, have a nice day.”

The envelope Ed sends off that evening is filled to bursting not just with his letter but about thirty pages covered in his most legible handwriting taking apart the curses placed on the tomb Bill had sent him, along with twenty more detailing how he’d break them.

The letter itself, mostly filled with little tidbits of things that have happened since his last reply — including everyone suffering under the misapprehension that he is a Werewolf, and how much it annoys him — also includes a short aside of his House, along with a plea that it not change things between them.

For once, Ed was sincere when he wrote, and it surprises himself.

—I know the preconceptions people have of my House — which I find frankly weird, both as an outsider and someone who has now spent two months with students from Slytherin, these kids are losers and I mean that with (mostly) the warmest affection — and your little brother has made it clear what he thinks. I hope our letters up to this point have shown these biases unfounded, at the very least in regards to me.

If that is not the case I understand, and will continue to wish you the best in your career.

 

Sincerely

Your friend

[Sunday, 24 October 1993, Great Hall]

Ed is staring at the newest letter from Bill with trepidation. It’s thinner than the last one, which is honestly to be expected, but he can’t help but think that he’ll not only have to find a different way to get information on curses, and thus Horcruxes, but also lose a friend he’d never even gotten to meet yet. Bill was already so funny via letter, he’d love to hang out with him in person.

Fuck this. If he’d stop being his friend over this House nonsense he’d just hope he’ll get stuck in an ancient tomb growing a second head and a lizard tail.

(These Egyptians were into weird shit… not that he even knows where Egypt is)

“What’s got you looking like death warmed over?” Draco asks from across him, toast with strawberry jam halfway to his mouth and right eyebrow raised.

“I told Bill I’m in Slytherin, and wondering whether I just lost a penpal.”

“Ah,” Draco says, and puts the toast down, dusting his hands off before snatching the letter from his slack grip. “Lemme rip the bandaid off, then.”

“Hey!” Ed makes to reach for the letter but Draco is leaning back, opening the envelope with a clean butter knife and fishing the contents out with exaggerated movements.

His friend snorts, and hands them over. “You’re fine.”

Ed decides to be juvenile for once and sticks his tongue out at the other boy, who merely rolls his eyes and takes a bite from his toast. Turning his attention to the letter he feels the tension seep from his shoulders as he takes in the first few lines.

Hey there Ed!

 

A Slytherin? Really? Why must you betray me so?

Jokes aside, it’s cool, you seem like a decent guy (you got downgraded from swell for being a snake, obviously), and honestly, it’s kinda whatever outside the really uppity families. Ron is just being Ron, y’know? I mean, Hermione’s a muggleborn and seemed to like you just fine, so who am I to lose a friend over this?

(Why were you so formal, anyways? Wait, were you scared? Wait till I tell my colleagues! They’ve been making up the wildest shit about you based on my stories, this’ll be amazing!)

Also, the Werewolf thing? I swear I cried laughing, especially when you mentioned just making dog noises when people make comments. Seriously, you’re a riot. Try befriending Fred and George, you’re their brand of chaos.

Anyways! Are you trying to convince my employers to sack me? Mate, you did more work than I do, and I get paid for this! Stop one-upping me! Not cool!

The letter of recommendation is enclosed, by the by, and now excuse me while I try to convince my boss that he can’t kidnap an underage foreign wizard from Hogwarts.

 

You owe me!

Bill

Ed smiles, looking at the second page and letting his eyes skim over the writing there. Sounded like standard fare as far as recommendations go, honestly. He’d written one like that for Sheska, now that he thinks about it, and it sounded almost exactly like this one.

Some things seem to stay the same everywhere.

If this doesn’t get me into that restricted section, he thinks as he piles his plate with scrambled eggs. I’ll have to break in.

[Monday, 25 October 1993, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom]

Lupin blinks up at him when he approaches his desk, and looks appropriately uncomfortable. Ed is only a little spitefully satisfied at his teacher’s contrite expression. “Yes, Ed?”

“I would like to request access to the restricted section of the library, sir,” Ed says, whipping out the letter from Bill. “I have a recommendation letter from a certified Cursebreaker and his superior at Gringotts.”

Lupin blinks harder, mouth opening and closing a few times before he slams it shut with a click of teeth, taking the letter and reading it over, then reading it again. “You got a recommendation… from Bill Weasley?”

“And his boss, yes,” Ed says with his best military voice, which isn’t very good at all, but usually enough to get by with. “They believe I show promise as a future Cursebreaker, and would like me to further my education in that regard. Is that a problem, Professor Lupin?”

“... how do you even know Bill?”

Ed raises an eyebrow, face neutral as can be. “Does that matter, sir?”

His continued politeness must be starting to freak Lupin out, because he’s now staring at him like he’d stumbled into that one tomb that makes you sprout bat wings Bill had told him about once. “... no, I’m just… curious, is all,” he clears his throat and weakly waves the letter around a bit. “I will talk about this with the headmaster, if that is alright with you.”

“Of course, Professor Lupin,” Ed says, and barely resists giving the startled man a mocking salute just to see how much it would unnerve him. He smirks, and it’s all teeth and slightly unhinged, just to fuck with his teacher some more for the bullshit he pulled last time. “Have a nice day.”

Judging by the look on Lupin’s face he knows exactly why he came to him with this and not Snape, and nods with a pinched expression. “You too, Ed.”

It’s an admittance of defeat and an apology all in one, and Ed can’t help his smirk from widening just a little more.

(dealing with Mustang for three years had to have been good for something, after all)

[Tuesday, 26 October 1993, Headmaster’s Office]

Remus is sitting in a horribly loud chair before Albus Dumbledore, and feels younger than he has in years.

No matter how old he gets, Remus suspects that he’ll never stop feeling like an unruly student summoned to the headmaster’s office. The thought sends an uncomfortable sting through him, at the remembrance of happier days when he thought he knew his friends.

Now three of them are dead, and one—

“So, Remus, what did you want to talk to me about?” Albus’ voice jerks him out of his thoughts like a good slap to the face. “Did you sus out whether our exchange student is a Werewolf yet?”

“... no,” he hedges, shifting uneasily. “He did seem… agitated, when I insinuated it, but he might merely be annoyed at the rumors that have been going around.” Agitated was certainly one way to put it, he supposes. Ready to rip my head off with his teeth seemed more apt, in his opinion, even though Ed had been deceptively calm. But those were usually the dangerous ones, in Remus’ experience. What is the saying? ‘Calm waters run deep’? Well, he wouldn’t really describe Ed as calm, though he was quite scary when he was calm, at any rate.

Ed had been wary during their conversation, though still been cheeky like he usually is. But the second Remus had even approached the idea that he might be a Werewolf—

Shutters had gone down behind Ed’s creepily golden eyes, his face blank as if he’d been put under the Imperius Curse, but his body language… it had been terrifying, if he was honest. Ed hadn’t seemed like a fifteen year old maybe-Werewolf almost two weeks removed from the next full moon, he’d seemed—

“What are you thinking, Remus?”

He bites the inside of his cheek, contemplating. “I think,” he says eventually. “That Ed is not a normal teenager, but if that is merely down to him possibly being a Werewolf I cannot say.”

Albus hums thoughtfully. “When I first saw him I thought he might be part Veela, personally.”

“Possibly,” Remus concedes with a tilt of his head. “A Veela’s children can be quite scary when they want to be.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, before Albus tilts his head at him and smiles. “What else is on your mind?”

Remus shifts again, and pulls the letter Ed had given him from an inside pocket of his coat, holding it out to the headmaster. “Ed has requested access to the restricted section of the library, all while waving this in my face like a smug little bastard.”

Albus chuckles as he reads over the recommendation. “Ah, I see being on the receiving end of a student’s cocksure attitude is not as fun, is it, now?”

“Don’t cheek me; I was the responsible one.”

“Only on the outside, let’s not kid ourselves, Remus,” Albus says in such a calm voice it was infuriating, more so because he was right. “I do wonder how he managed to get not only in contact with Bill Weasley, but also endear himself to both him and the Goblins of Gringotts.”

“Have you seen him? He seems to endear himself to almost everyone, and I don’t even know how.” Remus crosses his arms, leaning back in his uncomfortable, loud chair. “Harry and Hermione like him, Neville, too, not to mention almost every Slytherin in his year—,”

“And you,” Albus says, looking at him over the rim of his glasses. “You have liked him ever since he wrote a screed against the Ministry’s treatment of Werewolves.”

Remus’ lips thin. “I don’t like one student more than the other.”

“You have always been a bad liar, Remus, and age has not fixed that,” Albus chuckles, putting the recommendation letter down on his desk and leaning back in his chair, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “I will write to Bill, and his parents, get their side of the story, and then talk to Edward myself before I make a call on this request,” something flashes in his eyes. “I can’t say I… appreciate such an avid interest in curses, to be honest.”

“Ed excels in all his work, not just in my class,” Remus feels the need to point out. Thinking better of it he amends. “Herbology notwithstanding, but he’s got the spirit, or so Pomona tells me.”

“Yes, quite the student,” Albus nods, evidently not happy. His gaze lands on his bookshelf, and for a moment his eyes darken. “We all know what academic excellence can do, paired with an unfortunate temper, Remus.”

Remus feels like he’s missing something, but doesn’t ask. As he leaves the headmaster’s office and makes his way down the circling staircase, it finally comes to him, what Ed had reminded him of that evening in his office, eyes cold and face blank, body ready to strike.

With his golden eyes and aura of danger, he’d reminded Remus of a snake ready to strike.

[Saturday, 30 October 1993, Great Hall, Day of the Full Moon]

Dinner is even noisier than usual with the prospect of the first trip to Hogsmeade and the Halloween Feast upon them, and Ed hadn’t even considered the logistics of needing a permission slip until Snape had mentioned off-hand that they had received Ed’s before the year had started.

Seems like Truth had thought of everything.

At least Ed wouldn’t have to bail on his date with Blaise.

Speaking of—

“So,” he grins at his friend, nudging him in the side just to be a menace. “What’s the plan for tomorrow, sweetheart?”

“Well, darling,” Blaise drawls without missing a beat, the prick. “I thought we could wander around the village for a bit, do some shopping, maybe buy some sweets at Honeydukes. Then have lunch at the Three Broomsticks, maybe look at the Shrieking Shack because, you know, spooky season. Sound good?”

Ed blinks. “You actually thought it through?”

“Of course, honeybee, who do you take me for?” Blaise’s smile is all teeth. “I expect you to look dashing, my love, and to bring your best manners. Make your family proud and all that.”

Oh, that’s what this is, huh? Ed can feel his own smile spread on his face. “I wouldn’t dream of embarrassing you, sweetpea.”

“You two make me sick,” Draco gags. “You’re so terrible even Lupin chose to miss dinner.”

Ed follows where he points with his eyes, and only then realizes he’s right. “Huh, weird, I already didn’t see him at breakfast and lunch.”

“Your antics made him preemptively puke his guts out,” Draco says, sniffing and making a face like he’s smelling something foul. “Can’t say I blame the man.”

“You’re just jealous of our passionate love, so sweet it rots your teeth,” Ed says as deadpan as he can, and quickly ducks out of the way of a spoonful of mashed potatoes turned projectile. “Rude.”

“Don’t mind him, apple of my eye,” Blaise says, possibly more deadpan than Ed had been. “Some people can’t handle others being happy.”

“I hope you both die.”

“Don’t be homophobic, Draco,” Pansy tuts, and steals a tomato off his plate.

[Sunday, 31 October 1993, Hogsmeade, Halloween]

As much as the entire idea of the date had been a joke, Blaise wouldn’t mind having some nice and fun one on one time with Ed. He might be aloof, but even he hadn’t been able to avail himself of Ed’s special kind of charisma that makes it hard not to like him.

Well, if you weren’t Ron Weasley, but that guy runs on spite anyways, and their friends were running a betting pool on how long until he’d cave at this point.

(Ed had taken one look at them as they came up with it, raised one unimpressed eyebrow, and bet against them all

“I can do it before Christmas break,” he’d deadpanned, jotted down 50 galleons as his wager, and walked out the common room)

“Yo,” Ed’s voice reaches him over the grounds, the air colder than it has any reason to be courtesy of the Dementors floating above the high walls surrounding the castle. Blaise turns and sees Ed cast the floating beasts a wary glance, his steps faltering just barely, before he appears to brace himself. “Sorry I’m late, couldn’t find my wallet.”

“It’s fine,” Blaise shrugs, and thanks his dark complexion and the excuse of the cold air for hiding his blush. He’d never seen Ed with his hair down, and it had no business looking that good disappearing into his green-and-silver scarf and navy blue winter coat. “Let’s just hurry, these things make me feel clammy.”

Ed throws him a look as if to say oh boohoo tell me more, and, well, he does have a point. He’d barely been around the Dementors for two minutes and was already looking a little green in the face. Blaise links his arm into Ed’s left, unwilling to hurt him by accident by tugging at his prosthetic too hard when the weather will already be doing a number on it.

Most others had already gone ahead into the village, with only a few still idling behind them, mostly older students who would rather sleep in than rush to Hogsmeade. The sky was practically white from a solid layer of clouds, and the air crisp even as they increased the distance between themselves and the Dementors.

“So, my beloved, is there anything you’d like to do first?”

Ed casts him a sidelong, fondly exasperated glance out of the corner of his eyes before looking ahead again, the roofs of Hogsmeade slowly coming into view beyond the treetops. “I’ll let you call the shots, honeypie, I dunno what all there’s to do here.”

Blaise hums thoughtfully, secretly enjoying how warm Ed was even through all the layers of their clothing. “There’s a bookshop.”

Ed whirls around to look at him, his golden eyes sparkling. “Bookshop?!”

He snorts. “Knew that’d get you. Come on, darling.”

Tomes and Scrolls is a shop that seems bigger on the inside by virtue of being nothing but tightly packed rows of shelves reaching to the ceiling and filled to bursting with books of all sorts.

Before Blaise can ask him where he wants to go first Ed has already sped into one especially precarious looking aisle that appears to have last been visited by anyone when the shop was founded. As he gets dragged after his friend like a limp noodle he barely catches “Studies of the Dark Arts” on a withered copper plaque and wonders what the fuck he got himself into.

“So, uh… you’re into Dark Magic?” Blaise, by virtue of having a black widow for a mother and being friends with the son of a known Death Eater (well, known if you have a brain), can’t really throw shade, but considering Ed’s everything it came as a bit of a shock.

Ed’s hand pauses where he’s about to pick a book up, then continues like nothing happened. “Doubt this is worse than I’ve seen already.”

Well, if that doesn’t sound fucking ominous. “Anything specific you’re looking for?”

“No,” Ed says, you know, like a liar, and Blaise only stares as he flips through tome after tome searching for whatever it is he’s looking for. “Just academic curiosity.”

“... right,” Blaise says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You can tell me, you know.”

Ed licks his lips as he puts a book bound in what might be human skin back onto the shelf to pull out another in its stead. “... Bill mentioned something about Soul Magic in one of his letters, and I wanted to look it up. There wasn’t anything about it in the library, so I figured books straight up about Dark shit would have something.”

He didn’t sound wholly truthful as he says it, but also not like he was blatantly lying to his face again either. Blaise hums. “Soul Magic is taboo even amongst Dark Wizards. Stuff’s vile.”

“I was afraid of that,” Ed sighs, putting the book under his arm. He wasn’t asking how Blaise knew the do’s and don'ts of Dark Wizard Etiquette, and he wonders about that until he remembers one of the more violent tussles Ed has had with Nott. “Well, I’ve still found something I can use, so it’s not all bad.”

Blaise tilts his head to try and see the spine of the book his friend had chosen, but the dim lighting makes it difficult to read. “What about?”

“Dictionary of curse runes,” Ed shrugs, trying to see where the exit from the cave-like aisle is and making for it. “With some work you can guess at their meanings well enough with normal rune dictionaries, but there’s always a margin of error. Dedicated ones are much safer.”

“I see,” Blaise says airily, following him down the musty and narrow space between the towering shelves, only to run right into him when he stops dead in his tracks. “Ed?” He doesn’t answer, and Blaise follows his gaze to a book that looks almost unassuming in its plain burgundy cover. The bronze embossing on its spine was written in a language he didn’t recognize, but Ed seems to, because he fishes it out of the messy pile of books it had been stuffed into.

Ed flips through the first few pages, likely the index, and takes in a hissed, rushed breath before snapping it shut. “Guess I found two books,” he says, his voice slightly strained, and Blaise makes the executive decision not to ask further questions.

The shopkeep throws them a narrowed, suspicious glare over his thick glasses, but doesn’t comment, which is probably for the best. Knowing Ed he’d probably jinx the poor bastard if he asked a question that rubbed him the wrong way.

Whatever weird mood had overtaken Ed in the shop vanishes once they’re back out on the street, like he had left his cryptic self behind in the dark depths of the store. He turns to him with a grin. “So, where to next?”

Blaise hums in thought, glad for the return to normalcy. “There’s a clothing shop down that way?”

Ed’s lips twitch as if he’s suppressing a smile. “Are you saying my style’s shit, sweetheart?”

“Your style is limited to the uniform, so, yes.”

“You hurt my feelings.”

“Well, suck it up, buttercup. Let’s get you some leisure wear.”

“Oh, this looks—,”

“No.”

“But—,”

“I swear on Merlin’s withered bones if you buy that Dragon hide blazer I will end you.”

“... but it’s green. House pride!”

Blaise stares as Ed holds up the abomination of a jacket with a pout and round puppy dog eyes. And keeps staring. And watches as Ed’s eyes tear up.

“You realize I know that you’re just faking it right?”

Ed’s face falls. “You’re no fun.”

“Ugh, fine, look like a walking fashion disaster for all I care.”

“Woo!”

“How come the only color you allow in your wardrobe is either black-adjacent or attached to a crime against fashion and human decency?”

They are roaming the shelves of Honeydukes with several bags levitating beside them, most of them filled with Ed’s hideous choices or Blaise’s very sensible selection. Ed snorts before looking at some Chocolate Frogs. “I make it work.”

“I very much doubt that.”

“Not my problem, sweet potato.”

Blaise lets out the ugliest snort-laugh he has ever produced and covers his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle the noise. “Sweet potato, really?”

Ed smirks, grabbing a box of Pepper Imps off the shelf. “What? I like sweet potatoes, and I like you, so if the shoe fits.”

The Ice Mice are suddenly very interesting, and the shop much too warm. “You are ridiculous, Ed.”

“I’ve been told,” Ed says, the mirth audible in his voice even over the din of the other students. “Yet here you are, out on a date with me, so who’s the real loser, hm?”

He shoves him away by his stupidly handsome grinning face and stomps over to the cashier, followed all the way by his raucous laughter.

Blaise puts the two foaming tankards of Butterbeer down on their corner booth table and sits down with a relieved sigh. “I needed that,” he sighs, slipping out of his heavy coat. “Walking sucks.”

“That was barely a short stroll, Blaise,” Ed rolls his eyes, mimicking him. For the first time he can see what he’s actually wearing underneath his own coat, and he regrets it. It’s not even like he’s wearing anything unusual, it’s still the fucking uniform, but sans the tie and with a black tank top visible underneath the half-undone button up, it might as well be.

Somehow that, coupled with his loose hair, makes it hard to look for too long.

Blaise bites back a curse and instead drags one of the tankards over to himself, taking a sip in the hopes he can blame any flush on the warmth and alcohol. That proves to be a mistake when Ed leans forward and, arm propped up on the table, rests his cheek in his palm as he smiles, half lazy and half shit-eating, and Blaise almost chokes.

“So, Blaiseykins, tell me about that Shrieking Shack and why it’s so special.”

He straightens and clears his throat, covertly trying to wipe the Butterbeer from his chin. “They say it’s the most severely haunted place in all of Great Britain. Supposedly, you would hear screaming and howling from it, even though it’s been deserted for decades.”

Ed raises an eyebrow. “So, what, just a bored Poltergeist?”

“You’d think,” Blaise says, deeming it safe to take another sip. “But Poltergeists are manifestations of mischief, and they can’t survive without a steady supply of that, so that can’t really be it, you know?”

His friend hums, straightening to take a sip from his own drink. Blaise is not watching the way his throat moves as he swallows. Nope. “That does sound weird,” Ed agrees when he’s put the tankard down again. “So,” he says, dragging the vowel out. “Wanna break in?”

Blaise leans back in his seat and blinks. “Are you joking?”

“Nope,” Ed grins, popping the p, and he has no business making it sound like a fun little walk in the park. “So, is that a yes or a no?”

“I’m fairly certain it’s forbidden.”

“So a no then?”

Blaise blinks again, wondering how this has become his life, and sighs, shoulders slumping. He says, as deadpan as he can muster. “Sure. Sounds romantic, my love.”

“Knew you’d see my wisdom, honeysuckle.”

Blaise stares through the razor wire fence towards the top of the small hill, on top of which the two story “shack” sat in disrepair and isolation, ominous as its legend suggests. Their bags are resting underneath a nearby pine tree in case it’ll rain, a protective charm placed on them just for good measure.

There’s a loud creaking sound and he jumps, whirling to look and see just in time as Ed uses his now gloveless metal hand to grab several strands of the wire and pull it up, simultaneously pushing the remainder down with his platform boot’s sole. He casts him a look that clearly says are you okay? “Are you coming?”

“Why the fuck did I agree to this?” He mutters, delicately ducking through the gap and taking a few steps into the abandoned plot of land.

“Because you know it’ll be a fun little adventure with the love of your life. Just think! We can tell our grandchildren about it.”

“Harhar,” Blaise bites, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the sudden chill from a strong breeze. He lets his gaze roam over the outside of the shack and pauses.

