Harry Potter and the Fullmetal Professor

Beardy leads Ed through a buzzing pub, complete with people odd enough to match their fairy town. Beardy’s clothes aren’t so strange actually, in relative terms. No one else is wearing stars though. Ed hopes he’s not gonna have to wear a dress to get through this. 

The barkeep gives Beardy a respectful nod and returns his eyes to the glass he’s polishing. His timing and disposition are perfect, acknowledging the intrusion as he would any other, signalling appropriately, and returning his attention elsewhere as if nothing of importance has occurred. Stance relaxed, deception practised. He might be a professional. He’s certainly done this before. Ed takes note of him. 

Beardy leads Ed upstairs and through a narrow, crummy hallway the light doesn’t reach. Then down another, less obvious one with a proper carpet. Ed doesn’t see a key, but Beardy turns to the door and a moment later, it’s open. Beardy waves him inside first. Ed battles down his instincts shrieking at him not to turn his back on the man and strides in. 

The room is about 20 square metres, empty. There’s a cosy little lamp on a stand by the cot, which has warm yellow sheets and a thin checked blanket– wool, by the looks. It doesn’t fit the bed, tumbling down to the floor on one side. Uneven. There’s a tiny window with thick glass and a curtain to match the sheets. Aside from the lamp, it’s the only source of light in the little room, casting a thin rectangular silhouette that strikes discordantly cold across the wall. There’s a lumpy little mirror on the wall, and that’s it. If it weren’t for the noticeable tilt of the floor, Ed could believe it was any of the Amestrian boardrooms he’s stayed in.

Ed blinks, and the trunk he left behind in the tea kettle incident is on the bed. Dumbledore smiles genially at him, stepping in and closing the door. He sets the kettle by the lamp. With another wave of his wand, the mud they’re covered in evaporates. Ed seriously has to figure out magic.

‘Rude as it is to invite myself in, I fear we have much to discuss,’ he announces. 

Ed shucks his coat, tossing it over the edge of the bed. His glasses join it there. He gives a vague head wobble that the old man takes as invitation, settling on the cot while Ed sets his trunk on its side and sits on it. He runs a hand through his ponytail– the human one, his hair always gets caught in the metal one’s plates– flicking the water out of it. Then he finally gives the old man all of his attention. 

Before Ed can caution against discussing this here, Beardy gives another wave of his wand. Nothing changes. The wand disappears back into the endless folds of his robe and his hands fold over themselves politely. 

‘There. Now this conversation is solely between you and I.’

Ed raises an eyebrow. Is that a fact? Since Ed has no idea what the old man did, he can’t say if they’re truly secure– he doesn’t know if the old man silenced their room completely, or somehow induced the impression of mundane discussion through the wall, whether or not he accounted for the window or potential holes in the wall. Edward has no clue, that spell could’ve been a spy’s wet dream or the equivalent of stuffing a towel under the door.

‘You’re completely confident in that?’ he checks. Rude or not, he’s got to know. Beardy gives no sign he’s offended. 

‘We may speak plainly.’

‘’S your country on the line,’ Ed mutters. He looks up and sets his golden gaze firmly on the old man. Down to business. ‘What do you know?’

‘A good deal more than most,’ he admits without inflection. ‘In the most recent war, I pushed the ministry to apply for foreign aid, specifically from Amestris. I’m familiar with the country to a second-hand degree through a close friend, and we have been in dire need of assistance for years. I was cautious. The people that currently hold political power in the ministry are not among those I made aware of my attempts. In recent times, it has become prudent to rely less and less upon our government for support. Still, I have continued my requests for aid from Amestris, and I am glad for it now. I am under no delusions that you are the first Amestrian assigned to our unfortunate situation, but I am deeply grateful for the open response to my distress call. Frankly, you could not have come at a better time. We will not have more than another year of peace. 

You are uniquely qualified to address the source issue, something very few people outside of myself have the details of. Your prime minister introduced you as the nation’s leading expert in soul magic, as well as an experienced combattant and well-rounded alchemical operative. Your file is most impressive.’

‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ Ed says flatly. ‘Alchemy is not magic. While I am woefully ignorant on the subject, that much I am sure of. If there is a link, it’s not one that translates. For the sake of efficacy and my sanity, let’s proceed as if the two things are completely separate fields.’

Dumbledore opens his wizened mouth, visibly recalibrates, closes it, and waves a conceding hand in perfectly polite acceptance. Ed will take it. 

‘Now, this source issue. You’re referring to Tom Riddle?’

‘Precisely. Although I’m afraid there’s quite a bit more to it than even the resistance is aware. Only I and my spy know the specifics. I must ask you to emulate my caution, here.’

‘That’s my job,’ Edward reminds him. Dumbledore nods. 

‘I have recently confirmed that Tom Riddle has split his soul into multiple pieces and tied them to material objects.’

Split… split? Split the soul? You can do that? What would be the toll of such a thing? The effects? How much power would one need to accomplish it? Technically the material is being altered, not exchanged, so no toll would be needed, but surely the power required to sever a soul would warrant a big one. Could the severed soul part be the toll itself? You sever that part, and it becomes independent of you? But then it would stay with Truth, and that’s apparently not the case here. What are the implications of that? If you die, does that soul piece continue to function? Does it continue to grow? How human is it, with what level of sentience? And what is left of you, the original soul? What part of a human can you disown to still qualify as human?

‘You understand the gravity of this,’ he vaguely hears the old man say. Ed’s too distracted to read into his tone of voice. Multiple times, Old Man said. This bastard split his soul multiple times. 

‘What did he pay? What’s his state now? How many instances of this are confirmed? What did he use? Does anyone know he did it? Does anyone know how?’

The sharpness in Old Man’s eyes increases tenfold. Ed can only understand. This is… no one can know this has been done. No one can even know it’s possible. Old Man stares him down for a long time. Ed wants to shake him for answers, but it’s the most reassuring thing the man could do. Of course he should be hesitant to tell anyone this, let alone anyone capable of what Ed’s capable of, with the expertise he has. Even if Old Man doesn’t know that Ed’s already proven himself sufficiently brilliant and utterly stupid enough to try to bid for the human soul, he’s the leading expert in soul tampering. If anyone’s gonna fall for the sugar-sweet doom of discovery, it’s a genius who just needs to know. To offer him this is a gamble on Ed’s integrity, and the stakes are everything.

Dumbledore continues to analyse him over those half-moon glasses of his. The eyes– they’ve surpassed their tumultuous blue-grey and settled somewhere into silver. Ed gives him permission to slice in with them. After a moment, he must find what he’s looking for. 

‘As far as I’m aware, he’s trusted no one with the information. I am unsure how much of him remains of his original human nature, and the exact extent of the effects on him. The price appears to be a human life per separation.’

‘Just one? That’s all it takes? But then, I suppose…’ that isn’t the real dissuading factor. Why would anyone do this? Is it really as simple as immortality, like the report said? Will humanity never purge itself of that moronic temptation? How much unnatural horror can they inflict on the world in the name of that goal before it either disowns them or dies?

Ed ruminates on this while Dumbledore ruminates on him. He can feel the old man’s gaze, and he ignores it. He rubs his flesh hand over his mouth, frowning into the middle distance. 

‘I am aware of two things that can kill these severed souls– horcruxes, as we call them,’ Old Man continues. ‘The fang of a basilisk, and a certain sword. Both are soaked in the basilisk’s venom, which is what lends them this quality, and both are in my possession. I believe I have the remains of one horcrux already, a diary that was pierced by the basilisk fang and has consequently lost animation. The whole story is in here.’ Dumbledore produces a whole new stack of paper from the air. ‘Everything I neglected to mention thus far, brief introductions to the inner circle of the resistance, and a thorough rundown of Riddle’s movements in the last few years. I’ll ask you to burn it once you’re finished.’ 

Ed nods and takes the papers. Truth almighty, is this actual parchment?