“Weird,” Ed says, echoing his thoughts. “No doors.”

“Guess we’ll have to go back.”

“Nah,” Ed waves him off and stomps towards the closest wall of the building, removing his other glove as he goes. Running his flesh hand over the weathered boards he hums, tilting his head. “There’s… wards? Why though?”

“How can you tell?” Despite himself Blaise comes closer. There’s magic all around them, from the distant Hogwarts grounds and the village at their backs, it should be impossible to tell if there are wards on this building specifically. He yelps when Ed takes his hand and puts it against the wall of the shack.

“Can’t you tell? The energy is different.”

Blaise isn’t sure if Ed is just trying to pull his leg, but he tries to feel what he’s claiming is there anyways, if just to humor him. “I—,” he cuts himself off and frowns. “I think?”

“Makes it a bit harder, but nothing I can’t get past,” Ed says, nudging him back. He raises his hands as if to applaud, or maybe pray, then stops himself, throwing him a cheeky grin over his shoulder. “No telling anyone, okay, love?”

“No telling what to—,” he starts but doesn’t get to finish as Ed claps and slams his hands to the wall, blue energy arcing around him like crackling lightning, the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms standing on end. Before his eyes the wood moves like rippling waves on a still lake. He blinks sunspots from his eyes and is met with a smugly grinning Ed standing next to a door that wasn’t there before. “The fuck? How did you do that?”

Ed seems to hesitate, then puts his gloves back on and reaches for the doorknob that, when Blaise checks, looks like a Dragon claw. “Alchemy.”

Blaise blinks at him. “Alchemy?”

“Yeah, alchemy,” Ed repeats, shrugging like that’s the end of the topic, then opens the door. “You coming?”

He follows him numbly and watches as Ed closes the door behind them again. “What about the wards?”

“I… nudged them a bit, to adjust to the new door.”

“You… nudged the wards?”

“It’s honestly not that hard,” Ed says, like that isn’t something only the fucking casters of a ward can do. “This is weird.”

The fucking empty as shit shack wasn’t the only weird thing going on, in his opinion. Blaise takes a quick look around the main room they’re in, then crosses his arms with a huff. “Really? It’s empty?”

“That’s not the weird part,” Ed mutters, walking over to one of the walls and bending down to inspect the floor more closely. He points at—,

“What is that?”

“Claw marks,” Ed says matter-of-factly, like he’s seen stuff just like it a million times before. “Large predator, I’d say… 70 to 80 kilograms, about the height of a—,” he cuts himself off and stands, gaze sweeping over the rest of the room in a methodical manner that Blaise had only ever seen on Aurors and Unspeakables. Ed walks over to the other side of the room and moves up on his tiptoes to peel back a curling piece of wallpaper, revealing even more gashes. He curses, slumping back down to his normal height.

“Ed?”

His friend turns over to him, something indecipherable in his expression, then walks over in a few quick strides and grabs his arm to walk him back to the door he’d made. “We should leave.”

“Why?” He watches, transfixed, as Ed claps his hands again and removes the door, making it look like they’d never been inside.

“The damage in that building,” Ed says at last, once the remnants of energy had dispersed. “Was done by a Werewolf, or at least something just as large and aggressive as one.”

Blaise wants to protest, because how in the world would Ed be able to tell? But then he remembers Ed’s infamous essay, the entire thing as thick as his forearm is long, and the furious, single-minded focus with which he’d written it in the span of two days like he was possessed.

Blaise knows Ed isn’t a Werewolf, because he has more than two braincells to rub together. All of Slytherin House knows he isn’t, because you can’t live with someone and not figure out the whole thing is bullshit. Nott only makes the stupid dog jokes and encourages the rumors to be a dick.

But… does he know a Werewolf? Is that why he’s so ferocious about them? Has he seen the aftermath of a Werewolf attack and can just tell?

Does Blaise want to know the answer to any of it?

“Hey,” Ed says, effectively dragging him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Just forget about it. It’s probably just that a local was a Werewolf and used that shack to endure the transformations. The marks were old, like, twenty years and counting old, so it’s unlikely whoever caused them is still around.”

Blaise hums, idly levitating their numerous bags again so they can make their way back to the castle. “Say, Ed,” Ed makes a sound to let him know he’s listening, and Blaise bites his lip. “Why do you care about Werewolves so much? Be honest.”

“Listen, we share a dorm, and the last full moon was yesterday-,”

“I know you aren’t one,” he cuts him off, rolling his eyes. “That’s why I’m asking.”

He looks at Ed and sees him frown, as if he’s considering something, then he shakes his head and shrugs. When he answers his voice is subdued like he’s never heard it. “Because all life is precious, and equally so.”

It’s an answer somehow both totally at odds with Ed as Blaise knows him, and completely in line with him. “I see,” he says, somewhat lamely, and the rest of their walk to the castle is silent.

They have barely made it back from the Halloween Feast when Snape rushes into the common room like a bat out of hell, his face for once not sneering and instead tightly drawn. “Everyone is to gather in the Great Hall, no exceptions. Follow me.”

“What’s going on, Professor?” Gemma Farlay, one of the Slytherin prefects, asks, rushing to the front to help coordinate them through the entrance in an orderly fashion.

Snape looks like he isn’t going to answer at first, but then does, his voice a quiet, furious thing. “Someone attacked Gryffindor Tower during the feast. We must search the castle for the intruder, if he is still here.”

A low murmur goes through the students, but all Ed can focus on is he. So they probably know who it is, but they aren’t telling. To prevent a panic? But what would cause a more severe panic than an intruder in the first place?

“He, huh?” Draco mutters low in his ear, close by his side and gaze focused to the front as if to hide that he’s speaking in the first place. “You reckon it’s Black?”

Ed hums. “Who else would attack the Gryffindor Tower? Or is there another guy out and about hunting someone other than Harry I don’t know about?”

Draco snorts, but doesn’t deign it with an answer, and Ed supposes that’s just as well, because they have reached the Entrance Hall and are joined by confused students dressed in yellows and blues. Evidently their Heads of House hadn’t told them what was going on.

Later, when they are all lying in incredibly ugly but very comfy purple sleeping bags and Ed is staring at the star-covered enchanted sky of the Great Hall he wonders.

Did Black attack the tower during the feast on purpose? He must have, the feast hadn’t been quiet, even the thick walls of the castle must have let some noise through. had he planned to wait in the Gryffindor common room to attack Harry? But wasn’t that too risky?

Really, if it was Ed he’d just wait for the kid to be out on the grounds.

Speaking of—,

»How did you make it past the Dementors?« The guy had been exposed to those things for twelve whole years, no way he would be able to stray close to them without losing whatever’s left of his sanity, or without them noticing. That was the whole point of them being at Hogwarts.

That was the crux. How had Black made it into the castle, unnoticed, attempted to break into the tower and then left just as unnoticed as he’d entered?

And suppose he manages to off Harry when Voldemort and several others had failed, what then?

What was his plan?

»Whatever it is, I hope I will figure it out before it’s too late,« he mutters to himself.

Ed doesn’t fall asleep until the enchanted ceiling begins to brighten at the edges, and makes the executive decision to skip his morning classes under the guise of a cold to catch some more sleep in the Hospital Wing.

If Madam Pomfrey sees through his lie she doesn’t say, and simply points him to a bed with a small vial of Pepper-up Potion.

(he will be glad for this come afternoon)

Chapter Text

[Monday, 1 November 1993, Ancient Runes classroom]

Albus waits outside the Ancient Runes classroom for the lesson to end, thinking back over the letters he had received that morning.

Arthur and Molly had been… surprised, to hear about their eldest son’s new friend, to put it mildly. They had expressed some concerns, if only because they’d like to meet him to gauge how trustworthy he is, given his House.

Bill, on the other hand…

—I don’t really get why you’re worried, Professor Dumbledore, if I’m honest. Ed’s a really great kid, and incredibly bright. I doubt he has any ulterior motives in befriending anybody, or plans anything nefarious with the knowledge in the restricted section. You know I wouldn’t have penned the recommendation letter if I suspected he would misuse it.

Ed’s a kid, Professor. A smart one, and maybe somewhat abrasive, but there’s not a Dark bone in his body.

I will say, however, that he seems to feel the need to compensate for something, though I don’t really know what or why. Ed seems to feel like he has to prove that he deserves friendship; you should have read his letter when he told me he’s in Slytherin!

If you intend to go ahead with your suspicions, silly as I think they are, I wish you all the best. Trust me, you will need it.

Well, that didn't sound ominous at all.

While Bill’s certainty regarding Edward’s character was helping to alleviate some of his concerns, it was also… somewhat discomfiting. Albus was all too familiar with charismatic students and the masks they liked to bear. First Tom, then Sirius.

He’d like Edward not to follow in their footsteps, but he would have to talk to him to really get a feel for him.

(he ignores the voice in his head that tells him he thought he knew Sirius Black, once, and how that had ended

he ignores the other voice, too, that says he was once not much different from them, so sure he knew better than others, was fighting for the greater good

isn’t he still?)

The door to the classroom opens and students file out, sending him curious glances as they pass him. Above the din of the chatting teenagers he can just barely make out the voice of Hermione Granger, sounding almost heated, and—,

“Granger, do you have to try and answer every question? Some of us might know too,” Draco Malfoy’s voice drawls, though it lacks its usual snark.

“Well, excuse me, if I know the answer I’ll raise my hand!”

“I’m with Draco on this one,” a third voice joins them, and that would be Edward, he thinks. Who else could manage to make those two act civil? “Every teacher and their grandma knows you know your shit, might as well let others try and answer every once in a while.”

“Not like you ever try to answer, so what’s your problem?”

“It’s the principle of the matter.”

“You know, Ed,” Draco muses, a smile in his voice that has Albus raise his eyebrows. “I think half of what you say at any given moment is just to start an argument.”

“... shut up.” There’s some snickering, then. “Just for that I will be extra obnoxious at dinner.”

“Please don’t.”

“Am I missing something?”

The unconventional group chooses this moment to exit the classroom, the last to have been inside, and all three of them stop in their tracks when they see him.

Albus smiles. “Hello,” he lets his gaze sweep over each of them in turn. “It is always good to see cross-House friendships, I must say.” Edward’s eyebrows rise up on his forehead, while Hermione and Draco exchange quick glances before looking away again, like they had been caught breaking the rules. “Edward, I was wondering if we could talk in my office.”

It’s not a question, nor a suggestion. The three exchange another glance, and Ed rolls his eyes, looking at him with bored defiance. “Sure.”

I wish you all the best. Trust me, you will need it.

Albus waits for Edward to settle down in the offered chair, watching him intently. What’s said is almost as important as what isn’t; body language revealing things the voice might not. Edward reclines in his seat easily, one leg crossed over the other and hands resting in his lap. He looks relaxed, his face neutral, and it tells Albus more than he thinks the boy intends to reveal.

He’s used to facing off against authority figures, and doing it alone.

Albus will need to be more cautious than usual, it seems.

He smiles. “Sour drop?”

Edward doesn’t even look towards the bowl he indicates. “No, thank you.”

Albus suppresses the urge to sigh; no one ever accepts his sweets. He watches and waits to see if Edward is going to say anything, or maybe twitch — he doesn’t strike him as the patient sort, and nothing the teachers reported indicates it either.

But the boy remains perfectly still and perfectly at ease, barely even blinks.

He gives him the vague impression of a trapdoor spider waiting to strike from its hiding place to catch its prey.

Eventually Albus decides to start, if only because he has the distinct impression Edward can and will wait him out. “Professor Lupin informed me of your request, Edward.”

“I know,” he says with a neutral voice that doesn’t suit him. “He said he would.”

Something crawls over his skin like unease, makes him feel like he misstepped somewhere and didn’t realize. “May I ask what you plan to look up?”

There is the barest twitch of eyelids. “I figured it was obvious, given my recommendation from a Cursebreaker, Professor,” he tacks the title on like an afterthought, or maybe like he wants it to feel like that, like he’s baiting him.

Albus wonders how often it has worked in his favor that he does it so easily. He forces a smile. “Indulge me.”

Edward shifts in his seat then, both feet now firmly planted on the ground. “I don’t like playing games; ask what you want to ask, or I’ll leave.”

Ah, so the calm and patience had been an act, after all.

“I do not mean to be combative, or give you the impression that I have something against you, Edward—,”

“Yet here we are,” the boy cuts him off, and Albus is almost impressed at the gall. “Is it my House? Is it because I’m a foreigner? Or do you just plain don’t like me?” Something flashes in his eyes. “Or could it be you’re afraid of another bright student being too interested in the Dark Arts?” Something must have shown on his face, because Edward smiles, but it isn’t kind. “That’s it, isn’t it? You wonder if I might be a new Lord Voldemort.”

“Am I wrong to worry?”

Edward rolls his eyes and scoffs, crossing his arms. “It would be news to me that Voldemort was passionate about civil rights,” gold eyes are full to the brim with the haughty disdain only teenagers are capable of. “No, between the two of us I’d say you’re more similar to him, aren’t you? You’d do anything for the greater good.”

Albus straightens in his seat. “I haven’t heard those words in a while.”

“I imagine you haven’t,” Edward nods to himself. “I don’t plan to take over the world and subjugate people, if that’s what you’re worried about, Professor. I suppose I understand your concern, but it’s unfounded. I just want to further my education, that’s all.”

That’s all, huh?

Albus wishes he could trust people more easily, truly does. But he’d trusted once, and lives with that regret. He had been satisfied to watch once, and the world still pays for it. He thought he’d known someone once, and he had been wrong.

Grindelwald, Riddle, Black; a series of case studies on his follies.

He doesn’t much want to add another name to the list.

Albus looks at Edward Elric and sees a bright mind with the green ambition to take what he wants. He sees golden charisma and a silver tongue. He sees confidence and the ability to back it.

Tom Riddle had worn the same uniform with the same colors and the same qualities.

But where Tom Riddle had been pale and black and cold, Edward Elric was tan and golden and warm.

Tom Riddle had been a half-blood immersed in pureblood ideology; Edward Elric was a pureblood eschewing everything that usually stands for.

Albus can deny his request without explanation, but he isn’t under the illusion that this boy won’t find a way around it anyways. Rules and authority don’t scare him, don’t matter to him.

“You may not take out books from the restricted section,” he says, voice deceptively calm. “And you have to hand Madam Pince a list of every book you read when you leave. Is that acceptable for you?”

Edward smiles with blinding teeth. “Very.”

The boy is already at the door to his office when Albus decides to see if he can’t catch him off-guard, after all.

“One more thing.”

Edward turns just enough to look at him over his right shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

“May I share your essay with some people? It was truly a delightful read.”

The other eyebrow joins the first and he turns back to the door, waving his hand dismissively. “Knock yourself out, old man.”

Well, Albus muses, popping a sour drop in his mouth thoughtfully. Look at that, Bill was right.

Ed’s hands shake as he closes the curtains around his bed and settles against the headboard, carefully picking up the unassuming book that he’d bought at Tomes and Scrolls.

Well, it would be unassuming, if not for the fact that the writing on the spine and inside was Old Amestrian.

This language should not exist in this world. Fuck, it barely still exists in Amestris. Ed can only even read it because his father’s study had been filled with books written in it. He’d been able to read the dead language before his actual native one, and while his vocabulary was still mostly restricted to alchemy, enough of the root language remained in Modern Amestrian to get the gist.

The Truth of my Life, the spine reads, nothing out of the ordinary, really, but, well.

The word for Truth was written with the characters for God, and Life was spelled as Legacy.

It had taken him a moment to understand the double meaning, and it had filled his veins with ice.

This was a book written in a dead language that should not exist and uses a spelling for a word that implies the writer opened the Gate and met the Truth.

His hands shake as he stares at the red leather cover. Why does this feel like I’m going to commit the taboo all over again?

He grits his teeth, and opens the book.

Herpo had always craved a legacy.

He had studied and labored to become a master alchemist at the king’s court, had studied rhetoric to be able to keep up with the best of the best. He was accomplished and set for life, the perfect groundwork for a legacy that would last generations.

It was ironic, then, that his only offspring had been born from a dalliance with one of his colleague’s slaves. His only son, only child, so far, born into thralldom and bound to lead a nameless life.

He could claim the boy, of course, but what kind of legacy is built on a bloodline like that? Some worthless slave’s bastard child, who even knows if the brat wasn’t mentally damaged, hadn’t inherited some disease.

No, if Herpo was to have a real child, and thus a lasting legacy, he had to do it right.

And to do that he’d need time.

Immortality was the one and only pursuit Herpo knew for a time.

He was still young, a man of barely thirty-and-one, but you could never start too early. Not like their king, who only began to long for it once his health started to fail him.

No, he’d do it soon, and would not wait for others to present it to him. At the rate it was going it would be several more decades before his colleague would make a breakthrough, fixated as he is on his homunculus research. It was too roundabout a way.

No, Herpo had a better idea.

The array glows in red, the color of life, of death, of the soul, and black hands grasp for the slaves he had arranged at its edge. They were to be the Toll for his goal, and what a grand death it would be to serve their master that way, to pave the way for his lasting legacy.

There is a large, blank eye, gaping and white.

There is White, and a Gate, and the Truth.

“Ah,” says the white distortion amidst the white expanse of all and one and nothing and everything. “Welcome, alchemist.”

Herpo can make a guess what this creature is, doesn’t need Knowledge or to see beyond the Gate. That is not why he is here, what he is looking for, and the tilt of the thing’s head tells him it knows.

“You long for a legacy, and to defy Death,” it says, a cruel, empty smile spreading on its face. Behind Herpo the Gate opens with a crack and a rumble, felt in his bones instead of heard with his ears. “I will teach you humility, Herpo Paracelsus of Xerxes.

“I will teach you despair, and the price of your hubris.”

There is White, and a Gate, and a world unlike his own.

[Wednesday, 3 November 1993, Astronomy Tower]

Ed can’t really focus on the star chart he’s supposed to be working on, his mind still wholly occupied with what he’d read in that book two days prior.

Someone from Xerxes got displaced here.

At first he’d thought he must have read wrong, considering he’s not actually fluent in Old Amestrian. Or Xerxian, he supposes, and isn’t that interesting to know. How had his father gotten his hands on ancient books from a destroyed civilization?

But no matter how he read the letters, how he traced back the etymology of the words, it all lead to the same conclusion.

Someone from Xerxes had been displaced here by Truth before.

The question is, does it actually matter? Ed knows his way back. This wasn’t a Toll like his limbs had been, it wasn’t supposed to humble him. It was a bargain, an exchange of services, a business transaction.

Clean up Riddle’s mess, then clean up Father’s mess back home, and all’s well that ends well.

But why does that feel too easy?

The Truth Ed knows is straightforward. Equivalent Exchange. You pay a Toll and get Knowledge. It’s the law of the world, something doesn’t come from nothing.

Why, then, had Truth offered him this deal? At first glance it almost feels like cheating, until you really think about it. He cleans up one man’s mess and survives. He cleans up another’s, and gets his brother back. A life for a life, basically. Both men were people who had skirted their dues, and he was just playing tax collector for the universe.

But why him?

Was he just convenient? Ed doubts that anyone has opened the Gate as many times as he has, really, he should get a loyalty card of some kind at this rate. Perform five human transmutations and get the sixth half price.

Somehow, Ed can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something.

“Ed? You okay there?”

He flinches, looking up from his half-empty star chart to meet Neville’s concerned gaze. “Huh? Oh, yeah, just got lost in thought, don’t worry,” he tries to smile, but worries it comes off as forced.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, really, I’m okay,” he assures his friend again, putting his chart aside to grab the telescope. Ed looks through it, still pointed at the grounds rather than the sky, and is surprised to see that same large, black dog wandering about. This time it’s nearby the Quidditch pitch, and seems to be slowly inching towards the entrance, looking around as if to make sure no one sees it.

That dog is weird.

But weird dogs at a magic school aren’t truly weird, are they?

He moves the telescope towards the star-covered sky, and tries to push the dog and Herpo out of his mind.

He’s only mildly successful.

[Saturday, 6 November 1993, Quidditch Pitch]

There was, quite possibly, no worse weather to play Quidditch in than what they were facing right now.

Ed had gotten absolutely drenched the second he had stepped out of the castle with the rest of the Slytherin team, and suddenly wishes himself back into the fucking blizzard in Baschool.

“I swear, why you guys insist on playing in the middle of a thunderstorm is beyond me,” he says, and certainly doesn’t whine, pulling the bright green robe over his head with a sigh. “Like, what if we get hit by lightning?”

“Then we get hit by lightning,” Flint says, rolling his eyes. “Stop complaining, Elric.”

Ed does, but mostly because he knows it is useless to keep the argument going. At least Hermione had taught him her pocket fire spell, tiny flames that didn’t burn but kept you warm. He’d conjure them all around his fucking bed tonight.

(sometimes he wondered at how quickly he had taken to using magic as casually as that, when he had started out finding it off-putting and unnerving)

“Alright,” Flint declares when they are all in their game robes. “Let’s do this without dying, eh?”

“Fuck you, too,” Ed grumbles, and flips his team captain off.

The wind and rain almost bowls them all over when they step out onto the field, and Ed once again wonders why he ever let Draco talk him into this, before remembering that he is a competitive motherfucker at heart and actually enjoys flying.

Just not in this fucking weather.

Over the wind he doesn’t hear Madam Hooch blow her whistle, but figures she has called the start of the match when the rest of his team makes off into the air. He follows, thanking his automail for giving him the weight necessary not to be blown to the wayside.

This is fucking horrible, Ed thinks, wondering how the fuck he’s supposed to see a tiny golden ball in this mess. All he can see is dark gray rain and blurry green and red shapes zooming past; the wind is too loud to even make out commentary. If you asked him what the score was or if any of the players had just crashed into the muddy ground like a trainwreck he wouldn’t be able to tell you.

All he really wants is to find the fucking Snitch, or else have Harry catch it, so they can all go back inside and dry off.

A black shape speeds towards him and he barely manages to duck the Bludger, then almost flies head first into a Gryffindor Chaser. He thinks she might be cursing him, or maybe she’s just cursing the weather.

This was fucking pointless.

The bright light of lightning arcs across the sky, and the shrill sound of a whistle shrieks over the thunderclap, signaling a timeout.

Really, Ed would prefer the match just be canceled, but no one is asking him.

He lands, swiping his wet bangs out of his face and wondering what was going on beyond the one foot radius he could still see clearly.

“Any luck yet?” He looks at Flint and Draco walking over to him and just shakes his head, momentarily feeling like a wet dog. “Shit. Well, no use, we’ll just have to hope and keep trying; Gryffindor’s got a forty point lead.”

“I’m trying,” Ed says, rolling his eyes. “But it’s kinda hard to see a tiny ball in this mess.”

“I wasn’t criticizing you,” Flint says, watching as Hooch signals them to remount their brooms. “Just annoyed.”

“Mood,” he sighs, kicking off the moment the whistle sounds again.

The lightning is getting more frequent, and the wind and rain more violent, and Ed hopes that either he or Harry can end the match quickly. No matter how competitive he can be, at this point he just wants some hot soup and cocoa, fuck the match.

Another bolt of lightning illuminates the sky, casting the world in sharp contrast, and Ed sees light reflect off a tiny golden surface.

He turns and makes to dive for it when a shudder runs through him, a cold that goes beyond being soaked and windswept.

“You and I, we are just the same, Fullmetal Alchemist!”

“No,” he mutters under his breath, the single word swept away by the wind.

But he realizes he can’t hear the wind anymore.

“Let us play!”

Ed sweeps his eyes over the field, hoping to pinpoint where the fucking Dementors must be and trying to fight off the blackness encroaching his vision like tar.

It’s no use.

His fingers slip on the wet wood of the broom, and he falls to the sound of an echoing voice.

“Hello, my little alchemist.”

Chapter Text

When Ed wakes up there is White, and a Gate, and the Truth.

“So did I brain myself on the pitch,” he starts, sitting up with a groan. “Or did you just miss me?”

Truth’s grin is less unnerving than it ought to be, and Ed blames it on having seen it too many times. “It was your soul that decided to pay me a visit, my little alchemist.”

Something cold washes over him. “I—, huh?”

Truth hums, tapping their chin in thought. “Normally I wouldn’t tell, but we’re friends now, I suppose,” the grin widens, and Ed wants to take a fucking nap. “Dementors, at their worst, affect your soul. Part of your body is here, so your soul fled imminent danger when given the chance.”

Ed wants to unpack that never, thank you very much. “I… see. So I’m not—,”

“You’re still alive and kicking, don’t worry,” Truth shrugs. “But this works just as well,” they raise Ed’s stolen hand and suddenly hold Herpo’s book in it, waving it around. “I see you’ve met… an old acquaintance.”

He stares at the book. “He—, the guy mentioned homunculus research, in Xerxes, before he got displaced by you. So the homunculi really are made from the souls of the citizens of Xerxes?”

“Yes.”

The answer is curt and nonchalant, and it makes Ed’s skin crawl. “Is that why you had me find it?”

Truth tilts their head in apparent confusion, the grin falling. “You misunderstand, Edward Elric; I had nothing to do with you finding his writings. I would have just as well seen his name be forgotten to history, but alas, he was stubborn,” like an afterthought they add. “Family trait, I’m afraid.”

The fuck is that supposed to mean?

“A legacy,” Ed says instead of pressing it further. “He craved a legacy, to be remembered, and you sent him to this world. Why?”

The grin returns. “Continue reading, and maybe you’ll find out.”

Ed would rather not. Something was off-putting about the book, not quite like magic or the taboo, but rather like he was opening a can of worms he was never supposed to even discover. Maybe it was just the general unpleasantness of the man coming through in his writing.

“You know,” Truth muses, idly tapping Ed’s fingers on the cover of the book. “It is quite amusing, that it was you to find it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m the only one in that world who’d be able to read it?”

“... not quite,” Truth says, and whether they mean there are others who can read it or because there’s a different reason the coincidence amuses them Ed can’t tell. “I’d say it’s safe for you to return to your body now, my little alchemist.”

And before Ed can say something, protest, ask another question, anything, the white dissolves, and when he blinks open his eyes he finds himself in the Hospital Wing, feeling like he’d been hit by a particularly angry train.

[Saturday, 6 November 1993, Hospital Wing]

To Harry’s left a groan sounds in the dark Hospital Wing, and he sleepily grapples for his glasses lying on the nightstand. Turning his head he can just barely make out Ed blinking his eyes open, a bit of moonlight the only illumination they’re going to get at the late hour of the night.

“Hey,” Harry says dryly. “How was your nap?”

“I feel like the school squid slammed me into the castle walls,” Ed deadpans, voice sounding hoarse. “You?”

“About the same,” Harry responds, earning himself a wry chuckle. “Some luck, huh?”

“Great start to my Quidditch career,” Ed snarks, and the shadowy lump Harry suspects is him moves as if rubbing his face with a hand. “Told Flint it was a shitbrained idea to play in this weather.”

Harry can’t help but snort. “Quidditch always happens.”

“Shitbrained, like I said.”

“Not wrong,” Harry chuckles, then sobers. “Glad you’re okay, though.”

Ed hums, returning the sentiment. “I hate those things.” The way he says it sounds more like he means to say I hate being helpless, and it’s a feeling Harry shares. But before he can say anything Ed shuffles in his bed and seems to take something from a pocket. There is some blue light and a click, then. “Wow, it’s 11PM? Really?”

Right, Ed doesn’t like being serious. “Thank god it’s Sunday.”

“Yeah,” Ed says, more light shining before he shuffles once more. “We should try to sleep.”

“Been there, couldn’t do it.”

Ed is silent for a bit before he speaks up again, and his tone reminds Harry of the twins. “Did Pomfrey give you any potions?”

“Uh, no?”

“Alright,” Ed says, and moves from his bed, swaying a little, before lighting his wand up and looking around a bit. In the light from his spell his eyes look more silver than gold, and the shape of his face scratches at a memory he can’t place. Ed then makes his way over to what Harry assumes is the medicine cupboard.

“Are… you sure you should do this?”

“I’ll apologize to her in the morning,” he simply shrugs, opening the cabinet with nonverbal magic, it seems, the same blue light shining brightly and leaving sun spots in his vision. Ed walks to his side with a vial full of pink liquid and loosens the stopper. “This said Drowsiness Draught? I think the fume is supposed to make us sleepy, if I remember right.”

“Uh,” Harry starts, but then the sickly sweet smell of the pink cloud enters his lungs and he can feel his eyelids grow heavy.

“Wow,” he thinks he hears Ed mutter as sleep starts to engulf him. “That was quick.”

[Sunday, 7 November 1993, Hospital Wing]

When Ed wakes up again it’s to the sound of arguing.

“Oi! We won’t let you near our Seeker while he’s still weak!” A voice Ed doesn’t recognize shouts at someone, and he slowly blinks his eyes open, realizing the noise is coming from the door to the Hospital Wing. Beside him Harry groans.

“Oh really,” Draco’s muffled drawl answers. “How do we know you lot aren’t gonna hurt our Seeker, huh, Weasley?”

“If you can’t be peaceful,” Madam Pomfrey barks. “Then no one will visit either of them.”

“But—,” the Weasley-Ed-doesn’t-know starts, and he’s had enough.

“Good luck trying to hurt me,” he shouts across the room. “And if anyone hurts Harry, you’ll have a fatal accident. Now shut up, your shouting can raise the dead!”

To his right Harry has sat up and put on his glasses, looking as tired as Ed feels. “Can you guys be civil? Please?”

Some low murmuring follows their statements, and a short while later a gaggle of teenagers shuffle up to their beds, divided down the middle like touching each other would spell their doom. Hermione gives Ed a relieved smile and a little wave, while Ron and, Ed assumes, Fred and George just throw him wary glances before huddling around Harry.

“So, that was a great first match for you, huh,” Draco sighs, lightly slapping his shoulder in disapproval. “Was afraid you’d brained yourself.”

“Takes more than a fall to kill me,” Ed rolls his eyes, thanking Pansy as she hands him a pastry and a glass of pumpkin juice she’d brought from breakfast. “What happened after Harry and I said so long, cruel world and took a nosedive off our brooms?”

“They’re rescheduling the match,” Draco says with a shrug. “Not really a point in playing when both Seekers go buh-bye and take an aerial nap, you know?”

“I’d argue there wasn’t much point to the game in the first place, what with the weather and all,” Ed argues, pushing Blaise away with his foot as he tries to steal a bite from his pastry. “That’s mine, honeypie.”

“But sweetheart—,”

“No. There’s two things I don’t share: my toothbrush and my food.”

“Just say you don’t love me anymore.”

“Never have, love of my life,” Ed deadpans, stuffing the rest of his pastry into his mouth, maintaining eye contact the entire time out of spite. He can feel the confused gazes of the Gryffindors on him, and it’s remarkably entertaining. “On a scale from one to ten, how pissed was Dumbledore?”

His friends exchange a look, then a new voice pipes up from behind them. “I’d say about thirty-seven,” Neville says, waving shyly at him over Blaise’s shoulder. “Hey, good to see you’re both okay.”

“Yeah well,” Ed shrugs, taking the box Neville holds out with a mild frown. “From what I’ve heard Harry is harder to kill than a cockroach, and I’ve survived worse than a short drop like that,” he squints at the writing on the box. “What the fuck are Berty Bott’s All Flavor Beans?”

Neville grins. “Try one and find out.”

Ed wags a finger at him. “I never should have unlocked your snark.”

“No, you really shouldn’t have,” his friend agrees, looking a bit startled when Pansy fetches him a chair to sit down in.

Meanwhile, Ed has opened the box and taken out a greenish-gray looking bean. “Will I regret this?”

“Maybe,” Draco grins, the prick.

He puts the bean in his mouth and chews carefully, then relaxes. “Oh, peppermint, nice,” holding out the box he has the distinct impression his friends are disappointed. “Want some?” The four of them take one each and when he holds it out to Harry’s side of the gathering they take one as well, some more reluctantly than others.

“Ew, garlic,” Blaise sticks out his tongue, and Ed smirks.

“Yeah, no, no kisses for you then.”

Draco and Neville choke on their beans, and Ron throws them an appalled look. “Wait, you two are, like, actually—?”

“What’s it to you?” Ed raises an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to squirm. “I’m pulling your leg, relax.”

“What’s it matter to you, Ronniekins,” one of the twins teases, leaning over his little brother. “Jealous?”

“No!” Ron’s face is going scarlet. “But he said he and Bill were soulmates, what was I supposed to think?”

Blaise lets out an exaggerated gasp, putting a hand to his chest. “What? You never told me about this, you two-timing scoundrel!”

“Honeysuckle, please, let me explain!” Ed says with dramatics, but can’t keep his laughter in long enough to keep the theater going. Draco groans and pushes him over by the face, grabbing the box of all flavor beans and taking out another before holding it out to everyone but Blaise to get seconds.

“So, snakeyboy,” one of the twins sidles over to him suddenly, an eyebrow raised. “You know our big bro?”

Ed mimics the expression. “What if I do?”

“Oh, right,” twin number two says, joining his brother. “We are Fred and George.”

He hums. “Bill mentioned we might get along, actually.”

“Oh no,” Hermione says, sounding only half-serious. “Don’t let them team up.”

“Is that so?” The twin who’d been introduced as Fred says. “Well, either the curses and desert heat fried Billy-boy’s brain, or we’ll have to put that theory to the test someday.”

Ed leans back with a smirk playing at his lips. “Really? You’d hang out with a snake?”

The other twin, George, shrugs, crossing his arms. “Might as well see what the hubbub is about.”

Pansy sighs, stealing another bean from the box. “Can’t believe Ed is charming all the Weasleys.”

“Really?” Neville asks, taking another bean as well and earning himself surprised looks from everyone around. “I’d say it was inevitable.”

“Two months,” Draco says with a meaningful look in Ron’s direction. “Wouldn’t wanna lose that bet, eh?”

“What bet?” Fred and George ask at once, eyes gleaming with mischief and apparently forgetting who they’re currently talking to.

Ed throws a dark brown bean at Draco’s face. “Don’t tell them, they look like they wanna rig it.”

“What?” Fred says, fake gasp and pearl clutching and all. “We would never!”

Harry can’t help staring at the weird collection of people joking around Ed and throwing jellybeans at each other. “So, uh, did I get a concussion?”

“Nope,” Ron says. “The world has just gone mad.”

“You two are so dramatic,” Hermione rolls her eyes, plopping down at the foot of the bed. “When I tutored her Ginny actually told me that Ed’s been jinxing people who are bullying her friend Luna, and the whole school has been talking about Ed’s antics. Just accept that you were wrong, Ron.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” Ron maintains. “I swear he’s hiding something.”

“Doesn’t everyone hide something?” Hermione points out. “Do you share everything about yourself? Ed knows stuff about muggles on par with a muggleborn, Ron, if he says he doesn’t care about this blood stuff I believe him,” she gnaws on her lip, then lowers her voice. “Malfoy has been having normal conversations with me during Ancient Runes, and hasn’t said a slur in my vicinity once this year. He’s joked around with me, even. I don’t care if Ed is secretly Grindelwald if he manages to clean up their attitudes.”

Harry hums. “People keep saying he’s a Werewolf—,”

“Oh, don’t start with that, please,” Hermione pleads, facepalming. “You can’t believe those rumors, I know you aren’t stupid, Harry.”

Ron frowns. “Do you know something we don’t?”

Hermione glares through the gaps between her fingers. “Evidently. Let me just assure you that Ed isn’t a Werewolf.”

“What, did you snog him under the moonlight?” Ron sneers, rolling his eyes, yelping when Hermione slaps him upside the head. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Being a dumbass,” she replies coolly, then looks at Harry and bites her lip again. “There’s something you ought to know, by the way. About your broom.”

His blood runs cold, and to their left the group around Ed’s bed grows quiet, suddenly focused on them as Hermione reaches under the bed to retrieve a bundle of—

“Oh,” Harry croaks. “Oh.”

“... yeah,” Ron says, shifting in his seat. “It had a nice little slapfight with the Whomping Willow after you fell.”

“What happened to the one I was flying?” Ed asks, his golden eyes flicking over to Malfoy before focusing back on the remnants of Harry’s Nimbus 2000.

“Hit Flint in the face,” Malfoy drawls, wincing a little as he looks at the splintered broom. “So aside from his ugly mug’s imprint it’s fine.”

Ed hums, leaning closer to Harry’s bed. “Hey, can I see that for a sec?” Harry isn’t sure what good that would do, the broom was broken beyond repair, but he hands the bundle over anyways. Ed has removed his gloves — Harry hadn’t even realized he wore them to sleep, too — and is now inspecting the larger parts of his ruined Nimbus. “I’m gonna guess some parts got lost, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ron says, for once not sounding like he’s out for a fight. “That was all Flitwick could find.”

“I see,” Ed hums, frowning as he rearranges the pieces into the vague shape of a broom. “The large pieces still have the enchantments, but they’re weak.”

“You can’t repair brooms with magic when they’re that messed up,” Malfoy points out, but Ed waves him off without sparing him a glance.

“Not gonna use magic, beyond repairing the enchantments as best as I can.”

Harry shifts forward, and so does everyone else as Ed brings his hands up when he seems satisfied with his arrangement. “What do you mean?”

“Just watch,” he says, face concentrated as he claps his hands and brings them down to the splintered broom, blue lightning arcing across it like a miniature thunderstorm. Before Harry’s eyes the pieces move like liquid, slowly merging back together. There are faint marks along the broomstick as the light recedes, and it seems thinner and to be shaped slightly differently, but—

“How,” Fred says, flabbergasted. “Did you do that?”

“Alchemy,” Ed says simply, picking it up and inspecting his work with a mild frown before holding it out to Harry again. “I’m not, like, a professional broom maker, so the enchantments might not be as good as before, and since I had to make up for the lost pieces it could be a bit wonky to fly, but better than nothing until you can get a replacement, right?”

“You—,” Harry starts, but isn’t sure what to say. He can tell there is a difference just from holding it, even beyond the surface level, but it still feels lengths better than the school brooms he’d learned flying on. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” Ed shrugs, blushing slightly as if unused to gratitude. “But, seriously, get yourself a proper replacement. I can’t vouch for how well I fixed the enchantments.”

Suddenly Ed has a face full of Hermione Granger in front of him. “How did you figure out which enchantments were used? How did you mend them? Was that really alchemy? I always thought it was only used for Philosopher’s Stones, and everything I read said you need circles for it—,”

“Hermione,” Ed cuts her off, looking a little uncomfortable. “Take a breath,” he seems to contemplate for a moment. “And for alchemy I need to be able to identify the components of what I’m transmuting, and identifying spells works kinda the same? Same with mending them,” something flashes over his face. “I’m not answering the rest.”

Harry isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone but Snape refuse to answer one of Hermione’s questions that didn’t have anything to do with secret school business. By the look on her face she feels betrayed beyond reason. “But—,”

“No,” Ed says with the same tone of voice he’d used that day they’d flown over the Quidditch pitch and simply talked, like he was older than he looked. “I won’t talk about that,” there is a sort of finality to his voice that could rival Dumbledore’s, and everyone shifts uneasily.

Madam Pomfrey, with her impeccable timing, chooses that exact moment to shoo out their friends to check them over for release. And as Harry waits for his turn he can’t help but wonder how Ed knows about Philosopher’s Stones, and what about them makes him so uncomfortable.

Harry always thought only Nicolas Flamel had ever managed to create one, and both he and the stone were no more.

So what made him react that way?

“Now, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife. “Let’s see your reflexes, hm?”

[Monday, 8 November 1993, Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom]

Remus is starting to dread the end of his third year lessons.

Suppressing a sigh he folds his hands atop his desk and looks up at Ed and Harry, the sight taking his breath away for a moment.

(Ed looks nothing like Sirius, and yet the way he stands side-by-side with Harry is like a punch right to the gut)

“Yes?”

Ed and Harry exchange a look, and that, too, is too uncanny for his liking. Ed speaks up (just like Sirius always instigated everything—), face a careful friendly-neutral. “We’d like to learn how to defend ourselves against Dementors… sir,” he tacks it on as an afterthought, fidgeting slightly like he is berating himself for it. So he’s trying to be polite this time, he guesses.

“Is that so?” Remus chances a glance at Harry, who looks at him as determined as James ever did. “There are teachers—,”

“Who didn’t do shit during the match, no offense,” Ed cuts him off, and beside him Harry flinches. “Harry and I were already falling to the ground by the time any of you stepped in. You and D—, Professor Dumbledore assured that the Dementors wouldn’t make it onto the grounds, yet here we are.”

Remus bites the inside of his cheek. “I promise you that Professor Dumbledore won’t allow this to happen again.”

“Right,” Ed says sarcastically, nodding along. “Please excuse my doubts about the success of that, sir. I’d rather not risk your assurances failing again.”

He looks at Harry again, who had been silent the entire time. “Do you share his doubts?”

Harry flinches again, like being questioned on his trust in Albus inflicted him physical pain, but he swallows and steels himself, meeting his eyes head on. It’s his only feature that is unlike James. “I do trust Professor Dumbledore, but I hate feeling helpless.”

Well, it’s not like he wasn’t concerned either. Two students, so young at that, fainting in the presence of Dementors wasn’t ideal, especially not with how the horde of them had congregated around them despite the veritable buffet laid out for them.

“Alright,” he says, feeling tired. “Meet me on Thursday at 8PM in the History of Magic classroom.”

Harry beams. “Thank you, Professor Lupin!”

“Thank you,” Ed echoes him, slightly bowing his head, right arm twitching a bit.

As the two leave Remus wonders if he had bitten off more than he can chew when he accepted this job.

[Thursday, 11 November 1993, History of Magic classroom]

Ed arrives first by virtue of having fewer floors between his common room and the classroom. Seeing that he’s alone he walks around the room to light the candles, only sparing a brief glance when the door opens again to reveal Harry.

“Hey,” he says, flicking his wand to light another candelabra. “Have you started on that Potions essay yet?”

“The one on Shrinking Solutions? He only assigned that this morning!”

Ed pauses, then continues lighting the last few candles. “Yes?”

Harry mutters something under his breath, and responds just when the door opens again. “You’re worse than Hermione, I swear.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Lupin says mildly, laughter in his voice as he walks over to the front of the classroom with a large case and sets it down on Binns’ desk with a huff.

“Not really,” Harry says, walking closer. “Ed is just a swotter.”

“Hey!” Ed shoves him by the shoulder. “I just like to finish my homework as fast as possible. More free time and less stress for me that way.”

“As a teacher I must commend your academic vigor,” Lupin says, crossing his arms. He raises an eyebrow and smirks. “But as a former diligent student, even I must ask when you find the time to sleep.”

“I sleep! Sleep is great, thank you very much. You should ask Hermione that instead.”

“Well,” Lupin says like he suddenly wants to change the topic, patting the case behind him and seeming unperturbed by its rattling. “Let’s start our lesson, shall we? This,” he indicates the case. “Contains a Boggart. I figured since Harry’s takes the form of a Dementor it would be a good option to practice the counterspell on, rather than face off against the real deal.”