‘Well, then. I’m sure you’re tired from your travels.’ The old man claps his hands on his thighs and rises, smiling as though thanking Edward for having a cup of tea with him. ‘This will certainly not be our last debrief, so don’t worry about anything you might’ve missed. There is rather a lot to wrap your head around– take a few weeks. I’ll pop in once you’ve got your head on straight to twist it ‘round again. Muggins– the barkeep and owner of this esteemed establishment– should take good care of you in the interim. Oh!’ He perks up, spinning slightly, patting nonexistent pockets. Then he produces something else from his robes. It’s a simple pendant with eight faces, pointed at the bottom. The chain glints subtly in the lowlight. He deposits it into Ed’s flesh hand, then taps his nose with a wink. ‘Translation charm. Should make it a bit easier to get by.’

Ed sees him out and finally, he’s alone. He turns back to his room, his trunk, and his eight novels worth of reports. 

He’s got a lot of work to do. 

-~o~-

Ed holes himself away and reads. And boy, is it a story. There’s even a philosopher’s stone involved, although Ed eventually comes to the conclusion that it wasn’t a real one. It’s odd, but the whole conflict seems to orbit around this school of Beardy’s. The kicker? Ed’s supposed to be coming on as a teacher. Izumi Curtis would weep.

As for the language, he studies until he can read the old man’s report without the translation charm. He’s determined not to use that thing. Beardy’s barkeep friend isn’t much for talking, but Ed manages practice where he can— passing greetings, asking for directions he doesn’t need, striking up the odd casual conversation. When it gets to the point that no one asks him to repeat himself anymore, he moves on to research. 

His military reserve has already been entered into the local bank, so he resolves to stop off and withdraw some cash before threatening to buy out the local bookstore’s livelihood. It’s fortunate, though Ed doesn’t see it so at the time, that Dumbledore swoops in to escort him, because Ed’s honestly not sure how he would’ve taken the goblins on his own. He sees a lot of things he doesn’t understand on that excursion, and as soon as he’s got his books, he goes about unmistifying each and every one of them. Only a very strict regimen and one too many past experiences keep him from forgetting to eat, sleep, shower and exercise in between books. 

Magic, Ed believes, is comparable to potential energy. Theoretically everything has an endless amount of it, if you view the energy as a quantifiable measure of all the change (𝑥) could potentially inflict upon the world, all the energy it could possess through transfer in its lifetime. From what Ed can tell, wixen must have a naturally replenishing store of this energy within themselves that they can transfer in whatever manner they see fit, changing this theoretical energy into a practical tool. Through wand movements, runes, and incantations, the wixen transfer their theoretical potential energy. That is the exchange– the wixen must put (𝘺) amount of potential energy into a spell the effects of which equate to the output of (𝘺) amount of kinetic energy. The degree of control that the theoretical and self-replenishing nature of the energy provides them with makes them capable of transmuting both immaterial and material things, which explains how they can be capable of affecting conditional change. There are strict parameters for each case of applied magic, and they are as individual and complex as the spells themselves. These wixen do have rules they abide by, after all. They just aren’t the same ones Ed does.

It’s the same case for the range of magical breeds that populate England and likely many other countries. They have different natural manifestations of their magical energy stores, and thus different parameters to work within, different natures and levels of control,  but the theory’s the same. And, as Ed is happy to learn, all of these creatures are naturally occurring. He can find no evidence of experimentation or deliberate breeding. Subjugation, prejudice and war is rampant, but no place is perfect. With so many wildly varying species and cultures packed into such a small area, it’s to be expected. Lord knows Ed can’t talk, he works for the Amestrian military.

As promised, once Ed finally thinks he’s got his head around the basics of this land, Dumbledore shows up again. In fact, he’s come to relocate him. The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix– yeah, they really called their resistance that– is a secure housing unit in the middle of London. A number of order members are residing there. It really is that small an operation. Truth alive.

Blessedly, Beardy doesn’t try to use a magic kettle this time. In fact, they take the train. Ed manages to talk the old man out of an even worse outfit than last time, so they don’t get so many stares. Apparently he’s out of touch with ‘muggle’ wear. How separate these people have made themselves from all other peoples! It’s almost frightening. These people really put the cult in culture.