Ed shuffles back a little bit. “But… my Boggart isn’t—,” he cuts himself off and clears his throat, trying to shake off his unease. “How would that help me?”

“Yes, we can’t have the Boggart focus on either of us, that’s true,” Lupin agrees with a nod. “But as long as we can get it to keep its focus on Harry, you should be able to try the spell against it as well. If this doesn’t work we’ll figure out something else, of course.”

“Of course,” Ed echoes him hollowly, swallowing. “So, how does the counterspell work?”

“Right,” Lupin gestures for them to take out their wands, doing the same. “The incantation is Expecto Patronum, but that is the easy part. What you need is a happy memory, really happy, one you can focus on, that is powerful. It needs to be strong enough for the Dementor to feed off of, but since a Patronus cannot feel despair, it is impervious to the threat and can protect you.”

A happy memory? Oh, for fuck’s sake. Ed doesn’t have a lot of those.

You do, a voice whispers in his mind. You’re just afraid of what it would mean, if the only ones you can draw from were made here, aren’t you?

No, he thinks vehemently, gritting his teeth. I’m not—,

“Ed?” Lupin’s voice rips him from his spiraling thoughts and he blinks up at the man, momentarily confused where he is. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Ed says, far too quickly. “I just… I’m having some trouble thinking of a memory.”

“Oh?” Lupin crosses his arms and leans against Binns’ desk, heedless of the thrashing case. “How come? You have a lot of friends, and when I see you with them you seem to have a lot of fun. Why do you think none of those memories would suffice?”

Because they don’t mean anything when weighed against his mistakes.

Because how can any of them count when his sins are so loud every time the Dementors come close?

Because none of this will last. I will leave this world one day and then what? How will any of this be worth a damn thing when I’m back home?

A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he looks up at Lupin’s worried face. “Ed, the memory you choose doesn’t have to mean anything beyond making you happy. All it has to do is make you forget, for just a moment, all the bad things that happened,” he seems to consider for a moment. “It can also be a memory you wish to make, or you wish were real, if you can imagine it well enough. Something that would make you the happiest person in the world if it happened.”

“... really?” Harry asks this almost timidly from his right, and Lupin’s piercing green gaze moves from him to his friend. “It can just be something we wish for?”

“... yes, but those are harder to channel into the spell than real memories.”

Ed bites his lip, because he knows what would make him happier than anything else. And he can picture it in his mind clear as day, because he’s been imagining it for the past three years.

He flicks his wand, and mutters. “Expecto Patronum.” Bright silver mist shoots from the tip like fog, and he smiles up at his teacher. Beside him, Harry mimics him.

“Okay, you two,” Lupin grins at them, moving behind the desk. “Let’s give this a shot, eh?”

Chapter Text

This world is strange.

In a lot of ways it reminds him of home, with its climate and culture just this side of odd to make him pause. Even the language seems to be a dialect of their academic language, the script simplified but still identifiable enough to get by.

But there is no alchemy, their science woefully inadequate. If he had not tried a simple transmutation and succeeded he would have almost feared that it did not exist, that the thing that calls itself Universe had sent him where alchemy did not exist.

But it does, even if the common folk seem unaware of it.

The people of this area — they call it Hellas — are an interesting sort to be sure. They see his eyes and call him a magós, and it is one word he cannot glean the meaning of. When he asks them where he could find others of his kind — hoping to find someone knowledgeable in alchemy, at last — they only flee, leaving him confused and slightly offended.

It is a few months since his arrival — during which he had had to get by transmuting himself money for food and lodgings — that he finds someone who does not flee.

“Ah,” says the woman, all sharp features and haughty countenance. “You must be far from home, still having trouble with the language? Yes, the tetrimméno people tend to be quite scared of us, for good reason. Let me show you around.”

The woman introduces herself as Pandora (“Yes, my parents were quite taken with that myth. It’s just as well, I am quite the curious sort.”) and takes it upon herself to introduce him to Hellas’ magic community.

Magic.

That which is beyond science and doesn’t exist. All things in the world can be explained by science, yet here he is, in a world that does not know alchemy, yet knows magic.

Pandora mistakes his horror for shock. “Oh, yes, after the last conflict we have decided to mostly stick to our own kind. It is too much of a hassle to try and placate those simple-minded fools.”

She shows him their market, filled with stores and stalls selling outrageous things he cannot begin to fathom, and he makes for the nearest scholastic building the moment Pandora bids him farewell. But she doesn’t leave without telling him her address and asking him to visit for some wine.

Herpo might take her up on the invitation.

Once he’s caught his bearings, that is.

[Saturday, 13 November 1993, Quidditch Pitch]

It feels good to be in the air again.

Before, he might have found it unsettling, how much he enjoys flying, but now he just embraces the relaxation it brings him.

Besides, he needs it right now.

Herpo had sounded far too much like Ed for his comfort. He could blame it on the man coming from his own world, where magic does not and cannot exist, at the man being an alchemist and very obviously not being very religious, if at all. They just happen to have a lot in common.

But still.

Even amongst alchemists Ed is a bit over the top. Amestris might not be a very religious country, but even then most people aren’t going to see something that calls themselves God, takes their limbs and throws them into another dimension and still deny a deity exists.

Granted, that is mostly because Ed takes issue with what people commonly call God. Because Truth isn’t like Leto, or Ishvala, or any of the countless deities people pray to. Truth is an overseer, making sure the balance is kept. Something is given, something is gained. Equivalent fucking exchange.

So, no, Ed isn’t religious, because Truth — God, the Universe, One, All — is just part of the natural order of things. Ed can explain Truth without needing fucking religion to do it.

But, he gets it. It’s hard to stay strong in that conviction when you are faced with Truth and then dragged through the Gate, get knowledge shoved into your head like the universe is trying to stuff a fucking sausage. Maybe, if he had only opened the Gate once, he would have been inclined to mystify it more.

But at this point? Truth had lost any and all of the mysterious air they might have once held. If anything they are positively and mindnumbingly mundane, if you ask him.

So seeing that attitude reflected in a guy from fucking centuries ago, who didn’t even get much interaction with Truth before getting flung here is… discomforting.

(it’s the same sort of discomfort he felt when he realized he had things in common with Mustang or Hohenheim or Scar or even fucking Kimblee, that sudden renewed awareness that he was just as capable of bad things as anyone else)

Ed swerves around the goalposts and makes to dive towards the ground when he sees it again, the huge black dog sitting by the edge of the forest. It sits, and it waits.

“This fucking dog is starting to creep me out,” he mutters to himself, debating on whether to fly closer or just ignore it altogether. But before he’s made a decision there is more movement, and he watches, transfixed, as a giant orange cat traipses towards the dog. They seem to communicate something, by the looks of it, their jaws parting to make noises he can’t catch, then the cat rubs its head against the dog’s flank and walks off towards the castle again.

The dog suddenly turns its head towards Ed, their eyes meeting for a split second, and then it is off into the depths of the forest.

“Alright,” Ed says. “I’m officially creeped out by that dog.”

[Monday, 15 November 1993, Ancient Runes classroom]

Ed sits down next to Hermione, startling her out of her reading of, he squints, Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles. Yikes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she mutters distractedly, her eyebags looking like she got punched in the face. “What’re you doing in Muggle Studies?”

“... we’ve got Ancient Runes right now,” he says slowly, raising his eyebrows as something like despair flits over her face. “Are you sure you need this many classes?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay,” he shrugs, taking out his textbook and journal. “Hey, that cat of yours, what’s he look like again?”

Hermione frowns at him, visibly tired. “Hm? Oh, Crookshanks? He’s fluffy and orange, really big. Why?”

“I saw a cat near the forest the other day, and wondered if it was yours.” That’s only part of it, but he didn’t need to worry her. “Was just making sure.”

She groans, rubbing her hands over her face in frustration. “For the love of—, first he keeps attacking Ron’s stupid rat and now he’s wandering into the Forbidden Forest? Oh, Crookshanks, what am I supposed to do with you?”

“Uh,” Ed hedges, afraid he’ll set her off somehow. “What’s with your cat and Ron’s… rat?”

“I don’t know!” She growls, throwing up her hands. “Crookshanks is fixated on Scabbers, and I don’t understand it. There are so many rats around the castle he could hunt, but he keeps trying to break into their dorm to get at him. It’s almost like he has a grudge against him and I don’t get it!” Hermione looks at him. “And the worst part is that Ron keeps blaming me for it. Crookshanks is a cat.”

Well, that didn’t make any of what he saw less confusing.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “If I can help somehow just tell me, okay?”

She sags in her seat, head thumping onto the pages of her book. “Thanks, Ed.”

“Anytime.”

[Thursday, 18 November 1993, History of Magic classroom]

Ed finishes off the rest of his chocolate bar and walks over to the waste bin, chucking the wrapper in it with a slightly shaking hand. Both he and Harry barely managed more than some silver mist again, and didn’t last all that long besides. He’s pretty sure he’s got a huge bump forming at the back of his head and is going to have some nice nightmares to boot.

Running a hand through his bangs he turns back to the room at large with a sigh, only to stop short when he realizes that he’s now alone with Lupin. “Where’s Harry?”

“I sent him on ahead,” Lupin says with his weird not-quite smile. “I’d like to talk to you in private, if you don’t mind.”

Not again.

“Sure,” Ed says, sitting down on one of the desks and tilting his head expectantly. “Go ahead.”

Lupin seems to fight with himself for a long moment, eventually drawing up a chair and sitting down on it, facing Ed with his hands clasped in his lap. “I’ve tried to go about this delicately, but you’ve been exceptionally stubborn and evasive.”

The corner of his mouth twitches up in what Ed is sure is a very Mustang-like smirk. “Thank you, Professor.”

“That was not meant as a compliment,” Lupin says with the tone of voice one uses to state the obvious.

Ed’s smirk grows into a full blown grin. “Oh, I know.”

Lupin pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan, then pins him with a glare. “I’m trying to be serious here.” Ed raises an eyebrow and waves for him to continue. “Ed… are you a Werewolf?”

“No,” he says as flatly as he can manage, willing himself not to laugh or rage at the stupidity.

“Because if you are,” Lupin says like he hadn’t answered at all. “I need you to know that I won’t judge you.”

“I wouldn’t give a fuck if you did, Professor,” Ed says, his patience running thin. “But I also didn’t take you as someone who would, considering your reaction to my essay. Frankly, I’m mostly offended that apparently I can only care about a marginalized group if I’m a part of it.”

Lupin blinks at him, his words seemingly sinking in, finally. “Oh?”

“Don’t oh me,” Ed rolls his eyes. “Just because your country is hellbent on ostracizing Werewolves doesn’t mean I have to agree, or means I have to be a Werewolf to give two shits about them. So, no, Professor, I don’t turn into a wolf with anger issues once a month, I am an asshole with anger issues all month. Is that all?”

Lupin still doesn’t look fully convinced, but seems to think better of arguing further. “Yes, that would be all, Ed, thank you for your time.”

“Great,” he snarks, jumps off the desk he’d been sitting on, and leaves.

Fucking wizards I swear.

[Sunday, 21 November 1993, History of Magic classroom]

“Alright,” Ed says, dropping a fresh notebook and a pen on the desk and sitting down with Harry, Ron and Hermione. “I’ve got us a snake we can use.”

The other three lean back a bit in their chairs as he reaches into his robe pocket and takes out a long dark green snake with a yellow marking around its neck and puts it on the desk between them. The snake blinks sleepily up at them before curling back into a tight coil.

Ron points at it. “Uh, are you sure that one’s not venomous?”

“Hm? No, not at all,” Ed shrugs, flipping open his notebook nonchalantly. “But I figure if it is we can have Harry ask it not to bite us.”

“What if it had bitten you?” Hermione looks at him like he’s mad, and it’s only a little bit offensive.

“Then I would have gone to Madam Pomfrey, obviously,” he rolls his eyes. “Alright, Harry, we’ve got you a snake, go talk in your parcel language.”

“It’s parsel,” Hermione corrects him, and he just waves her off.

“Whatever. Go on, Harry.”

“Uh, alright,” he says awkwardly, carefully poking the snake awake and clearing his throat when it focuses on him. “Hello? My name’s Harry.”

The snake blinks sleepily, and Ed frowns. “Why didn’t it work? I thought you can do it when there’s a snake?”

Harry opens his mouth to reply when Ron holds up his hand and frowns at Ed. “What are you talking about? He just did it!”

Ed blinks. “Are you pulling my leg?”

“No, Harry really did speak parsel just now, didn’t you hear it?” Hermione is looking at him like she wants to dissect him, or maybe write an essay on him. Maybe both. “He just made hissing noises!”

“No, he didn’t. He just greeted the snake and introduced himself in normal fucking English.”

“Uhm,” Harry speaks up, sounding unsure. “Ed, are you a parselmouth? Cos to me it sounds like normal English, too.”

“What the fuck? I think I’d know if I could speak to animals.”

“Would you though?” Ron is looking at him in a mix of confusion and suspicion. “Harry didn’t know until he was, like, ten.”

Ed opens his mouth to argue, but… would he know? He’s only been in this fucking world for barely three months, and it would be just typical of Truth to give him a weird ability like that and not tell him. He closes his mouth and huffs, crossing his arms. “I still think you’re pulling a prank on me.”

“Ed,” Hermione says with a tone of voice reminiscent of McGonagall. “We’re friends, right? At least believe me when I tell you we aren’t joking.”

He glares at her for a moment, then looks at the happily napping snake and prods at it until it raises its head, looking very put upon. “Oi, you, can you understand me?”

“What the fuck,” Ron mutters under his breath. “Are you serious?”

Ed is kept from asking him what he’s on about by a slightly lisping voice speaking up, sounding very tired and annoyed. “Yes, obviously, now either let me sleep or put me back in your pocket, at least it was warm in there.”

He blinks, mouth opening and closing several times before he looks up at the others. “Did… did that snake just talk?”

“That’s kinda what being a parselmouth is, isn’t it?” Ron snarks. “Did you seriously not know?”

“When was I just gonna casually talk to a snake?” Ed throws his arms up. “Are you saying I was hissing just now?”

Hermione and Ron say yes at the same time that Harry says not that I could tell, and Ed wants Truth to just yeet him back home at this point.

“Why does it bother you that much?” Hermione asks him, and Ed groans into his hands.

“I wanted to write a dictionary! How the fuck am I supposed to do that when it just sounds like English to me?”

There is a long moment of silence at his outburst, then Ron starts to snicker until he devolves into full on laughter, tears running down his cheeks. “I can’t -ha- believe it. That’s what’s bothering you? Holy shit you really are just a giant fucking nerd!”

Ed snaps his head up and glares. “Oi!”

“I’m sorry I ever thought you were bad news, you are literally just a weirder Hermione, I can’t—,” he cuts himself off and keeps laughing, heedless of the rest of them just staring at him like he’s gone mad.

(rightfully so, in Ed’s opinion)

“Great, so now that we’ve established that I’m not secretly out to murder the whole school,” Ed deadpans, gingerly picking up the snake and putting it back in his pocket.

(hey, it had said it liked it in there, might as well be nice to it)

“Ron admitting he was wrong, has that ever happened?” Hermione says sweetly, raising her eyebrows at her friend and smirking when he stops laughing to glare at her.

Ed turns to Harry. “Hey, wanna try and see if we can do that parsel stuff without the snake? Maybe since we both speak it it will work, I kinda wanna see if you’d understand me if I speak my native language.”

“You got used to this development pretty quickly, huh?”

He shrugs. “I’ve honestly seen weirder shit.”

Harry seems to contemplate that, then shrugs. “Fair enough,” he frowns, clears his throat. “Uh, is it working?”

They turn as one to Ron and Hermione who just shrug. Ron raises an eyebrow. “Just hissy noises.”

“Cool,” Ed says, turning back to Harry. “Imagine the smack we could talk about people.”

Harry snorts. “Is that really the first thing that comes to mind?”

“Just think! We could insult Snape to his face.”

“Would you two let us in on your snakey conversation? We’re feeling a bit left out over here,” Ron groans, letting his head rest heavily in his palm. “We should have never agreed to this.”

“It’s a bit bothersome we can’t tell when we’re speaking it,” Harry says, by the looks of it in English since Hermione and Ron don’t look confused and annoyed anymore.

Ed hums, tilting his head. “I think the s sounds are slightly off when we speak parsel? But yeah, it’s a bit annoying,” turning back to Harry he goes for the true litmus test. »Alright, what about now, still understand me?«

Harry squints, tilting his head slightly. “That definitely sounded a bit different, but I understood you. It was like the cadence was off?”

“Interesting,” Ed says, trying to make a conscious effort to speak English and hoping it’s working. “So you can understand parsel no matter what language the speaker is ‘thinking’ in, but the speech pattern doesn’t translate. That’s… honestly super confusing but kinda cool.”

“Mate,” Ron sighs, looking very tired. “Pretty sure you’re the only one who’d find that cool.”

“Speak for yourself, Ronald,” Hermione sniffs, then pins Harry and Ed with gleaming, almost manic, eyes. “Let’s run some more tests!”

“Oh, Merlin’s underpants,” Ron mutters, and is ignored.

Chapter Text

[Wednesday, 24 November 1993, Hogwarts Library]

The restricted section of the library feels cold.

That’s the first thought flitting through Ed’s mind as he steps past the cord blocking the entrance off from the rest of the library. It’s not a physical cold but instead something deeper, something that fills his lungs with dread and the inexplicable urge to turn on his heels and leave.

It’s the feeling he gets when he touches Herpo’s book.

(it’s the feeling he gets when he opens the Gate—)

This is what Dark Magic feels like, isn’t it?

It’s no wonder that these books were kept away from most of the student body. He had barely stepped past the threshold and already felt like he’d made a mistake, like he should go and forget about the whole thing.

Yet at the same time there was an inexplicable pull towards the rows upon rows of jet black shelves, a sickly-sweet kind of allure, his fingers twitching with the urge to take—

Ed shudders.

Dark Magic is like an addiction, his Truth-given knowledge supplies, sounding almost like they were whispering into his ear. Once you’ve had a taste it becomes harder and harder to resist its pull, until it drags you under, never to return. It sticks in your blood and infects all that you touch with its poison.

But he’d never performed Dark Magic—

But you have, haven’t you? Alchemy and Magic are one and the same, and you’ve stepped where mortals are not meant to go. You’ve broken the taboo of Alchemy, who is to say you won’t break the taboo of Magic, too, Little Alchemist?

Ed closes his eyes and takes a deep, fortifying breath, lightly slapping his hands against his cheeks. »Snap out of it, Elric.«

After a few more deep breaths to calm his racing heart he makes for the first shelf and runs his eyes along the plaques marking the topics, slowly walking down aisle after aisle. Illicit Potions, Rare First Editions, Poisonous Plants, Dark Creatures—

Ed stops suddenly, eyes wide. Alchemy, the plaque reads, and he is walking along the length of the shelf before he can stop himself, pulled along like by a leash. Most of it is standard, or even below that, things he wouldn’t even give a second glance back home.

Then his eyes land on a book, navy blue and silver lettering: On the Nature of Immortality by Nicolas Flamel.

His left hand is inches from touching it when he has to make a conscious effort to stop himself. »Truth didn’t specify he used magic, Riddle might have used alchemy. I’m just covering my bases.«

The words sound hollow, an empty platitude, and they are.

The longer he stands before the bookshelf, the longer he stares at the letters on the spine of the tome, the more he can feel it pull him forward like a siren’s song. There is a soundless whisper vibrating in the air, invisible strings wrapping around the something that was touched by the Truth and marred by taboo.

Ed shudders, and pulls the book off the shelf.

His blood sings.

Magic was uncomfortable yet resourceful. It defied logic and natural laws, was fickle and unstable, but made many things easier. Something is too heavy? Levitate it. You need to be on the other side of town? Apparate. You need to transport a lot of things? Enchant a pouch to be bigger on the inside while weighing nothing.

Where magic was woefully ill-equipped, however, was the manner of his prime directive: immortality.

The universe had declared that his Toll had been insufficient, but that was only a small setback.

After all, in this strange new world there were many things that extended one’s life or were seemingly immortal. Youth potions and Unicorn blood, the bird that dies and rebirths from the ashes of its corpse, ghosts.

Ghosts.

They are not a soul left behind on the mortal plain, unable to pass on. They were an imprint left behind at the moment of death. They could not tell what awaits on the other side, but Herpo wasn’t exactly interested in that. After all, he never wanted to cross that threshold in the first place. He had no desire to be retrieved from the realm of death – something wizards call Necromancy.

No, what he needed was an anchor, something to chain him to this plain, if he could not extend his life indefinitely.

Body. Mind. Soul.

The trifecta of a living person.

It is the mind that connects body and soul. As long as it is intact one should, theoretically, be unable to move on to the afterlife.

But the body ages, and once it dies the mind shatters, and the soul, untethered, moves beyond.

Untethered.

Now there is a thought.

[Thursday, 25 November 1993, History of Magic classroom]

Ed hadn’t even managed some pathetic mist today.

It was like a thick fog had been muddling his brain since he’d stepped into the restricted section, and only worsened when he continued reading Herpo’s book before bed. Which probably hadn’t been a smart idea, but Ed rarely made decisions that were beneficial for his health.

None of what he read was even technically bad, well, not worse than what he’d experienced himself. Ed had met plenty of idiots craving immortality, one of them he’d even count as a friend, not that he would tell Ling that to his face. So, really, it shouldn’t bother him that two more had at one point written about it — although, he was wondering why neither of these idiots bothered to use even rudimentary coding for their writings, fucking—

Anyways.

No, the subject matter wasn’t what was upsetting him, not really.

(well, to be fair, he had only really gotten through half of the thick tome of Flamel’s before he had to leave for dinner, the man had worse handwriting than Ed)

What bothered him was himself.

The way the restricted section had affected him… scared him, if he was honest with himself.

Ed broke the taboo. It had cost his brother almost everything, and he’d never forgive himself for that.

That didn’t mean he thought of himself as an inherently bad person for it, though. He wasn’t good, sure, but he wasn’t evil, either.

And yet—

“Ed?” He flinches at Lupin’s voice, slamming into the desk at his back and cursing as a sharp pain lances up from his hip. “You seem… distracted.”

“I’m fine,” he growls, massaging his aching side.

Lupin raises one quizzical eyebrow at him, evidently not buying it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“There is nothing to talk about.”

“Ed,” Lupin sighs, sitting down on a desk and clasping his hands between his knees. “We didn’t even use the Boggart today and yet somehow your results were poorer than usual.” Harry had bailed on them in favor of finishing all the homework he had procrastinated on, and Ed was still hellbent on punting him for leaving him alone with Lupin, the asshat. His teacher leans forward, trying to meet his eyes. “You can trust me.”

Ed can’t help but scoff. “Oh, can I, Professor?”

Lupin smiles wryly, almost self-deprecatingly. “Yes, you’d be surprised. I used to be quite the unruly student during my time at Hogwarts myself,” something wistful flashes over his face. “It’s funny, I hear Harry is taking after his father as far as troublemaking goes. It’s a bit nostalgic, really.”

“You knew Harry’s dad?” That was news to him, though to be fair he hadn’t really looked into anything of the sort.

“Oh, yes,” Lupin nods. “We were thick as thieves.”

“Huh,” Ed says, and leaves it at that.

“Alright, Ed, something is clearly bothering you, and I want to help. So, I promise, nothing you say to me tonight will be shared with anyone,” Lupin hesitates. “Really.”

Ed considers this for a long moment. Technically Lupin hadn’t done anything to warrant Ed distrusting him, he’d just been a bit pushy and annoying. But he was giving up his evenings to help Ed and Harry defend themselves against Dementors, had tried to make sure Ed wasn’t dealing with a volatile illness alone.

Could Ed risk it?

You can afford to trust the adults in your life more.

“I—,” he starts, licking his lips uneasily. “I went into the restricted section yesterday.”

Lupin’s green eyes are unyielding as he regards him. He hums. “I see. Yes, I suppose some of the subject matter in those books could… preoccupy someone.” A pause. “Anything in particular?”

What was Ed supposed to say? ‘Oh, nothing big, I’m just suddenly very worried that my idiocy at age eleven is making me susceptible to becoming a Dark Wizard?’

Yeah, right.

“No,” Ed says, forcing his voice to remain steady and his gaze to stay on Lupin’s. The words are acid on his tongue. “Nothing in particular.”

[Saturday, 27 November 1993, Hogwarts Library]

Madam Pince blinks at him over the rim of her glasses. “The… student roster, Mr Elric?”

He smiles at her as guilelessly as he can manage. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s just,” she purses her lips. “An unusual request, is all. Follow me, Mr Elric.” Madam Pince doesn’t wait to see if he does, merely makes for one of the corners of the library at a brisk pace some Amestrian soldiers should try to emulate.

His friends had looked at him strangely when he’d said he’d spend the day in the library instead of watching the Hufflepuff-Ravelclaw match, but ultimately shrugged it off as him being a nerd again.

“Try not to write a thesis statement on Vampires next,” Pansy had snorted before dragging both Draco and Blaise off to the pitch.

“Well, this is the archive,” Madam Pince says stiffly, unlocking the door and waving him inside. She gestures at the lectern standing atop a low platform. “Place your wand hand here and request the file of your choice. All the information available only pertains to the school. None of the documents are to leave the archive. Any questions?”

“No, ma’am, thank you very much.”

She throws him another suspicious glare, then closes the door behind her as she leaves.

Ed isn’t even sure why he’s here; he should be in the restricted section, not about to look into his fucking teacher’s childhood buddies. But, well…

Truth be told he was scared. It had been three days since he went in and he still felt like there was freezing tar on his skin, like he was tainted, like one good look at him would be enough to tell what kind of effect the restricted section had had on him.

Beyond that, though, he’d had a nagging feeling that there was something more to the whole thing than meets the eye. After all, if Lupin was friends with Harry’s dad, why hadn’t he taken the kid in? From what he’d been told Harry’s family were awful people, so why would they leave him with them? He’s their Chosen One or whatever the fuck.

It made no sense.

“Remus Lupin,” he says, left hand on the lectern. It hums faintly under his touch, and from somewhere in the room he hears a filing cabinet open. Ed watches with mild fascination as a thin file flies over and lands on the little podium, just waiting for him to open it. “Well, this is definitely handy,” he mutters, flipping it open and skimming it with the routine of someone who’s gone through far too many military files and debriefs in his life.

… Blood Status: half-blood, of course these fuckers note that down… Born: 10 March 1960, huh, we’re close… attended school from ‘71 to ‘78… Gryffindor, because of course… Prefect…

All in all very boring, in Ed’s opinion. There were some entries on detentions served, but not as much as he would have guessed from Lupin’s admission on Thursday.

Well, he might have just not gotten caught.

James Potter’s file is next. Pureblood… Born: 27 March 1960, why are they all so close to my birthday, what the fuck? Same year as Lupin, Gryffindor, Chaser for the Quidditch team… well, Lupin was right about this guy getting in trouble a lot, at least…

This wasn’t really getting him anywhere, though. These files were basic as fuck—

“Wait,” he mutters, rereading the entry again. “Sirius Black?” James Potter and Sirius Black had gotten into detention together enough times to fill five pages—

Ed startles as a third file lands on the lectern; he hadn’t even realized he’d put his hand on it, inadvertently using the summoning charm. Well, might as well read it now that it’s there. Pureblood… 3 November 1959… Gryffindor… about ten pages worth of detention, holy fuck —

He blinks. There is a note, penned and signed by Dumbledore, about a change in address dated to ‘76. That wouldn’t be strange in itself, if he hadn’t just read the same address in another file.

Ed leans back, balancing on his heels and tapping a finger on the address line. “So Black moved in with Potter in their sixth year. Black, the Death Eater and mass murderer now after Harry. Harry was… one? When Voldemort killed his parents? So…” he does the math in his head and whistles. “What the fuck, dude? You moved in with the guy when you were sixteen and just five years later you’re working for the dude who kills them off? I’d say Potter needs better friends, but it’s a bit late for that.”

Something still feels weird about that. Surely Black would have known that Voldemort was going after his old buddy. Just how fucked in the head was he to let it happen? That would be like… like him knowing someone was going after Winry and just watching it happen. It doesn’t make sense.

Well, then again, some people were just nuts. Case in point…

“Tom Riddle,” Ed says, left hand placed once again on the lectern. This time there is something off about the summoning charm, but the feeling is gone before he can explore it further. The file lands on the lectern a lot more reluctantly than the others had, and is covered in thick dust.

Those are the fun ones, in Ed’s experience.

“Let’s see… half-blood, wow, ironic. Born 31 December 1926, attended Hogwarts from ‘38 to ‘45, Slytherin, prefect… received an award for Special Services to the School, Head Boy, Medal for Magical Merit… people should have caught on sooner, who the fuck is that much of an overachiever in high school?”

But none of this really gets him anywhere. It’s some nice background information and nothing more. Really, if he didn’t know this guy is Voldemort then—

“Oh. Oh shit,” he sends the files back with a flick of his wrist, knowing it doesn’t help any. There was a big chance that Dumbledore knew Riddle and Voldemort are the same guy, and if that’s the case… well, then Ed had likely just tipped him off that he knew. And how was he supposed to explain that?

Well, the damage was done and there was not much, if anything, Ed could do to mitigate it.

When Ed gets to the common room it’s full of people chatting about the match, only throwing him a few glances or greetings in passing as he walks over to the cluster of sofas by one of the fireplaces. He plops down beside Pansy and yawns. “So, who won?”

“Ravenclaw,” she says, shifting so she’s leaning against him rather than the armrest. Ed wonders how his metal arm could be more comfortable, but he’s not gonna bring it up. The easy affection his friends share not just with each other but with him still catches him off guard, but he doesn’t exactly mind. If anything it just makes him miss Winry and Al more. “You’re playing them next, so you gotta win if we want to have a chance at the Cup.”

“No pressure,” Blaise says from the opposite sofa, stretched out with a book so that no one else can sit on it. “But, like, lots of pressure.”

“I love you too,” Ed deadpans, ducking out of the way of a pillow chucked his way by Blaise. “Boo.”

“So, who did you write your next civil rights screed on?” Pansy looks up at him from her nails, dark eyes glinting in amusement. “Oh, lemme guess, Centaurs!”

He rolls his eyes and nudges her lightly. “I didn’t write a ‘civil rights screed’.”

“Right,” Draco drawls, who had just entered the common room with a plate full of pastries he likely pilfered from the kitchen. “That’s why my father wrote to me about the Ministry being all in a tizzy over your essay.”

“Wait, what?” Ed blinks at him, taking a chocolate croissant from the plate. “I thought Dumbledore was kidding.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Yeah, when he wanted to talk to me, after Ancient Runes?” He waits for his friend to nod. “He asked if he could send my essay to some people, told him to knock himself out. I thought it was a joke, you know, just messing with me. How was I supposed to know he was for real?”

His three friends stare at him for a long moment before Pansy sighs and pats his head. “Oh, you sweet summer child.”

“I was born in March, bitch.”

“Oh, you sweet spring baby,” she coos, moving her hand to pat his cheek and giggling when he mimes biting at it. “Now be a good boy and sit still, I wanna paint my nails.”

Ed is tempted to keep bickering, but then sees her take out a bottle of sparkling black nail polish and decides to let it slide. Instead he takes off his glove and holds his one flesh hand out. “Do mine and I will.”

Pansy’s eyes sparkle more than the polish. Draco groans around his snack. “You’ve done it, she will use you as her galpal now.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Ed says, watching Pansy carefully paint his nails.

“Yeah,” she agrees, flipping her hair. “You’re just jealous.”

“What’s the point of painted nails when you wear gloves all the time?”

Ed blinks at Blaise, and hums. “Good point, I guess everyone already knows I have a metal arm, might as well keep the gloves off.”

“You know what would look great? Eyeliner, your eyes are too pretty not to frame.”

He smirks at her enthusiasm. “Knock yourself out.”

“Oh, I wasn’t asking for permission,” she says blithely, and paints his nails with renewed vigor.

[Sunday, 28 November 1993, Remus Lupin’s Office]

Someone is knocking on his door, and Remus wants to punch whoever it is. Even if he didn’t know that the full moon is right around the corner, his short temper would probably be a good enough clue.

Really, though, who the fuck knocks on his door at seven in the morning? On a Sunday?

He pads over to the door from his bed on socked feet and rips it open, blinking in confusion when it’s not Severus, like he expected, because god knows the git would do this just to spite him.

No, it’s Ed, grinning like the asshole he is. “Morning, mind if I come in?” He asks this, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead he simply walks by him into the room and plops himself down on one of the armchairs by the fireplace, kicking his feet up on the table.

Remus wishes it was acceptable and possible for teachers to throw their students out the window.

“What,” he says, in the calmest voice he can manage. “Are you doing here?”

“What? Not offering me a beverage?” Ed’s grin is infuriatingly Sirius-like, and Remus wants to punch it off his face. “Well, no matter, sit down and let’s have a chat.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, making no move to sit down. “About what?”

Ed’s grin sharpens into something decidedly meaner, and he is once again reminded of a snake. “Your old school buddy Sirius Black. Seen him around lately?” Ed gestures at the free armchair again. “Sit, and let’s talk.”

Remus does. “How did you find out?”

The kid raises one aggravating eyebrow. “You mentioned knowing Harry’s dad, and your student files are in the school archive. Saw that Potter got a bunch of detentions with Black. It wasn’t hard, Professor,” there is something dangerous in Ed’s eyes as he leans forward. “Now, what I’d like to ask is this: did you have anything to do with the guy breaking into the school?”

He leans back in his chair, heart in his throat. “No,” he rasps. “I haven’t seen him since before he got our friends murdered, to be exact.”

Ed seems to scrutinize him for a moment before nodding, leaning back as well. “Good. I like you, would have been a shame if you were out here helping a serial killer.”

Remus can’t help the wry smile twitching at his lips. “What would you have done if I was helping Black?” He waves a hand idly. “I mean, it was pretty risky just showing up here, wasn’t it? What was your plan here, Ed?”

The smile is all teeth. “You’d like to know, eh?” Ed sobers again. “What I don’t get is… Potter and Black seemed close, heck, they lived together for a while. What made the guy just sit back and let Voldemort kill them?”

He swallows, averting his gaze to the crackling fire beside them. “I don’t know,” he throws him a quick glance before looking away again. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it, but, well, you’re giving me the impression you’d find out anyways, somehow.”

“Not wrong,” Ed shrugs, smirk back in place.

“We… had been suspecting a traitor in our midst for a while, during the war, and received information that James, Lily and Harry were in danger, so Dumbledore thought it would be wise to hide them under a Fidelius Charm. Si—, Black, was the only one who knew where they were hiding, and immediately sold them out. And then… well…”

“Harry’s parents got killed and Voldemort went bye-bye,” Ed finishes for him, and despite the brash wording Remus had the impression Ed wasn’t making light of the whole thing. “But that’s not what landed him in Azkaban.”

“No,” Remus agrees with a sigh. “Another friend of ours, Peter Pettigrew, confronted Black out in the open, and Black blew him and a dozen muggles to smithereens. All they could find of Peter was a finger,” he raises his own right index to illustrate.

Ed whistles, but it doesn’t sound impressed. “Damn,” he bites his lip as if contemplating his next words, then. “I just don’t get why.”

“I’ve spent the past twelve years wondering that myself,” Remus agrees. “Black always hated the Dark Arts and blood purity. His family were avid supporters of Vol—, Voldemort, and it’s what caused him to run away from home and move in with James and his family. But, I suppose, blood will out.”

“I don’t understand.”

Remus sighs, tapping his fingers together in contemplation. “Dark Magic, true Dark Magic, sticks in your blood, a stain you can’t scrub away. The more you indulge it, the stronger its pull becomes, like an addiction. And with families like the Blacks, that have entrenched themselves in the Dark Arts for generations and reveled in it, it’s become a part of them. I guess in the end Black was unable to fight its allure any longer,” he watches as the blood drains from Ed’s face and wonders why that, of all the things they’ve discussed, seems to unnerve him the most. “Are you quite alright, Ed?”

The boy jerks, face going neutral in the blink of an eye. But something haunted still shimmers behind the gold of his irises, and Remus wishes he knew what it was. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for your time, Professor. I’m sorry for bringing up something painful.”

“It’s fine, really,” it’s not, but it also feels nice to have talked about it with someone who didn’t immediately look at him in pity. Remus tilts his head. “You were worried for your friend, it’s commendable to try and protect those you care about, Ed.”

“Try is all I ever seem to manage,” Ed says with a surprisingly self-deprecating tone of voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a child, Ed, no one expects you to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“I wish you were right, Professor,” Ed says, looking older than the sum of his years. “It was nice talking to you.”

Remus suppresses the urge to return the sentiment, because it would be a lie. “I offered to lend you an ear if you need to talk, that offer is still open.”

Ed gives a little wave, and is out the door without a look back.

[Tuesday, 30 November 1993, Great Hall, Day of the Full Moon]

“Neville, for the last time, you multiply there.” Ed watches as his friend’s head thumps down on the table, arms flopping uselessly beside him. “Why do you keep wanting to divide?”

“I don’t know! I get confused when I’m nervous.”

“Okay,” Ed says as patiently as he can manage on only three cups of coffee and two plates of breakfast. “But why are you nervous?” Neville wails, flailing his hands and hitting his ink bottle, spilling it all over himself. He jerks up and curses. Ed sighs, removing the stains with a flick of his wrist and righting the ink bottle, now half-empty. “Stop being a baby, I know you can do it.”

Neville rubs his hands over his face aggressively, smearing ink all over it. With another sigh Ed magics it away, pouring himself another coffee as Neville tries to get the moon phase calculations right for the seventh time that morning.

“You know,” Ron mumbles around a mouthful of bacon. “You’re really good at wandless and nonverbal magic.”

Ed gives him a wan look over the rim of his mug. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he nods, swallowing. “That’s, like, really advanced, mate.”

“Nonverbal spells aren’t even on the curriculum until sixth year!” Hermione pipes up, leaning past Ron with gleaming eyes. “And we don’t even get taught wandless magic during school! And you just do it so casually!”

Can I do something without being suspicious just once? Ed shrugs, watching Neville finish off his calculations. “It’s a bit harder, but not much.” He rips the sheet of parchment from Neville’s fingers the second he lifts the quill, looking it over with his pen in hand. “It’s just more convenient when I don’t feel like taking out my wand, is all.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a good look at your wand, come to think of it,” Hermione muses, taking a sip of orange juice. “You probably got it back home, right? I bet it differs a lot from Ollivander’s, I read that all Wandmakers have their own quirks.”

Ed corrects a mistake in Neville’s calculation, his right hand grabbing for his wand in his robe pocket, handing it over without looking up from Neville’s Astronomy homework. “Knock yourself out.”

“Whoa,” Ron mutters, leaning over Ed’s wand with Hermione. Even Harry, who had been busy coming up with death omens to put in his Divination homework last minute, threw it a glance. “This thing looks more like a display piece than something you actually buy, it’s carved from top to bottom.”

Ed hums distractedly, scratching out a whole set of calculations and writing the correct one down instead. “I guess.”

“What wood is it?”

“Ebony,” he answers. “Thestral tail hair core.”

Hermione looks up at him in surprise. “Never heard of Thestral tail hair as a wand core.”

“Wands are custom-made back home. Dude who made mine only used that core once before,” it’s half a lie, but he still feels bad about it. Finishing up the moon chart for Neville he grins. “Congrats, Neville, you missed the full moon by two weeks; if you went on a walk tonight thinking you were safe, you’d get a face full of Werewolf.”

Neville groans and takes the corrected homework back, starting to copy it down again. Ron hums. “Did the guy tell you what the wood and core, like, say about you?”

Truth had told him, sort of, if a cheeky letter and weird implanted knowledge counts as telling. “I’m a stubborn asshole,” he snarks, draining the remainder of his coffee. “But I knew that already.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “You got that right.” He stretches himself, gaze sweeping over the hall. “Lupin’s not here again.”

All of them look over to the teachers’ table. “Well, at least he was still well yesterday, I don’t need another DADA session with Snape,” Harry says, finishing off his homework with a prediction of his impending doom via falling anvil.

Ed pauses, gaze sweeping over Neville’s homework again, lingering on the dates of the full moon.

Oh, he thinks, feeling stupid for missing it. That’s why.

[Thursday, 2 December 1993, History of Magic classroom]

“Ed? Aren’t you coming?” Harry is standing in the doorway of the classroom, half a bar of chocolate still in his hand and waiting.

Ed smiles at him, waving him ahead. “I just got a question about the Kelpie essay, go ahead.”

Harry frowns at him for a moment but then shrugs, closing the door behind him. Remus raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms and leaning against the desk. “I know you already finished that essay, Ed, what is this really about?”

Ed cocks his head, golden eyes sharp as he looks at him. “You’re a Werewolf, aren’t you?”

Remus freezes.

Nodding to himself Ed walks over to him, leaning against the desk as well, hands gripping the top lightly to prop him up. “That’s why you were so determined to find out if I was one, weren’t you? Cos you know it sucks ass.”

He feels himself relax slowly at Ed’s easy demeanor, the lack of reluctance to be near him. “... yes, though the whole faculty was worried at the possibility.”

Ed hums. “Cos you didn’t know whether I have access to Wolfsbane,” it’s not a question, because he’s sure he knows the answer already. “I assume Professor Snape is making it for you.”

“Right again,” Remus says dryly. “You must be one of the cleverest wizards of the age, Ed.”

“Gets me in trouble a lot, though,” he admits easily, not a hint of humility to be found, real or fake. “Are you okay?”

For a moment Remus isn’t sure how to respond. It has become increasingly rare for people to inquire after his wellbeing just for the sake of it. “Yes, I’m okay. Better than I have been in years, to be honest.”

“Good,” Ed says. “You’re a good teacher, and not half-bad as a person, either.”

“Such high praise.”

“Higher praise than I’ve given to people I’ve known for longer,” he shrugs, sounding awfully sincere and lackadaisical about it. “Should hear what I call the guy my pet snake is named after.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “I have the unfortunate feeling I’d have to give you detention if you told me,” he says dryly, tacking on. “You have a pet snake?”

“I know, bit on the nose, but it wasn’t planned,” Ed says easily, leaning further into the desk and grinning up at him. “I found out Harry can speak parsel, and wanted to do some research on it, obviously, so I caught a water snake by the lake. But then, like the universe is mocking me, it turns out I can speak parsel, so most of what I wanted to look into now needs Hermione’s help. Fucking hell.”

Something in Remus’ brain stops short at the information. “You… speak parsel?”

“Oh, yeah, kinda cool, really, but in the end it’s not useful for much except knowing when Roy, that’s my snake, is being a little prick or for gossiping with Harry.” Ed frowns at him, raising an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”

Get a grip, Remus. “Yeah, I was just… surprised. Historically only Slytherin’s descendants spoke it.”