Once they’re standing out the front of one of many grimy London apartment complexes, Ed is made to read a paper. It must be charmed, although Ed can’t detect whatever effects his reading it has. It doesn’t matter, anyhow, because the moment Ed tries to follow Beardy up the steps, he’s thrown about ten feet back into a rubbish bin. Ed will bet there’s alarms going off inside, too.

Beardy blinks in mild fascination, backtracking to where Ed’s on his ass for the second time since they’ve met. It’s not a good track record, given that they’ve only met twice (no, Ed’s not counting book shopping, that was a glorified escort mission for Beardy and a shopping trip for Ed). 

‘Are you alright, Mr. Ellis?’ The old man asks serenely. At least he doesn’t try to help Ed up again, that at least proves he learns his lessons. 

‘Peachy,’ Ed grumbles. He heard someone use that phrase before and he’s been wanting to use it. ‘Ze fuck vas zat?’

‘A rather nasty muggle-repelling hex on the front steps. I should have expected something of the sort from this house. Not to worry, I’ve removed it now. We should be fine to go in.’

With some hesitance on Ed’s part, they test that theory. This time the stairs are as apathetic as stairs typically are, and Beardy waves him in with a final warning to keep his voice down.

Oh wow, this place sucks .

It’s well built, but absolutely derelict. Doesn’t look anything like the outside did, either– that’ll be some magic bullshit. It’s such a big house, and yet Ed can tell from the entryway that it’s all squashed into narrow halls and sharply angled stairways. It reminds him of a cellblock: long corridors with evenly spaced doors, moulded detailing, and absolutely no natural light. The musty, cloying air is such a shift from the crisp chill outside that Ed almost chokes.

As Ed hangs his coat up by the door, the sound of approaching footfalls announces company from two sides. The woman that pops out from the right hallway is so at odds with the place she almost warrants a double take: short and chubby, with a healthy glow about her, apple cheeks and kind eyes framed by a short mane of fluffy red hair. Everything about her looks warm. She almost makes up for the frigid gloom of the house. The man that appears from the left hallway makes a little more sense here: Greasy black hair down to his elbows, skin sallow and pitted, face rough and nails broken. Obvious signs of malnourishment. His shirt hangs low, baring faded tattoos to match the ones across his fingers. Ed catches the twitches immediately, the way his eyes rake over the newcomer for threats and his body naturally angles itself into a defensive position, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of danger. This man’s been through hell for a prolonged period. A recovering POW? Of course, this will be the Azkaban survivor. Black. 

‘Albus, you’re back,’ the woman whispers, tucking her wand into the pocket of her cardigan. She addresses the old man, but her eyes flick to Ed twice before she finally gives him a proper once over. Not an unkind one. She’s already smiling. ‘And you’ve brought– well this must be Mr. Ellis!’

‘Blimey, you’re fit,’ the ex-con blurts. The woman rounds on him as Ed tries to figure out the turn of phrase. Fit? Fit into what? 

‘Sirius! If you can’t find a shred of decorum within you, pretend you can for the sake of company! He’s only just got here!’

‘Should I be offended?’ Ed asks a chuckling Dumbledore under his breath.

‘No, I’d say Sirius meant it quite flatteringly.’ Great. Another word Ed doesn’t know. He gives up. ‘Might I introduce the lovely Molly Weasley and the ever charming Sirius Black. Molly, Sirius, this is Mr. Edward Ellis, Hogwarts’ own up and coming Alchemy professor.’

The ex-con and the mother. ‘Ed,’ says Ed, shaking each of their hands. He’s glad Roy had the good sense to keep his name as close as possible to his proper one. Ed is no master spy, and he just knows he’d screw it up in half a day if he had to answer to, like, Simon. ‘You’ll haff to be patient vis me, I’m shtill learning your language, and I’m afraid I’m missing a lot awf context.’

Ex-con’s eyebrows go up and he whistles lowly at the accent. Weasley smacks him on the arm and turns a big motherly smile on Ed, eyes curling up into crescents. 