Ed snorts. “Well, I’m not a descendant of the guy, I can guarantee that.”

“Can you?” Remus fidgets slightly. “He lived a thousand years ago.”

Ed hesitates for a split second, barely noticeable. “Pureblood, remember? I can trace my lineage back further than that.”

He hums. “Yes, I suppose you can.”

As if wanting to change the topic Ed claps his hands once, taking a silver pocket watch out from his pants and opening it amongst blue sparks. “It’s almost curfew, I should hurry along.”

“I’ll walk you,” Remus offers thoughtlessly while Ed repeats the clapping motion and sparks run over the watch again. “Lest Filch gives you detention.”

He half-expects Ed to decline the offer, but he just shrugs, pushing off the desk. “Sure. Let’s go.”

[Saturday, 4 December 1993, Hogwarts Library]

»What had Lupin called it again? Fido Charm?« Ed is running his finger along the spines in the Advanced Charms section of the public part of the library, picking up one about protective spells and skimming over the index. »Oh, no, Fidelius, that’s what it was. Let’s see.«

The Fidelius Charm hides a secret — be it a fact, person or location — within the soul of the caster, henceforth the Secret Keeper.

The Secret Keeper may choose to divulge the secret to others verbally or in writing, who then become secondary Secret Keepers. Upon the original Secret Keeper’s death, the secondary Secret Keepers then become the primary Secret Keepers, and henceforth able to pass the secret on themselves.

A secret hidden via this charm becomes unfindable, invisible, intangible, unplottable and soundproof.

The secret may not be extracted from the Secret Keeper against their will, and if the Secret Keeper dies without ever having divulged the secret, it becomes lost forever.

Ed hums, leaning back against one of the tables scattered around the library and idly tapping his index against the page. »Let’s ignore the logistics of hiding secrets inside a soul for a moment so I don’t lose track,« he mutters to himself. »This charm is hard, if you’re gonna do this then the guy you choose gotta be someone you trust to keep it hush. Wizards aren’t the brightest lightbulbs in the lamp, but come on.«

This is a guy who sold out his best friends and their baby, blew up a bunch of civilians and his other friend—

»Wait.«

Ed knows explosions. You don’t blow someone up point blank and have a collateral of twelve bystanders while leaving only a finger behind. There’s at least some guts involved.

Fuck, Kimblee, the expert on explosions, hadn’t managed to blow him up that much, and he had gone for the kill, too.

Something isn’t right, but he’d need to see pictures of the crime scene to make sure.

Hastily putting the book where it belonged he makes his way over to Madam Pince, trying his best to look guileless and probably failing. “Hello.”

She stares at him over the rim of her glasses and glares, lips pinched. “Yes, Mr Elric? How may I help you this time?”

Ed winces at her tone, but soldiers on. “Is it possible to access Daily Prophet articles from past issues?”

Madam Pince blinks, fiddling with the chain on her glasses in surprise. “Yes… it might just take a few days to have them delivered. What did you want to look into?”

Ed knows that if he hadn’t been on thin ice before, he certainly would be now. “I’d like every article pertaining to the case of Sirius Black, please.”

[Monday, 6 December 1993, Headmaster’s Office]

Albus is worried.

It had been one thing when Edward Elric had requested access to the restricted section of the library. He did have a recommendation from Bill Weasley and the Goblins of Gringotts, it was perfectly reasonable for someone who should be in their fifth year and thinking about their future career to want to work towards their goal.

But Ed hadn’t looked into curses. The first book he had looked up in the restricted section was written by Nicolas Flamel, and pertained to immortality. It didn’t contain the means to make a Philosopher’s Stone — or he would have taken it out of the library already — but still. It was peculiar that Edward was interested in such a subject matter.

Then he looked into Tom’s student file, and now he wants the articles on the Sirius Black case.

“Did you know Edward is looking into Sirius Black, Remus?”

Remus had blinked his green eyes at him in surprise, then deflated with a sigh. “Yes, he confronted me about it, asked if I was helping him. Seemed ready to beat me up if I said yes, or lied to him about it, why?”

“And that does not worry you?”

“Why would it?” Remus shrugged. “Ed seemed more preoccupied with making sure I wasn’t out to harm Harry than anything else. Kid even figured out I’m a Werewolf and didn’t seem to care. I’m starting to think we were jumping to conclusions, worrying about his motives so much.”

Albus hummed, somewhat dissatisfied with the statement. “Was there anything at all that struck you as odd I should know about?”

Something flashed over Remus’ face, gone in an instant. “Not that I can think of, Albus. I really think Ed is just a nosy kid too smart for his own good.”

Albus is worried.

They say the past is bound to repeat itself when one doesn’t learn from it, and it truly is starting to feel like a bad case of deja vu. A student, bright and charming, taking in classmates and teachers alike. Looking into things he perhaps shouldn’t. Knowing which buttons to push to get a reaction out of someone.

Was Edward Elric going to be another regret, another monster he failed to stop in time?

There is a knock at his office door and he calls for the person to enter, knowing who it is. “Ah, Edward, thank you for taking the time to see me.” Edward inclines his head slightly as he walks over to the chair and sits down, seeming a lot more cautious than the last time they spoke. “Sour drops?”

“No, thank you.”

He almost wants to sigh. “Now, Edward, do you know why I asked to speak to you?”

Edward looks him in the eyes, and lies. “No, I can’t imagine why.”

“You have requested any and all Daily Prophet articles pertaining to the case of Sirius Black,” he elaborates anyways, and watches some tension drain from Edward. “Why?”

“Academic curiosity, Professor.”

Albus is all too familiar with students and their academic curiosity. “Last time we spoke, you said you don’t like to play games,” Edward’s lips twitch. “Neither do I.”

The boy is silent for a long moment before he speaks, voice tightly controlled. “Something doesn’t make sense to me, regarding the case. I need the articles to check something.”

“What do you think a fifteen year old boy could discover about this case, that many trained Aurors have not?”

Golden eyes flash with something once removed from temper. “I never claimed I could discover something new, only that something didn’t make sense to me, personally.”

Albus hums, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers together. He doesn’t make it a habit to use Legilimency on others if he could help it, but, well, he’d rather be safe than sorry.

He locks eyes with Edward and several things happen at once.

Edward jumps to his feet, gold eyes ablaze and teeth bared, growling a low “What the fuck are you doing?” under his breath.

Albus’ attempt is repelled by blinding white and the shuddering, blood-curdling sensation of something Dark.

And then pain flares at his temples, something hot and wet trickling from his nose. When he swipes at it his fingers come away stained crimson.

They lock eyes again, and Edward’s hands come down heavily on his desk, startling Fawkes from his nap. “What did you just try to do to me?”

Albus blinks, conjuring a handkerchief to gingerly clean the blood off of his face. “My apologies.”

Edward stares at him, and if Albus didn’t know better he’d almost think the boy was attempting Legilimency himself. “Try that again, Professor, and you’ll learn what it means to be on my bad side. I mean it.” He straightens, whole body coiled tight and ready to react at a moment’s notice. “Deny my request for all I care, it doesn’t matter. But don’t cross me again.”

“... noted.”

Edward slams the door closed behind him as he leaves, the sound echoing inside his office like a portent of doom.

Chapter Text

[Tuesday, 7 December 1993, Headmaster’s Office]

Albus taps his fingers on the articles on his desk, eyes roaming over the words without seeing them. The door to his office opens and closes, and two sets of footsteps walk over.

He looks up, and offers the two men a seat. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Remus sighs as he sits down. “Is this about Ed again?”

“Yes,” he says simply, looking between Remus and Severus. “I know you like him, Remus, but there are things that worry me. A lot.”

“I’d say that Lupin liking someone is a red flag in and of itself,” Severus says blithely, lips twitching upwards at the vicious glare Remus sends him. “Let’s go through things one at a time?”

“And,” Remus cuts in. “Let’s leave out biases, shall we?”

Severus sends Remus a look of actual surprise. “Oh?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Remus sniffs. “Not every Gryffindor outright dismisses Slytherins as inherently untrustworthy, Severus.”

“Noted,” he turns to Albus. “Well?”

Albus hums, wondering where to start. “He requested Daily Prophet articles on Sirius Black.”

Remus pinches the bridge of his nose. “So he is interested in current events. Nothing in those articles is anything but public knowledge, Albus. Black attacked Gryffindor Tower and is after one of his closest friends here at school. Isn’t it normal he wants to know the background on that?”

“He said something about the case was not making sense to him.”

“No offense, but nothing about it makes sense,” Remus throws a hand up in exasperation. “When Ed talked to me about it he was very hung up on how Black could betray the Potters after being as close as they seemingly were, and that’s been what all of us have been thinking, too, isn’t it? It seemed a foreign concept to him, to betray those he loves.”

Albus chances a glance at Severus, and he shrugs. “I do agree, loathe as I am to admit it. What I’ve seen of him is extremely loyal and helpful to a fault, even if he hides it behind a veneer of annoyance.”

“... If you both truly believe that then I suppose I have been outvoted,” he says at length, putting the articles in an envelope and holding them out to Severus. “Do hand them over to him, then.”

“What else is there that makes you worry?”

Albus looks at Remus for a moment, mulling over the question. Many things, certainly, but he wonders which to name next. Finally, he settles on the least damning. “He didn’t look up curses in the restricted section, as he said he would. Instead he looked into Nicolas Flamel and immortality.”

Severus inclines his head. “That is peculiar.”

Remus’ face has gone suddenly blank. “Yes, Remus?”

The man startles, then schools his features, lips a thin line. “No.”

“Pardon?”

“I have nothing to say on that matter.” His jaw twitches. “What else?”

Albus shifts in his seat, leaning forward. “If there is something you know—,”

“No,” Remus repeats more vehemently. “I gave him my word to keep his confidentiality, Albus. All I will say is that you don’t need to worry about it.”

Severus scoffs. “I find that hard to believe, Lupin,” he tilts his head. “You aren’t the best judge of character, no offense.”

“Oh, do you really want to start that, Mr Death Eater?” Remus’ face is cruel as he turns to his old classmate. “I misjudged one person, you made it your whole fucking personality!”

“Enough!” Albus says, and they both settle back into their seats after one last glare is exchanged. “Very well, Remus, if you cannot share what he told you with us, I’ll simply have to ask him about it myself,” his fingers twitch as he taps them together. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to know your response to him looking up Lord Voldemort’s student file.”

Both of them go very, very still.

Remus swallows. “He what?”

“Oh, yes,” he says idly. “He looked up exactly four files in the archive, in this order: Remus Lupin, James Potter, Sirius Black and Tom Riddle, better known as Lord Voldemort,” he looks at Remus. “His real name is barely known, so how do you explain a foreign exchange student knowing about it?”

Remus grimaces. “I can’t.”

“That is worrying,” Severus agrees haltingly. “But there is something else, isn’t there?”

“He repelled my Legilimency.”

“You tried to invade a student’s mind?” Remus yells, throwing his hands up.

“He repelled it?” Severus says at the same time, looking even paler than usual. “How?”

“I tried to avoid it, but he was making it very hard to gauge his motives,” Albus says, calmer than he feels. “And it was like I slammed into a wall, nothing but white. It caused me a nosebleed, and Edward was immediately aware of what I had tried to do.”

“A natural Occlumens, perhaps?” Severus looks deep in thought, frowning. “I have heard of natural Legilimens before, but someone innately able to repel one of your caliber?”

“Are we just going to ignore that you attempted to invade his privacy, based on a few hunches?” Remus has stood up from his seat now, his usual calm demeanor gone for good. “Are you serious? So he’s good at blocking his mind, and I admit knowing Voldemort’s real identity is weird, but — ,”

“When he repelled me,” Albus cuts him off, face stern. “I could feel the taint of Dark Magic.”

The ensuing silence could be cut with a knife.

Several emotions flit over Remus’ and Severus’ faces, and eventually Remus straightens himself, jaw tight and hands balled into fists. He’s obviously trying to find the proper words and having trouble doing so. “I think you’re wrong about him,” he finally settles on.

“I pray you’re right.”

Snape walks up to Ed’s and Neville’s workstation before class starts, face in its customary sneer. “Mr Elric, the headmaster asked that I deliver these to you, as your Head of House,” he holds out a thick manila envelope, eyes narrowing. Beside Ed Neville is shaking. “These are copies, so you may do with them as you please.”

Ed blinks, opening the envelope and taking out the contents, several dozen pages of varying sizes, some of them with moving pictures, coming into view. He looks up at Snape when he realizes what they are. “Oh, I… didn’t expect Professor Dumbledore to let me have these.”

“I do question the wisdom of it, myself,” Snape drawls with an undercurrent of something that Ed couldn’t name. “That man was always dismissive of human life, I doubt you will find anything enlightening in these, Mr Elric.”

He gives the man his most polite smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, Professor!”

Snape hums, turning around in a flurry of black robes and greasy hair. Ed, meanwhile, takes care to put all the articles back in the envelope to pack away in his bag.

“Ed? What are those?”

“Huh?” He turns, blinking at Neville. “Oh! Just some old Daily Prophet articles for a side project.” He holds Neville’s gaze, keeping his face open and easy. He isn’t technically lying, the whole Black thing is just a side project, after all.

“I see,” Neville says slowly, and probably would have inquired further if class didn’t start right then.

He draws the curtains around his bed closed, flicking his wand to create several glowing orbs for light. Roy is napping on one of his pillows, curled into a tight coil, his scales shimmering in the bright light. Part of him wants to make a joke about lazy bastards, but refrains from it out of fear of his homesickness getting too much to bear again.

Ed empties out the envelope and puts it aside, slowly going through the articles one by one.

[...] sentenced to life in Azkaban without parole for the murder of Peter Pettigrew, aged 21, as well as 12 muggles [...]

Sirius Black, convicted Death Eater and murderer, has escaped [...]

[...] Black has been sighted near Hogsmeade, caution is advised when [...]

[...] means of escape as of yet unknown.

After the break-in at Hogwarts [...] patrols of Azkaban’s Dementors extended to the surrounding area at night.

Ed sighs, running a hand through his bangs and lightly tugging at his braid. None of this really provides him with any new information. He’d need access to a police report, actual crime scene photos. Picking up the article reporting on the original incident he squints at the moving photograph, smoke from an explosion curling into the air.

There are several burned bodies, partially dismembered from the force of the explosion, and he pauses as he rereads the article.

[...] the bodies of the muggles were handed to their authorities, after sufficient memory modification [...] Peter Pettigrew’s finger was found [...] virtually unmarked—

Virtually unmarked.

»Alright,« he mutters to himself, smirking. »Now we’re talking.«

[Thursday, 9 December 1993, History of Magic classroom]

Remus closes the lid on the Boggart’s case with a resolute snap, leaning over it to peer down at Harry and Ed. They are both sitting on the ground looking like some rogue Bludgers had kissed them good night, grumbling and rubbing the backs of their heads. “That went better than usual.”

“How?” They complain as one, giving each other a look, before looking back at him. He smirks.

“You didn’t faint, for one.”

“Woo,” Ed says wryly, waving his bare hands mockingly. Remus had noticed the boy ditching his usual gloves for a few days now, but hadn’t remarked on it. He rather enjoyed the fact that Ed was being more easy going around others now, especially after what happened with Albus on Monday.

(Albus had implored him to keep an eye on Ed, and Remus would, of course, but he still thinks he is overreacting

some of the things he brought up were weird and off-putting, admittedly, but Remus wants to believe that there is a good explanation for them)

Ed is helping Harry to his feet, and Remus wonders how much of Ed’s strangeness is just down to being a traumatized kid that grew up in a vastly different culture. He’s curious and smart and passionate, and none of that is wrong, but they have barely been removed from a war for a decade. A war that turned people against each other left and right, where trust was a commodity more valuable than gold.

Ed is in Slytherin, the House of ambition and cunning, leadership and resourcefulness, and he certainly fit those qualities. Better than some others in his House, if Remus was really honest with himself.

But, well. There is the matter of knowing Voldemort’s real name, and the fact that Albus sensed something Dark in him.

He’s also certainly not helping his image by being a general pain in the ass and a very Slytherin type of rule-breaker.

“This smug little— UGH!”

Remus looked up from his chess match with Filius, raising an eyebrow at Minerva’s furious expression. “Are you quite alright?”

“No, I’m not, obviously!” She whirled around to glare at him, and he was surprised there wasn’t steam coming from her ears. “I thought after the Weasley twins there could be no one trying my patience as much as them, but no! Edward Elric is somehow even worse!”

“Well,” Filius said mildly, nudging a rook to move. “Isn’t he Severus’ problem?”

“Leave me out of this,” Severus sneered, not moving his gaze from the essays he was grading. “He’s only my problem when I happen to be in his vicinity.”

“Oh, aren’t you just drole,” Minerva hissed between her clenched teeth. Turning back to them she waved her hands around in a tizzy. “This—, this menace to society jinxed a group of three Gryffindor sixth years.”

“Okay,” Remus said slowly, not really seeing the problem. “So… give him detention?”

“If I could, I wouldn’t be complaining, now would I?” Minerva huffed like he was dense, something he took great offense to. “I’m not even mad about the reason, really, they were bullying that poor Lovegood girl again, and they got punished for it, naturally. But Elric? I couldn’t!”

Filius looked up. “And why is that?”

“Because I had no proof!”

Filius’ eyebrows jumped up. “Excuse me?”

“Yes!” Minerva started pacing. “He was the only one around, and it was the Insect Jinx, much too advanced for a second year, really, so it had to be him, right? Well, I checked his wand and— nada! Last spell was a summoning charm, and I was there when the students got jinxed. It had to be him.

“And you know what that smug little git did then? He smirked at me and went all ‘Well, isn’t that curious, guess it wasn’t lil’ ol’ me after all. May I have my wand back, Professor?’, voice all sweet and innocent, like I buy that for a minute! I swear on Merlin’s bones I have never wanted to defenestrate a student this much in my entire career!”

Remus felt both vindicated that he wasn’t alone in his violent impulses regarding one Edward Elric and amused at her indignation. “Have you perhaps considered that it wasn’t him, after all?”

“Do you take me for a fool, Remus Lupin? I dealt with your lot, too. I know when someone is looking me in the face and knows they got away with bloody murder!”

Across the room Severus hummed. “I suddenly like him a lot more.”

“Of course you do,” Minerva groused poisonously and sent him a look that would kill lesser men.

The part of Remus that never grew up has been in stitches ever since that rant. The part of Remus that had fought in a war keeps remembering all the dubious things about Ed that didn’t add up.

He liked Ed. But he’d liked Sirius, too.

Painted fingers snap in front of his face, and he blinks to focus on Ed, eyebrow raised and smirk firmly in place. “You okay there, Prof? Did the Dementor get your tongue?”

“Well, I’d certainly hope not,” he replies dryly. “I imagine the experience would leave me rather empty.”

Harry tilts his head with a frown. “What do you mean?”

Remus pauses for a moment, mulling it over, before waving them over to a few chairs and dispensing their usual chocolate. “Have you two ever wondered what Dementors look like under their hoods?”

“I try not to,” Ed deadpans, ripping the wrapping off his bar and taking a big bite out of it. “Considering what the rest of them looks like.”

“Smart,” Remus says, trying not to compare him to Sirius in his head again. It was just very hard not to. “At any rate, no one really knows. The only ones who would know can’t really divulge that information anymore.”

Harry pauses, mouth halfway to his chocolate bar. “How come?”

“Well, you see, they only remove their hoods right before performing what is commonly called a Dementor’s Kiss. They must have some type of jaw, at any rate, since they clamp it around their victim’s mouth and—, well,” he pauses, licking his lips uneasily. “They then proceed to suck out their victim’s soul.”

There is a loud crash, and Ed is standing, pale as a ghost with his chair toppled over and lying at his feet. In his right hand the bar of chocolate has been squished into an untimely death. “They,” he rasps, slowly going as green as his tie. “Do what?”

Remus clears his throat. “Yes, it is as gruesome as it sounds, I’m afraid.”

“So they… kill you?” He turns to Harry, giving Ed the privacy to clean up the mess he’d made with his chocolate and right his chair, sitting down with a shaky exhale.

“No, the way they do it your body stays alive. You technically keep existing, but you’re just—,”

“Empty,” Ed croaks, flesh hand rubbing over his face and moving to tug at his hair. “Your soul is what makes you a person.”

“... yes,” Remus says, watching Ed carefully. “It’s a fate worse than death.”

Ed’s face suddenly snaps back up, gold eyes sharp. “And they use those things as prison guards? What the fuck?” Ed blinks. “They station them as guards for a school?”

Remus is having a terrible suspicion. “Ed, what are you thinking?”

The smile that spreads on Ed’s face is scarier than whatever the fuck might be lurking under a Dementor’s hood. “Say, Professor, would you mind another essay?”

Why did I ever agree to this fucking job?

[Friday, 10 December 1993, Slytherin Common Room]

Fucking mind reading.

Ed can’t believe Dumbledore had tried to invade his fucking brain. He isn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to block the attempt, but he’s fairly certain if Dumbledore didn’t think of him as another Voldemort in the making beforehand then that incident had most likely cemented the deal.

He flips a page in the book he’d taken out from the library.

(why the fuck mind reading was in the public section was beyond him)

From what he can gather Legilimency, as wizards call it, is stronger when attempted with a wand, which Dumbledore hadn’t. But really, from his reaction it hadn’t seemed like he’d gotten anything out of the experience other than a nice migraine and a bleeding nose.

Serves him right, really.

Ed had half-expected the guy to try something, but he hadn’t really banked on him trying to read his mind like it’s the morning paper.

So the opposite of Legilimency is Occlumency, he muses, flipping to the next page. There is a rare chance that someone is a natural Legilimens, but it hasn’t been recorded for Occlumency. Though, I suppose, having forbidden knowledge from God might constitute that.

He does wonder what, if anything, Dumbledore had seen in the split-second he’d felt their minds touch. Nothing good, if the look in the old man’s eyes was anything to go by. Then again, Truth and their realm wasn’t a pleasant thing to encounter for most people.

Draco sits down beside him and startles him out of his musings. “Hey,” Ed says, closing the book and putting it aside. “What’s up?”

His friend is frowning at him like he’s struggling for words. Eventually he blurts out. “Are you going home for the holidays?”

Ed’s brain short-circuits at that for a long moment, eyes wide and mouth opening and closing soundlessly. “Uh,” he says at length. “No.”

Draco nods. “Good. I mean—, not good, obviously, that you can’t spend the holidays with your family and stuff, but—, uh,” he is going slightly pink in the face as coherence eludes him. “Would you like to spend the break at my place?”

If his brain had been short-circuiting before, he was fairly certain it had gone full blackout now. “I—, what?”

“Yeah, uh, I asked my parents, and they said it would be fine? You can stay the whole two weeks,” Draco says it so quickly that Ed wonders which of them is more out of their depth. “There’s gonna be two parties my parents host for some other high society people, but for the most part it will be just my parents and I at home? We can probably meet with some of the others over break, but… yeah. Only if you want, obviously!”

Ed can’t actually remember the last time he’d celebrated holidays, back home. Izumi and Sig had done something for Yule, he’s fairly sure, but it was lost to a haze of exhaustion from training. And then he and Al had spent the Sheep Festival holed up after the failed transmutation. And then things were just a blur of surgery and recovery, weren’t they?

And then there wasn’t much cause for celebration at all—

Ed clears his throat and blinks a few times, determinedly ignoring the blurriness in his vision. “I’d really like that, thank you.”

“Great!” Draco’s face lights up in relief. “While we’re on the topic… my father is taking me to the Quidditch World Cup this summer, and he offered to get you a ticket, too, if you want!”

“I—,” Ed blinks, slightly overwhelmed. “Really? I mean, he doesn’t even know me, and aren’t those expensive?”

His friend waves him off. “Money doesn’t matter,” he dismisses, and wow, Ed really is in the rich kid House. “And you’re my friend.”

Ed raises an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. “Didn’t you say he complained about my little essay?”

“He commends your political engagement, but would like to advise you to choose your causes more carefully,” Draco sniffs with a voice that might be trying to imitate his father.

“I have heard his advice and choose to dismiss it,” Ed snarks, laughing when Draco pushes him over.

“See where that gets you, then.”

“Oh, are we bullying Ed again?” Blaise exclaims, gliding over like he’s walking on ice rather than carpet.

“Did someone say bullying Ed?” Pansy exclaims from where she was talking to the Greengrass sisters, immediately making her way over. “Not without me!”

“Why do I keep putting up with you,” Ed asks, wholly rhetorically, and succumbs to their teasing with as much grace as he can muster.

The blue light of alchemy bleeds red and dies like his subject’s screams, the body going still within the array.

Herpo waits, and when nothing happens for five minutes he sighs, noting this one down as a failure as well.

This was trial number eight, and none of his arrays had worked to establish an artificial connection between a soul and an object while leaving the original body and mind intact.

On the contrary, all of the arrays ended in death.

It was unbelievably frustrating.

“Well,” he sighs, looking over at the remaining vagabonds he’d put aside for testing. “Let’s try another variation, shall we?”

The food Pandora serves is good and the wine even better, and the setting sun illuminates her olive skin like it’s on fire.

She is all dark eyes and darker hair and sultry smiles, and Herpo thinks what he feels might almost be called love if he were a different man.

Herpo has run out of beggars no one will miss, so he’s had to resort to other means.

Namely paying off the guards watching over the death row inmates.

The things he does for science, really.

“A hitch in your research?” Pandora hums, twisting a silken lock around a finger. “I don’t know anything about your alchemy, but have you tried supporting it with enchantments?”

Combining alchemy — science — with magic?

Before, he would have scoffed at the mere idea, but he’s gone through almost twenty trials with no sign of success or progress, and he was starting to get desperate.

“You know,” he muses, walking back over to the bed and sitting down. “That might be worth a try.”

The results were quite interesting, to say the least.

The array would only work on those who had committed murder, and the anchor would manifest very differently from what he originally intended. Instead of creating a tether between the soul and an object — a kind of secondary mind, so to speak — it would rip a part of the soul out of the body and bind it to the object.

The human, as it were, stayed alive and well.

“Fascinating,” he hums, tapping his fingers against the wood of his yew wand. The woman at his feet quivered, whether in fear or from the aftereffects of the transmutation he wasn’t sure, and didn’t care about. “Now, let’s conduct the real test, my dear.

“Avada Kedavra.”

Herpo blinks the green light from his sight and waits.

The stone he had bound part of the woman’s soul to glows without light, and she awakes with a shuddering breath.

He smiles. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

[Sunday, 12 December 1993, Hogwarts Library]

Ed is back in the restricted section, shivering from head to toe. Roy is curled around his left wrist like a security blanket in noodle form, and he didn’t even have it in him to deny it in his mind.

The restricted section was giving him the chills, and he’d take any comfort he could get — even if it was a tiny reptile with more snark than him.

Herpo had done research on soul binding and had, Ed was fairly certain now, created if not the first then a Horcrux. His book contained the exact array and enchantments he’d used, but they were so highly technical and, frustratingly, well-coded that Ed started to get a migraine one page into trying to decipher them.

What Ed thinks is particular, though, is that his experiments had only worked on subjects that had murdered someone prior to the transmutation.

This raises several questions.

What about the act of murder, specifically, made the transmutation possible? Why did the entire process only work by splitting a soul and binding it to an object? When the subject is killed and subsequently revived through the soul fragment in the Horcrux, is the soul merged back together? Does it remain in pieces within the body? Can you get revived repeatedly via the same Horcrux?

Ed can guess at some of it, from his knowledge gained from the Gate and his own exploits in the subject. Though, granted, the manner in which he recalled Al’s soul from the Gate was very different from what it seems creating a Horcrux requires. That seems much more akin to the transmutation of a Philosopher’s Stone, considering it pertains to a soul still on the mortal plain.

He scans the spines in the section on Dark Wizards, trying to find anything that might contain more information on Herpo that isn’t the man’s self-adulating drivel. Useful self-adulating drivel, but still. The man was supremely unpleasant.

»Bloodlines of the Ancient World sounds like it might have something, doesn’t it?« He asks this mostly rhetorically, but Roy still gives him a quiet maybe in response, squeezing his wrist lightly. It’s mildly off-putting not to get a sarcastic response from him, but a quick glance tells him that the snake isn’t liking the restricted section any more than him.

Ed flips through the withered pages carefully, skimming over the different sections and names until he gets to the chapter on Ancient Greece, one name catching his attention. »Pandora Sklíthra ,« he reads aloud. Herpo hadn’t mentioned Pandora’s last name in his journal, but really, how many Pandoras can there possibly be, and witches no less?

Quickly going to the page about her lineage he pauses again. There it was, fading ink on parchment: Herpo Paracelsus, husband to Pandora Sklíthra. »Married in 563 AD,« he mutters. »Strange, there’s a birth date and date of death given for her, but neither for him. Like, did the guy not even bother to come up with a fake birthday? And why is there no death date? Did he… oh, of course he made a Horcrux, I’m an idiot. But still, his body must have stopped being all that after a while, right? Like even Al’s is aging, and he’s in Truth’s realm.«

He could have made himself a new body, he supposes. Sort of like a homunculus, the guy was ruthless enough for that, and with a Horcrux he could possibly cycle through new bodies indefinitely, if he managed to figure out how to do that. Assume a new identity, or possibly create a stone and use it to stop his body from aging. Loathe as Ed is to admit it, an immoral enough person with Herpo’s intellect had practically limitless possibilities at his fingertips.

(Ed tries not to think about the last time he decided morals were none of his concern, his metal limbs were reminder enough)

Suppressing a shudder he continues to read over her page. »They had a kid, and Pandora died ten years later. Wonder if he got rid of her, seems like enough of a dick for that.« The rest of their family tree seems inconspicuous enough, none of the names really ringing a bell. Though Herpo’s and Pandora’s kid did revert back to her name after she died, and the spelling changed over time.

»There’s a note that they migrated to the British Isles around 900 AD,« he reads, flipping to the page indicated at the bottom of the family tree and stopping short at the first child born after the migration.

“Are you alright?” Roy’s quiet hissing voice cuts through his shock, and he blinks down at him, having almost forgotten he was even there.

»Yeah, uh,« he looks back down at the page. »Turns out Salazar Slytherin’s a descendant of Herpo Paracelsus.«

He thinks if Roy had eyebrows he’d be raising one. “And that is curious because?”

»Well, Herpo’s from a country next to mine that doesn’t exist anymore. I was just surprised.«

“That makes sense, then,” Roy says, shifting slightly around his wrist. “Humans named our language after him, as he was the first to speak it outside our kin as far as they knew. You might be related to him, distantly, if his country no longer exists.”

»That seems a bit far-fetched,« Ed snorts, idly skimming over the rest of Slytherin’s family tree. »I mean, that country fell four hundred years ago, even if I somehow descended from him, it seems unlikely my ability to talk to snakes was inherited from him after that many generations,« he taps at the bottom of the family tree. »Besides, apparently that would make me related to Voldemort.«

“Aren’t all of you magical folk related in some way?” Roy yawns, slowly sidling up his arm to drape around his neck instead. He blinks at the book. “There, that Potter kid is related to Voldemort, too.”

»That’s different—, wait,« he stares at Roy. »You can read?«

“Yes,” Roy says dryly, tongue flicking out the same way his human counterpart might have flicked his hair. “It’s quite handy.”

»Huh,« he muses, looking back down at the page and wondering, idly, when he had started to just accept a talking snake able to read fucking English. »I probably shouldn’t tell Harry he’s a cousin fifteen times removed from Voldemort.«

“No, you probably shouldn’t,” Roy agrees. “That might get him in quite the tizzy. His owl mentioned that he’s a very anxious child.”

Ed slams the book closed. »Okay, when did you talk to his owl?«

Roy hisses. “You don’t have to know everything I do, kid.”

He raises a threatening finger at him, feeling only a little ridiculous while he does so. »You are quite cheeky for such a little noodle.«

“It’s Mr Noodle to you,” Roy sniffs — however the fuck a snake sniffs, they smell with their fucking tongues. “Now let’s get out of here, this place is… off-putting.”

Well, that’s something they can agree on at least.

[Thursday, 16 December 1993, History of Magic classroom]

“So, I figured to cap off the last session before break we could celebrate with some Butterbeer,” Remus smiles, putting three bottles on one of the desks, dragging over a chair to sit down in. “What are your plans?”

“I’m just staying at Hogwarts like every year,” Harry shrugs, and Remus almost wants to ask why he doesn’t want to celebrate with his family. From behind Harry Ed is catching his gaze and shaking his head, and, well, Remus will trust the kid that this is a sore topic. “What about you, Professor?”

“I’ll be staying at school as well,” he smiles, taking a sip from his bottle. “And Ed, what about you? Going home for the holidays?”

Ed looks down at his bottle, fiddling with the label nervously. “I… uh, actually… Draco invited me to spend break at his place last week.”

Remus blinks, momentarily stunned, while Harry makes a face. Ed was so… different from the old pureblood families that it was easy to forget that he was, for all intents and purposes, one of them. He’d admitted to being able to trace his lineage back to at least Slytherin’s times, which made him practically on par with the Sacred 28. Remus doubts even Walburga Black would have been able to disown one of her own for marrying into his family.

(it would certainly have offset some of their… problems)

“I have no idea how you can be friends with Malfoy,” Harry grouses, sipping from his bottle. “He’s a git.”

“So are you,” Ed smirks, elbowing him lightly. “And me, for that matter. We’re teenagers, that’s kinda the point.”

“How insightful,” Remus deadpans, wondering if Ed respects him enough not to kick his shin.

He does not.

“Don’t be cheeky,” Ed growls. At least he had the courtesy to use his flesh foot for the kicking.

He raises an eyebrow. “I can’t believe you kicked me.”

“Oh, please, you can totally believe it,” Ed rolls his eyes, slapping Harry’s back as he chokes on his drink. “If you really minded you’d take some points from me or give me detention, but you’re too cool for that shit.”

Remus puts a hand to his chest, suppressing a smirk. “My student thinks I’m cool? Never thought I’d see the day!”

“You lose coolness points with every word out of your mouth,” he responds dryly, taking a large swallow of Butterbeer. “But, yeah, I’m not here for break. Apparently I have to suffer through two fucking high society parties while there, though, so I dunno why the fuck I even agreed, to be honest.”

“Do you even know how to act around snooty people?”

Ed gives Harry a long, hard look, raising his left index finger at him. Today his nails are painted an eye-watering shade of pink. “You are so snarky, you’re almost as bad as Roy,” he sniffs, taking another sip from his bottle. “I do, in fact, know how to be all prim and proper and suck up to assholes. Lots of practice.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “Oh, do you, now? I thought your country isn’t into the pureblood stuff.”

“It’s not,” he shrugs, scratching his cheek. “But I had to attend a couple military functions, and those guys all have sticks up their asses.”

“I… huh?” Remus blinks at him, leaning forward slightly. “Why did a teenager have to attend military functions?”

He watches as Ed’s eyes widen slightly, mumbling something under his breath in that strange language of his, before trying to mask his slipup with feigned nonchalance. “Military state politics are just like that sometimes. They called me a prodigy, wanted to drag me into the game early. It’s part of the reason my family sent me off before I could be drafted.”

The explanation makes sense, but his reaction doesn’t. Still, something about the tenseness in his jaw and the glint in his eyes makes Remus back off. “I see. Is that something you’d like to pursue?”

Ed blinks. “No, not really. I guess… if I had to, to take care of my brother I would. But not if I had the choice,” another sip, more thoughtful this time. “I don’t like the thought of having to kill people.”

Harry flinches at that. “You’d have to?”

“Well, yeah? That’s kinda the point of a soldier, especially in a country like mine that starts wars left and right,” Ed starts scratching at the label on his bottle again, eyes far away. “I don’t understand how someone can be so flippant with life.”

Well, that ends their session more somberly than Remus had intended. He should really get better at smalltalk.

“Ed,” he calls as the boy is halfway out the classroom door. “You shouldn’t compromise your morals, you know? I’m sure your brother would understand, even if things might be harder for a time.”

A strange expression flits over Ed’s face then, and he looks aside for a moment, before looking back at him with a smile that looks more sad than anything. “Thank you, but… it’s the burden of older siblings to put themselves last. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my brother, Professor.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, heart beating in his throat. “Nothing? Truly?”

Ed tilts his head slightly. “Good night, Professor.”

“Your life isn’t worth less than anyone else’s,” he calls after him. “I doubt your brother would want you to treat yourself as disposable.”

Ed hadn’t looked back at him when he spoke, merely stopped in the doorway.

“Good night, Professor,” he repeats, and closes the door behind him.

[Friday, 17 December 1993, Third Year Slytherin Dorm]

Blaise watches as Ed directs his things around him like a strange sort of orchestra maestro, no wand in sight and no spells spoken.

It’s actually a little freaky how casually he uses both nonverbal and wandless magic, not just separately but in conjunction. He’s going through his clothes one by one, directing some into the trunk at the foot of his bed and some into the large shoulder bag on his duvet. Occasionally his new pet snake — wherever the fuck he got that one from — will raise its head to watch him before curling back around itself and napping on his pillow.

“Are you gonna be around over break?”

Blaise blinks, needing a moment to realize that Ed had been talking to him. He clears his throat. “Probably, yeah. My mom is usually invited to the Malfoy parties, and I figure we can all meet in Diagon Alley at some point.”

“Cool,” Ed says, his trunk slamming closed with a flick of his wrist. He stares at the still napping snake. “Do you think Draco’s parents will mind if I bring him along?”

“Don’t see why,” Blaise shrugs, finally going back to his own packing. “Unless he’s, like, ill-behaved.”

“Oh, he’s an asshole, but not like they’ll understand what he’s saying unless I tell them,” Ed says casually, and Blaise freezes. Even Nott is looking up from folding his clothes. The snake raises his head again and hisses, and Ed rolls his eyes, hissing something back.

What.

“You… speak parsel?”

Ed hums, looking at him in confusion before his face clears. “Oh, yeah, didn’t I mention that?”

Nott stares. “You are a parselmouth? You?”

Ed puts his hands on his hips, rolling his eyes. “Why does this bother everyone so much? It’s not even that useful, except knowing when my pet snake calls me an idiot.”

“I can’t believe a blood traitor speaks parsel!”

“Call me blood traitor again,” Ed says slowly. “And I’ll break your nose.”

“Why does it bother you so much, huh? You always brag about not caring about blood status,” Nott sneers, evidently lacking the famous Slytherin self-preservation instinct.

Ed takes a step towards Nott. “I take offense to the traitor part, dipshit,” he snarls.

“I just call it like I see it, blood traitor scum.”

There is a deafening crack, followed by Nott falling back on his ass, blood flowing from his nose. Ed shakes out his metal fist, a few crimson drops landing on the ground. “Oh,” he says mildly. “See what you did? Now I gotta clean my joints. Thanks a lot, asshole,” he turns and gets out what Blaise assumes is his cleaning kit, picking up his snake as he does so, then slams the door as he leaves.

“Well,” Blaise sighs, conjuring a particularly scratchy handkerchief for Nott. “You had that coming.”

“Fuck you.”

Pansy is startled awake by the sound of heavy footsteps stomping across the common room, accompanied by what she assumes are some choice curses in a foreign language, interspersed by hissing. She tilts her head back, watching as Ed makes his way over to her seating area with a heavy-looking pack and his new pet snake Roy.

He’s still mumbling under his breath when he slumps down in the loveseat beside her sofa, spreading the pack out next to him. She cranes her neck to see it’s some kind of cleaning set. Roy has slithered down into his lap like a very long cat.

“What happened?” Pansy asks, shifting in her lounging to watch him spray some kind of liquid on a rag and get to work on removing… is that blood?

“Nott was a dick again, and I got fed up with him,” Ed grouses, scrubbing at the crusted stains more aggressively. “Calls me a traitor, the stupid fucking—,” he devolves back into a mix of his native language and hissing noises.

Pansy blinks. “Why did it bother you so much?”

Ed pauses briefly, inspecting the gaps in his metal fingers. It was still freaky to see it sometimes, especially covered in blood. “I’ve done a lot of shit in my life, but backstabbing wasn’t one of them, and I don’t plan on changing that.”

She hums, dark eyes watching as he cleans the rag with his usual casual display of nonverbal, wandless magic, grabbing a small bottle with a long… thing attached to the lid. He starts dripping dark liquid into his joints. “How did your supposed treason come up, anyways?”

“He got pissed that I can speak parsel,” Ed says casually, shrugging as he picks up another rag to start cleaning up any spilled liquid. Pansy, meanwhile, is gaping at him, same as several others who had been close enough to hear him. “Everyone acts like it’s some crazy skill,” Ed goes on, oblivious. “It’s just some genetic quirk, dunno why it’s such a big deal.”

“Well,” Pansy says once she’s found her voice, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “It’s rare, and associated with Slytherin… and Dark Wizards.”

Ed freezes in his seat, blinking up at her. “What?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “I heard You-Know-Who spoke it.”

“Harry can, too. What, is he a Dark Wizard now?”

Pansy bites her lip. “Lots of people thought so last year,” she lowers her voice. “Some of the Death Eaters thought he might be a new Dark Lord to rally behind, you know?”

He rolls his eyes. “Wow,” he moves his fingers, checking for anything he missed before packing up his kit. “That’s stupid.”

“Maybe,” she allows. “But he was a toddler when he caused You-Know-Who’s downfall, seems kind of suspicious, doesn’t it?”

“Okay, fair,” he says, putting up his feet to spread out on the loveseat, his flesh hand coming up to stroke along Roy’s glimmering green scales. “Still, that’s a lot of jumping to conclusions.”

She hums. “Not wrong,” she watches him lounge for a bit before she speaks up again. “Can you speak some?”

Ed turns his head a little, blinking lazily at her. When he does it like that he looks remarkably serpentine. He hums, then opens his mouth, hissing something.

“What did you say?”

“That I hope Nott’s nose heals crooked.”

Pansy can’t help it. She throws her head back, and cackles.

Pomona takes a bite from her rumpsteak, chewing thoughtfully as Severus talks about the latest exploits of one Edward Elric.

“He is gifted, no question there,” he sniffs, sipping his tea. “But if he makes suggestions on substitute ingredients one more time I’m going to slip poison into his pumpkin juice.”

She hums, thinking that is quite hypocritical of someone who criticizes every new potion invented and published in Potions Monthly. “I do wonder how he can be this good at Potions, and yet kill half a greenhouse the second he steps foot inside.”

Severus makes a sound in the back of his throat, eating a spoonful of onion soup.

“Oh,” she says, a hush coming over large parts of the Great Hall as the topic of their conversation walks up to Remus, a thick stack of parchment clutched in his hands. His smile is toothy and halfway to feral, while Remus buries his face in his hands.

“Thought I was kidding, were you?”

“No, I was hoping you were, though,” Remus says weakly, taking his newest dissertation. “You realize I have no obligation to read your extracurricular essays, right?”

“Oh, I know,” he says, cheeky and smug. “But you know you want to.”