‘Of course, dear. Goodness knows with how the lot of us babble on, you’ll get the practice. You’ll have it in no time. Now, we’ve set aside a room for you, though of course you’re free to choose another if you’d like, there’s plenty of them,’ she titters, eyes seemingly going wide at just the thought of some much space. ‘Oh, Sirius, I should’ve asked, the room on the far end of the first landing, would that be–?’

‘’Course, whatever ya like. And if you’re feelin’ cramped, I’ll find a sledgehammer and help ya bust the wall down, give ya two rooms. Any excuse. Fuck this house, honestly.’

He ends on an eye roll, already stomping up the staircase with the clear expectation that Ed will follow. Beardy returns Ed’s trunk, which he was keeping in his pocket, to its original size. Ed takes it, gives him and Mother Weasley a grateful nod, and starts up after Ex-con.

Ex-con leads him up to the first landing. From what he’s seen, Weasley’s right– there are way too many rooms in this place. And why is it in such a state? Ed’s probably contracted something just breathing the air in here. 

Black spins and pretty much falls against the wall by the door, giving it a knock and crossing his leg over his ankle. ‘This’ll be you then, luv. I won’t lie, it’s a shithole, but the whole place is a shithole, so that’s whatcha get. Feel free to take it out on the room, I cleared it out last week.’

‘I didn’t get mozt awf zat, but sanks. You use a lawt awf slang. Maybe you can help me learn it too? I shtill don’t know how to svear in English.’

Ex-con gives him a big grin, showing a full set of black and yellow teeth. He claps Ed on the shoulder with impressive strength for someone so obviously clawing his way back from malnourishment. ‘Now that I can help you with. I think you and I’re gonna get on just fine. ‘Bout time someone appreciated me for my talents. I’ll be around if ya need me, so please do. Oh, and don’t mind the redheads. I swear they’re multiplying.’

And he’s gone with a conspiratorial wink.

The room isn’t so bad, although Ed wouldn’t call it ‘cleared out’. A great peel of rotten black wallpaper’s curled up in the corner like an abused child, its scar tearing up the wall behind it. The other places where it’s split give the impression of claw marks from a giant beast. It’s much bigger than his previous room, with lots more useless crap: an ornate mantel, a sinister lounge chair that looks like Death’s throne, a moth-eaten throw rug with stupid tassels depicting something Ed can’t make out through the wear. Shit like that. Ed takes a moment to alchemically clear out the dust, which makes a marginal difference. 

Home sweet home. 

Ed decides to unpack later. He has it in mind to explore the house when a knock comes from the door. A head of fluffy red hair pokes in. 

‘Ed? I’m just checking in, I thought I’d see if you need help settling in. I know this place isn’t ideal, but we’re doing our best with what we’ve got. I’ve got the kids cleaning the place top to bottom, but it’s a hell of a job…’

‘Kids?’ Right, the redhead warning. Albus’ notes said she had seven. This truly is a different world, where someone can just have seven kids and they all live to school-age. In fact, they all went to school! Incredible!

‘Yes, we’ve got quite the troupe. We moved the kids here– my husband and I– well, the youngest ones, anyway. They’ll still be asleep, or they’d be all underfoot. Dead curious, that lot– too curious, if you ask me. I didn’t want them caught up in this, but it’s good to be here for Sirius; the poor dear would be so lonely otherwise, and he’s been through so much… and this house! I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like to grow up in.’ 

‘Zis is his house?’ Ed starts. As much as Black visually matches the place, that surprises him. Maybe it shouldn’t, though. The man’s been in prison for twelve years, and this house looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in at least that. 

Mother Weasley hums. ‘His parents’, before they passed. He hates it with a passion. From what I gather, they were the worst sort of people… but nevermind that. Are you going to be alright in here?’

Ed nods firmly. ‘Zere are far vorse places to shleep, Muder Veasley. Zis house is solid, protected, known to friends and not to enemies. It vill do just fine.’

Mother Weasley looks a little taken aback by that response. She tilts her head once, blinks, closes her mouth and nods. 