Remus just glares as Edward gives him a cheery wave and walks over to the Slytherin table to eat his own lunch.

“What is this one about?” Remus gives Minerva a pained look, before turning back to the essay and reading the title aloud for the rest of the staff table.

“The Immorality of using Soul-Sucking Demons from Hell as Prison Guards, and the Importance of Due Process in Court Proceedings.”

“Well, okay then,” Minerva says. “And here I thought it was another screed against the government.”

[Saturday, 18 December 1993, Hogsmeade]

Ed is glaring at the clerk, Roy lazily flicking his tail and watching the toads in one of the terrariums. He gestures at him. “Just gimme whatever the fuck small snakes eat.”

“Well,” the clerk says, eyes trailing from Ed, to Roy, to the toads. “It depends on its—,”

“His. Roy’s a guy.”

“Right. It depends on his species.”

“I looked him up,” Ed rolls his eyes. “And I found him near the stupid lake, so he must be a water snake.”

“Young man,” the clerk sighs. “Water snakes are not native to Scotland.”

“Pretty sure neither are giant squids, yet one of them is floating by my bedroom window all the time, mate.”

The clerk pinches his nose. “He doesn’t look like a regular water snake, at any rate. The neck marks are too big, and the scales too shimmery.”

“Okay, then what is he, smart guy?”

He throws his hands up. “I don’t know! I’m not a snake specialist, we sell Hogwarts approved pets!”

Ed snorts. “Yeah, those are boring, and aren’t fun to argue with,” before the guy can respond the bell above the door chimes and they both turn to watch Ron walk in, Roy perking up and fixing his gaze on the lump in the redhead’s front pocket. “Oh, hey.”

“Hey,” Ron sighs, looking between him and Roy. “Buying food?”

“I would, if the guy knew what the fuck he’s doing.”

Ron bites his lip to stop himself from smiling, turning to the clerk. “I need some rat tonic for my pet.”

“Right away,” the clerk says, sending Ed a poisonous glare that he answers by sticking out his tongue.

“So, what’s the problem, mate?”

“Guy says that he can’t tell Roy’s species so he doesn’t know what to feed him.”

“Have you tried… asking Roy?” Ron raises an eyebrow. “I mean, what else is parsel good for?”

Ed blinks at him for several moments before grabbing him by the shoulders. “You’re a genius, Ron,” looking back down at Roy he nudges him for attention, the snake still staring intently at Ron’s pocket. “Hey, what the fuck do you eat?”

Roy blinks at him. “Anything that fits in my mouth, to be honest. I’m not picky.”

“Great,” Ed says, looking up at the gaping clerk, red bottle of tonic still in hand. “He says whatever the fuck he can fit in his mouthhole,” Ed considers that for a moment. “Should have named you Ling instead. Well, hindsight, whatever.”

The clerk opens and closes his mouth several times before Ron takes pity on him and pats his arm. “He just be like that sometimes, don’t worry about it and just get him something to feed his snake.”

“... right back,” he mutters, putting the tonic on the counter.

Ed is already fiddling with his wallet, counting out how much cash he took with him from the large amount Truth had just stowed away in his trunk like a squirrel. The clerk returns moments later with a small bag of what Ed suspects are dead mice he usually sells to owl owners. “Great, how much for those and the tonic?”

“What?” Ron blinks at him, turning slightly pink. “You don’t have to—,”

“I won a huge bet thanks to you taking the stick outta your ass, so take this as your share of the winnings and shut up,” Ed says, rolling his eyes and putting down several galleons and half a dozen sickles, picking up the bag of mice. With his free hand he scoops up Roy and deposits him in one of the inside pockets of his coat. “Well, see ya around.”

Blaise and Draco put down four huge tankards full to the brim with Butterbeer, squeezing into the booth beside Pansy and Ed.

“Weather’s terrible,” Pansy sighs, taking a big gulp from her drink and sighing as the warmth spreads through her. “If I didn’t need new tights I would have stayed in, honestly.”

Ed suppresses a shiver, taking a sip from his own drink as well. “You tell me, if Roy didn’t need food I would have stayed in, too. Blizzards suck.”

“How does that even work with, you know,” Draco asks, throwing a pointed look at his right arm, hidden under three layers of clothing and a thick glove.

“My automail is made specifically for cold climates,” Ed says, idly moving his metal fingers. “Climate’s milder where I’m from, and my normal limbs would have given me frostbite. Dunno what makes them different though, I’m no expert. I just pay out the ass for them.”

Blaise hums, resting his head in the palm of his hand, tapping a finger against the side of his tankard. “Aren’t they heavy?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, but these models are lighter. My old ones were twice as heavy; pretty much half my weight was just steel,” taking another sip he tilts his head. “I actually took ages to grow because they were so heavy, just a few months ago I was a head shorter.”

“Wouldn’t your leg be too short for you now, then?”

He looks at Pansy and blinks. “Oh, no. Since I don’t get to go back for adjustments much my mechanic added a sort of… slide? I guess? To add some length to the leg so I don’t have to go back all the time. It’s on the max setting now though.”

“Well,” Pansy starts and cuts herself off, her eyebrows rising up on her forehead. “Huh, I thought Potter wasn’t allowed out of the castle?”

The rest of them turn to the door to watch Harry, Hermione and Ron walk into the pub, a flurry of snow and biting cold wind following them inside. Harry, peculiarly, wasn’t wearing a coat. “How the fuck did that idiot get past the Dementors?”

“Beats me,” Draco snarls, rolling his eyes. “Wouldn’t even put it past him if he got special permission from Dumbledore.”

“With Black on the prowl for his ass?” Blaise waves a hand. “Please.”

Pansy snickers. “Bet even if he had gotten permission from his muggle relatives they would have found an excuse not to let him outside.”

Ed sighs. “I still don’t get why Black would break out of the torture prison just to off a teenager. If I were him I’d run away to some tropical island and never think about this shit again.”

“Mood,” Pansy says, highfiving him. “And there’s some teachers, they gonna get busted.”

“Huh?” Ed twists in his seat to look out the front window and curses, plucking Roy from his coat pocket. “Hey, buddy, can you tell these idiots to move their asses to the back door?”

Roy sends him a glare and huffs, sidling down his leg and across the floor. Draco huffs. “Boo.”

“Oh, shove it,” Ed rolls his eyes, flicking his forehead. Then he blinks. “Why are they coming over here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Draco snarks. “Maybe because that guy is the Minister for Magic and was just told by our teachers that you’re the guy who’s causing him all the trouble with Werewolf rights?”

“No one likes a smartass,” Ed bites at him, quickly putting on his polite military face as the strange group comes to a stop by their table, rising up and shaking the hand the apparent Minister offers him. “Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ed desperately searches his brain for his name. “Mr Fudge, sir.”

“Likewise Mr Elric,” the man smiles, though it seems decidedly strained and fake. “Your teachers just informed me that it was you who authored that… inspired essay the headmaster sent me.”

“I never really expected it to go beyond the classroom,” Ed chuckles politely, kicking Blaise’s shin as he starts to snicker under his breath. “Draco’s father mentioned that it has been causing a bit of a ruckus?”

“Oh! Yes, yes, but that’s quite alright, my boy,” Fudge laughs good-naturally. Ed wants to punch him but figures that would leave a bad impression and might even get him arrested. He doesn’t really feel like seeing the torture prison from the inside. Over his shoulder he can see the trio follow Roy to the back of the pub and he feels himself relax a little. “I must say, it’s admirable to be so passionate at your age, though I wonder at the… particular topic you chose.”

Ed wants to punch him harder, but instead smiles wider and puts more honey into his voice. “I was very put off when I learned about the way you handle things here in Britain, actually. Where I’m from we try to support our fellows in any way we can.” That was one of the most bold-faced lies he’s ever told, but if the act worked in Youswell it’ll work with this dunderhead, he’s sure.

Fudge blinks. “Pardon me?”

“Oh, yes, didn’t you know? I’m an exchange student,” he lets his smile grow a bit sharper, tilting his head. To his left Pansy shifts as she picks Roy up from the ground. “Well, it was quite nice meeting you, Minister, but I’m sure you and our esteemed teachers have better things to do than talk to a bunch of teenagers. We won’t hold you up any more.”

It was the most polite dismissal Ed knew how to give, and judging from the expressions on his teachers’ faces they were wondering what type of bodysnatcher he had fallen victim to. Fudge had no such qualms, he merely smiles and nods. “Yes, you’re right. Well, it was quite the pleasure to talk to you, Mr Elric. Have a nice day with your friends.”

The moment they turn their backs on their table Ed slumps back into his seat, sighing as Pansy hands him Roy back. “That was a nightmare.”

“Didn’t know you knew how to be polite,” Blaise snickers, yelping when Ed kicks him under the table again, this time with his left foot.

“I do, and hate every second,” Ed groans, jerking when Roy flicks his tongue against his nose. “Please tell me he isn’t at your parents’ holiday parties.”

“I choose not to answer that.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

Harry closes the hump of the one-eyed witch with a tap of his wand, turns back to the hallway—

And almost dies of a heart attack when Ed stands there, arms crossed over his chest and snake draped over his shoulders like a creepy scarf.

“Ah,” Ed says dryly, raising an eyebrow. His gaze is fixed on the map in Harry’s hands. “So that’s how you snuck out,” before Harry can react he has plucked the map from his fingers, predatory eyes skimming over it. “Huh, I’m not on it.”

“I noticed,” Harry growls, taking it back and deactivating it. “Or you wouldn’t have startled the crap out of me.”

“Probably cos I’m not a Brit,” Ed says, voice sounding a little strange. “Now, care to explain why you snuck out of the castle with a serial killer after your hide?”

“Not like he hasn’t broken in here already,” Harry rolls his eyes, tucking the map and his wand into his pocket. “How did you even—, wait, let me guess, Hermione.”

“Got it in one,” Ed deadpans. “Seems a bit reckless to risk getting found and attacked by Black. What, you want him to finish the job he started twelve years ago or something?”

Harry frowns at him. “Huh?”

Something flits over Ed’s face too fast for him to tell what it is, and when he speaks again he can tell he’s switched to parsel, if only because the s sounds change and Roy seems to perk up, as if listening to their conversation now. “So you didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

Ed’s jaw twitches. He looks to the side for a moment, then back at him. “Black was supposedly the guy who sold your parents out to Voldemort.”

Harry freezes where he stands, heart stuttering in his chest. “He what?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, running his fingers through his hair. “A lot of it doesn’t really make sense, but that’s the official story, anyways,” something on Harry’s face must worry Ed, because he closes the gap between them and clasps his shoulders tightly. “Hey, uh, don’t take this as the go ahead to do something stupid, okay? I mean it, if—,” he frowns, then shakes his head and soldiers on. “If the whole thing’s true he blew up a street and killed thirteen people. It’s not worth risking your life.”

“It’s my life—,”

“That your parents died for,” Ed cuts him off, golden eyes hard. “Risking it for no reason would be pretty ungrateful, if you ask me,” he licks his lips. “Let me have the map—,”

“What—!”

“When I ask for it,” Ed cuts him off again, glaring. Roy seems to have lost interest in their conversation and slides into Ed’s pocket instead. “No questions asked. You owe me for warning your idiot ass of the teachers and Fudge, and not ratting you out.”

Harry glares. “Asshole.”

“You only realized that now?”

He crosses his arms. “You shouldn’t revel in being a dick.”

Ed rolls his eyes. “Sure, now promise me.”

Harry glares harder, but Ed doesn’t budge. “Fine.”

Chapter Text

[Sunday, 19 December 1993, Platform 9 ¾ ]

“Are you sure?”

Draco rolls his eyes and continues trying to lift his bag off the overhead compartment. Ed is only thirty percent sure the elbow to his left kidney was an accident. “Yes, I am quite sure. And if I wasn’t it would be a bit late to turn around, at any rate.”

“I can always try to stay with Blaise—,”

“And his psycho mother? Please, she’d somehow convince you into marriage and you’d be dead by Easter.”

Ed crosses his arms and doesn’t pout. “Those are rumors.”

“If you want to call her own son warning every single person with a single parent of his mother ‘rumors’, sure, I guess. Now,” he slings his bag over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Are you coming, or will the trolley witch have to abduct you into the fiery depths of the firebox?”

Following him past slowly emptying compartments Ed hikes the strap of his own bag up higher on his metal shoulder. “Why would the trolley witch abduct me?”

“I don’t know,” Draco admits breezily. “I just heard that she gets scary when you cause trouble on the train.”

“Ah… ha…”

“Anyways,” his friend smirks, waving lazily at two blond people on the platform. “Too late to run now. Father, Mother, hello.”

“Draco!” Both say at once, smiling. The woman bends down slightly to hug Draco tightly around the shoulders, while the man pats his back lightly. It’s a bit disconcerting to Ed, to see such easy yet reserved affection from parents to a child. He only has foggy memories of Winry’s parents at this point, and he’s fairly sure they were more tactile than this. And yet, somehow, it was evident that they cared for each other.

It was weird.

“Oh,” Draco’s mother says when her pale blue eyes land on Ed. “How rude of us, you must be Draco’s new friend,” he half-expects her to sound fakely polite, or extend a hand in greeting. Instead she surprises him with both her sincerity and a warm hug that very much doesn’t remind him of his own mother.

Ed’s own greeting gets stuck in his throat when she pulls back and Draco’s father claps his left shoulder firmly, smiling just as brightly as his wife. “Right, Edward, wasn’t it? I’m Lucius, and this is my wife Narcissa. We’re happy to have you over break, my boy.”

Ed has never felt so much out of his depth, and he became a soldier at twelve.

“I, uh,” he clears his throat awkwardly, trying to ignore Draco’s smug expression. “Thank you very much for having me, Mr and Mrs Malfoy. I understand that Christmas is mostly a family holiday, it’s very kind of you to invite me.”

“So polite!” Narcissa gushes, clasping her hands with a smile.

“I see Draco didn’t lie when he talked about your upbringing,” Lucius says, and the way he says upbringing makes Ed think he really means family background. He hasn’t forgotten the open secret of his involvement with the Death Eaters, and isn’t stupid enough to think that this invitation was entirely made out of the goodness of their hearts.

Ed has spent three years with Roy Mustang as his CO, if it taught him one thing it’s how to spot a smarmy opportunist blindfolded and drunk.

Draco’s smile twitches. “Father, the train ride was quite long, you understand?”

“Of course,” Lucius agrees easily. “I paid for a Portkey to take us back to the Manor, much more comfortable with your luggage.”

Only years of reckless fighting let Ed land on his feet instead of stumbling face first into a hedge.

Portkey will not become one of his preferred methods of travel anytime soon, that much was certain.

“My,” Lucius grins at him. “From Draco’s letters it sounded like you weren’t used to wizard modes of transportation, but it appears he was exaggerating!”

Ed swallows the bile at the back of his throat down as subtly as he can before forcing a smile. “Just because they are less common in my country doesn’t mean we never use them. Although I do prefer trains and cars.”

“Cars,” Narcissa says, dragging the word out a bit and frowning. “I’ve seen them, but they seem a little impractical compared to brooms.”

“They have their time and place,” Ed says diplomatically, following the Malfoys down the path towards the imposing double doors of the manor. He half-expects to see an Armstrong looking out from one of the large windows, the building so lavish he’d only seen the likes of it in Central City.

And he was going to stay here for two weeks?

Fuck.

A sound like a mix between a monkey and a goose startles Ed, and he whirls around only to be face to face with a giant white monster of a bird. “Uh…”

“Oh, don’t mind the peacocks,” Lucius dismisses with barely a glance back. “They alert us of strangers.”

“... I see,” Ed says, closing the remaining distance to the front steps in a pace just slow enough to still be polite and measured.

Fucking rich people.

The moment Ed steps over the manor’s threshold it’s like he’s stepped past the Gate instead. The feeling of wrong-danger-taboo-allure is a thousand times worse than the restricted section could ever even hope to be, cold and searing hands gripping his heart and lungs and brain in an iron grasp. That part of his soul that has been claimed and marked by Truth shudders, its roots digging deeper. It’s like the memory of a scent, a bloom oh-so pretty and enticing but you know is deadly to the touch, and yet you can’t stay away.

I can’t stay here for two weeks. I can’t, he thinks, desperately, wondering how he’s the only one who seems to feel it.

“Ed?” Draco’s hand is on his shoulder, gray eyes narrowed. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, forcing on a mask of smiles and nonchalance. “Just admiring the architecture, it’s very different from what I know from home.”

Draco doesn’t look convinced, but his parents don’t seem to notice anything off about him. On the contrary, Narcissa seems delighted he’d mentioned the design of the manor’s interior, and immediately goes into explaining its finer details. Her excited voice is an anchor for his mounting unease like listening to Winry babble about nonsense during maintenance visits.

“It’s called French Gothic,” Narcissa starts as they make their way through the entry hall and she points out the different features. “The Malfoy line was originally from France, and decided to import some key features from the continent’s style of the time when they settled here. The rib vaults allowed for higher ceilings and the inclusion of these stained glass windows you can see here, they make the manor look so pretty during sunrise, we have to show you at some point.”

“Narcissa, darling,” Lucius chuckles with a sideways glance at Ed. “Not everyone is as excited about architecture as you are.”

“I don’t mind, actually,” Ed says quickly, needing the distraction. “I like learning new things.”

Draco snorts. “It’s a running joke at school, Father, everyone says the Hat misplaced him and he should be a Ravenclaw.”

Ed jabs him in the side, feeling something in him ease. “On the contrary, I’d say wanting to gather as much knowledge as possible is very ambitious and resourceful, you never know when it might come in handy!”

“That’s true,” Lucius agrees, patting Ed’s back good-naturedly. “Well, love, I suppose you have finally found someone to talk to about art history and architecture, then!”

“Delightful,” she says dryly, giving her husband a pointed look that reminds Ed of the type of looks his aunt would give his uncle, before they died. More playful than serious, more banter than reproval. “Well, now that I have my darling husband’s permission, how about a short tour of the manor, Edward, sweetheart?”

Ed would rather turn around and sleep in the woods. He smiles. “I’d love that, Mrs Malfoy.”

“Please, it’s Narcissa for you.”

Malfoy Manor was a grand and beautiful thing to behold, but Dark Magic had stained the white marble to the core, seeped into every little crack, hid in every nook and cranny. The feeling of the forbidden was strongest in the library and, strangely, the drawing room, and Ed was finding himself suppressing the urge to go to either room.

He’s sitting on the bed in the guest room the Malfoys had prepared for him, head in his hands and trying to breathe through the feeling of taboo.

»This was a bad idea,« he mutters, letting himself fall back on the plush mattress to stare at the stucco ceiling. Roy is regarding him from his perch on one of the decorative pillows, somehow managing to look worried. Ed sighs. »How can they live here?«

“Maybe you get used to it,” the snake suggests in a tone like he’d be shrugging if he had shoulders. “I don’t know.”

»Well I certainly don’t want to get used to it,« Ed says. »I don’t need my brain to get the shit idea that Dark Magic is great, actually, no, seriously, just try it for a bit.«

Roy snorts, and doesn’t comment.

A bang and a pop startles them both, Roy moving to be ready to strike, Ed sitting up, both hands raised. He blinks and tries not to grimace at what just showed up in his room. “Uh, and you are—?”

“Mibby, sir,” the little creature says with a high-pitched voice, bowing several times before staring at him with huge, bulging eyes. “Mibby is here to inform sir that dinner is ready. Sir.”

“Ah,” Ed says, giving Roy a short look. When he nods he turns back to the—, to Mibby. “Is there… something my snake could eat? A mouse or something?”

“Oh, yes, of course, sir! Mibby will bring something to the table for sir’s snake.”

“... thanks.”

“No need to thank Mibby, sir,” Mibby squeals, horrified, and disappears with another bang and pop.

“What the fuck?”

“That was a House Elf,” Roy says dryly, slithering off the pillow and over the mattress to glide up Ed’s arm and drape around his neck. “They are magically enslaved to serve a family until death.”

Ed blinks, the words slowly sinking in. “They are what?”

Lucius isn’t entirely sure what he had expected Edward Elric to be like.

Draco’s letters had started off speaking of someone who is eccentric and unappreciative of their customs and traditions, someone who eschewed House boundaries and fraternized with blood traitors and mudbloods, but also someone highly intelligent and able to back his words with actions. Draco had called him charming and vindictive and kind all in the same breath.

Draco had talked about Edward joining the Quidditch team, about his short temper and willingness to apologize, about dropping whatever he’s doing to help a friend, about being unsure whether Edward and Blaise Zabini are actually courting or just doing it to be annoying. He had mentioned Edward being an exceptionally talented wizard and teachers both loving and hating him — the latter mostly because they could never prove it had been him who had jinxed his classmates, something Lucius actually found very endearing.

He knows about your old friends, too, Draco had written. And I doubt he believes that you are no longer acquainted.

Then there’s the infamous essay, of course.

Normally, something calling for equal rights for Werewolves, of all things, would merely raise a few eyebrows, maybe some snide remarks and a few scattered fools thinking it had merit.

But, well.

Not only had it been Dumbledore who had distributed copies amongst the Ministry employees and other influential people, but to top the debacle off it was convincing. The essay mentioned every single law and argument in detriment to Werewolves and eviscerated them, eloquently no less. While the title was crass, every single sentence in the work proper was succinct and well-articulated, everything researched to the point that Lucius had to wonder how he had gathered all these sources.

And people were considering his points.

Not because of any one specific argument, no, but because put together and taken as a whole the work was more convincing than the sum of its parts.

And then came the second essay, even thicker, even more thoroughly researched, even more compelling, especially in the wake of its predecessor.