‘Well, good. You just let me know if you need anything, then. Lunch should be at about midday, that’ll just be us, but people pop in for dinner sometimes, so you might get to meet a few others tonight. We don’t have an Order meeting until Sunday, then you can catch up on whoever you’ve missed. Do you have any allergies, dear?’

‘Nen. Uh, no.’

‘Wonderful. I’ll just leave you to get settled, then. Give us a shout if you need anything, alright?’

‘Sank you, Muder Veasley. You are very kind.’

She gives him that eye-crinkling smile and squeezes his arm– the left one, luckily. Then she bustles out the door, red mane of fluff bouncing behind her.

Ed forgot that there were children here. And they’re still sleeping, at this hour? When there are so many chores to do? Ed had better check their mother isn’t doing everything herself once he’s unpacked. He should probably hold off on exploring if he doesn’t want to run into any sleeping children.

He doesn’t have to wait long. He’s unpacked as much as he’s comfortable with by the time he hears casual shouting and conversation through the walls. He grimaces. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with children for a while. He will have to, though. He’s been here for close to an hour now and he still hasn’t made a mental map of the building. He should at least find out if there’s an outside soon, for a bathroom and exercise and stuff. It will have to wait, though; he can hear Mother Weasley calling everyone for lunch. 

Ed waits until the thundering of the ensuing child stampede passes by his room before slipping out himself. He looks down at his clothes– a simple black turtleneck, pants to match, and a pair of form-fitting white gloves. Even now that he has a range of colours in the highest quality Xingese fabric (courtesy of Al), he thinks the white ones will always be his favourite. They’re much thinner than the ones he used to wear, hardly comparable really, but he can’t say they don’t elicit a modicum of nostalgia all the same. The glasses are less familiar, but it is an undercover op after all. He hopes his clothes are acceptable. Mother Weasley was dressed sensibly enough, if with a bias towards knitwear, and Ex-Con had a decent shirt on even if he had something against using the buttons. Hopefully Beardy was the outlier– if Ed has to start wearing pixie shoes, he’s going home and letting the military have him.

Ed follows the sounds of domestic chaos through the grim house, finding himself on the first floor in the biggest room off the side of the landing. It appears to be a large dining hall, complete with a polished black table big enough to seat half of Amestris and chairs to match. It’s the only room without any frames on the walls. Again, there is no natural light. The place is illuminated by a pretentious silver chandelier with snake accents dripping down like insidious wax. 

There’s a flurry of activity around the table. People dart in and out of a side room with plates, sniping at each other and yelling over their shoulders. Mother Weasley’s shrill voice carries out from the side room– that must be the kitchen. Ex-Con is soon chased into the dining room, chased by the wrath of Mother Weasley’s wooden spoon and accusations of thievery. Frankly, Ed would be inclined to give the man whatever food he’d be willing to let Ed stuff down his throat, but obviously Mother Weasley stands for manners. Ex-Con is banished to the table to wait for everyone else. 

Someone comes whipping out of another side room so fast they run smack into Ed. They bounce off his chest like a pinball and their ass hits the floor with a solid THUMP. This one’s got long red hair, an athletic build, and a mean glare on her. At least for a second, when she looks up at him, mouth already open to call him all manner of nasty things. Her features go slack in shock the moment she realises he’s a stranger. Her brown eyes drag up the length of him, finally settling on his face and widening even further.

‘Blimey,’ she huffs.

Ex-Con tilts his head sympathetically. ‘I know, right?’

Ed offers the little redhead a hand, but she’s already throwing herself up. Now most of the room has noticed him. Some of them say something, but Ed can’t parse all their rapid-fire, clipped, twangy English, especially since they have no qualms about yapping over each other. Ex-Con watches in amusement, leaning back against the wall like he had before. Finally, Mother Weasley bustles out to his rescue, carrying two plates of sandwiches. Her head whips around to identify what all the fuss is about, already scolding her children for their discord. Her eyes clap on Ed, and she understands immediately. 

‘Right, everybody, this is Mr. Ellis, Dumbledore dropped him off this morning. Let’s all sit down and introduce ourselves, I’m sure– everyone’s here?’ she gets a few nods. ‘Right, then. Tuck in! I’ve made corned beef, chicken and egg.’

There’s a mild scramble for seats, everyone piling their plates with fresh sandwiches, reaching over each other and pouring drinks. Still, everyone’s eyes are reluctant to leave the newcomer, darting back to him as frequently as possible. One kid spills his lemonade trying to pour it and stare at Ed at the same time.

Ed takes a seat by the ex-con, since the ones by Mother Weasley are taken. She immediately sets to work introducing everyone. She starts with the man on her right; a thin, balding man with big wide eyes and glasses that slip down his long, pointed nose. Many of the kids have that same nose, and some of the mystery around the mob of redheaded children abates with the realisation that this man’s hair is also red. It’s a recessive gene, so if his hair had been black, Ed would have to call foul. Mother Weasley sets her hand on the man’s elbow. 

‘Ed, this is my husband, Arthur.’

‘How do you do?’ the newly christened Father Weasley nods. He has a kind smile that reminds Ed of Al. Ed can only give him an acknowledging nod before Mother Weasley’s introducing the rest of her brood. There’s a pair of twins she warns him not to accept anything from, the girl from before, and a boy with terrible table manners. Apparently the other children are either working or abroad, and another is due to arrive in about a week’s time, although she’s only a friend of Table Manners’.

‘Mr. Ellis is going to be teaching at Hogwarts this year,’ Mother Weasley pronounces at large. That garners some raised eyebrows. The girl ginger slumps a little in her seat as if disappointed.

‘Hope you’re not too attached,’ she sulks. ‘That job’s cursed.’

Alarm creeps over Ed for a second before Mother Weasley waves dismissively. ‘Not the Defense post, dear. Alchemy. It’s a new subject!’

Boy Ginger grunts around a mouthful. ‘Hermione’ll be all over that.’

‘Alchemy, did you say?’ Father Weasley echoes. ‘Well now, that’s interesting!’ He says it like he really thinks it is. 

‘Can you really change lead into gold?’ Boy Ginger asks, suddenly interested. ‘Isn’t that what it’s about?’

‘Zat vould be illegal, and shtupid bezides. Ze economy vould collapze vis such an influx awf valuable materials. Certainly it is pozzible, zo.’

‘Woah,’ one twin says at the same time the other says, ‘He’s got an accent on ‘im.’

Ed grimaces slightly. ‘I am shtill learning to shpeak properly. Only so much langvage you can learn by ze book.’ 

The twins trade elated looks. ‘We can help you there.’

Mother Weasley glowers. ‘No, no, whatever you’re thinking, no.’ 

‘So you’ve just studied English?’ Girl Ginger asks, ignoring them. ‘You’re pretty good. How long have you been learning?’

Ed tilts his head back and forth noncommittally. ‘Sree, four veeks?’ 

Father Weasley and Ex-Con drop their forks with loud clatters. Mother Weasley reels back, startled out of her scolding. The kids’ jaws drop. 

‘Are you serious?’ the twins ask together. They look as delighted as the others do amazed. Ed shuffles uncomfortably. 

‘’S hard to learn just from reading. Need to shpeak it more. I’ll get it fazter now.’

‘Merlin! Learning a language in a couple of weeks!’ Mother Weasley says breathlessly. 'I thought for sure you'd had at least a year to acclimatise!'

‘Why the hell wouldn’t you just use a translation charm?’ Boy Ginger demands, the first to get over his shock. Ed scowls at the notion.

‘Use a shortcut? Laziness. My teacher vould beat me for such a sing. I do not halv-ass my jobs. I do zem right.’

‘...That’s one way to look at it,’ Boy Ginger wheezes. 

‘Did you say your teacher would beat you?’ Girl Ginger wheezes. Ed shrugs a casual confirmation.

‘Are you some kind of genius?’ Twin One demands as the two of them squint at him. 

‘Or a linguist,’ Ex-Con notes. Ed shakes his head in denial of that. He knows enough languages, true, but it’s not his love. 

‘I am an Alchemist,’ he says firmly. ‘No matter vat else I am, I am zat first. Everysing elze, I am out awf convenience.’

‘You have to admire a man who loves what he does,’ Father Weasley chimes. His wife looks as intrigued as he is.

‘What made you want to teach, then?’

‘I don’t. But zis country awf yours, it is like a different vorld to mine. Your scienze, your magic, your shtudies– all new to me. I vas offered a place here to teach, but I am here to learn.’

‘That’s all well and good,’ Boy Ginger drawls, leaning against the table on his elbows and glaring suspiciously at him, ‘but it doesn’t explain why Dumbledore trusts you enough for you to just waltz on into the Order’s HQ. I’ve never heard of you before.’

Mother Weasley immediately sets on him, but the curious spark in her eye gives her away. She wants to know just as much as the rest of them, she's just better at hiding it. 

‘He’s got a point, Molly,’ Ex-Con shrugs. 

‘He does,’ Ed agrees. He swallows the last of his sandwich before answering. ‘Zis is not my var. I did not vant to get involved. But, zat is ze exchange: Old Man vant my help vis var, I vant to shtudy in his country. Var is an enemy of academia, sho it is my enemy too. It is equivalent.’ 

‘Yeah, but why you?’ Girl Ginger presses. 

Ed smiles. ‘If you vere shtill under ze impression zat I vas just a teacher, zat might be a good qvestion.’

A moment of charged silence passes before Mother Weasley swoops in with a weak attempt to regain control. ‘...Now, children, Dumbledore has his reasons for these things. Mr. Ellis will be a fine addition to the order… would anyone like more? There’s still some chicken left.’

-~o~-

After lunch, Ed finally gets to explore like he meant to. It’s a large house, and a labyrinth to boot. Much of it is cursed, so he’s been warned to watch his step. And there is a small outdoor area. The bathroom, however, is inside– there’s actual running water here. It’s not so bad at all. And that’s before Ed discovers the glory that is the library. Ex-Con helps him navigate it safely, so he starts on eating through the entire stock of books at once. He’s less happy to discover Kreacher, but Ed makes an effort to be civil to him. If anyone knows what goes on in this house, he expects it to be the elf. 

As advertised, there are a number more people present for dinner, including another Weasley. Ed takes note of them all, and they all take note of him. Dumbledore does not show up again. In fact, he isn’t present for the next week, which Ed spends reading and dutifully helping everyone clean the place out. Alchemically, all he can do is get rid of the dust and banish the moisture from the air in an attempt to kill whatever’s growing. There’s a scourge of dry and itchy skin as a result, but Ed figures he’s saved them a good deal of work. 

Then Boy Ginger’s little friend arrives. She has a soft build and an adamant stance from the minute she walks in, like she’s used to getting her way one way or the other. Her eyes are dark and intelligent, whipping quickly from focus to focus, dragging all the information from the subject of her attention. What startles Ed most, though, is her skin. Ed has never seen anyone with skin so dark, many shades darker than the darkest Ishvalans. Her hair is an even deeper brown than her skin, with natural curls so thick and tight that the mass of them makes up half of her volume. Even Teacher’s dreadlocks were not so thick, and on this girl, it looks to be completely natural, like her hair just grows that way. She keeps it out of her face sometimes with headbands, but when Ed offers her one of his hair ties, she informs him that her hair would just snap it. Ed suspects it would be rude to ask, but he’s deathly curious where she or her ancestors are from. Is she an immigrant remnant, or are people of this skin tone simply the minority in this part of England? He hasn’t seen any others. She has no traceable accent, and he hears no talk of her being foreign. He looks, but finds no books on the subject. He finally resolves to ask her, and as surprised as she– Granger, he learns– is to hear he’s never met anyone of her coloration before, she’s happy to explain the history behind the matter and that she is, in fact, entirely English. It’s only fair, since she asks him about ten questions an hour on mean average regarding everything from Amestris to Alchemy to his thoughts on magical theory. She is one of those people who has to know everything. He likes to know things too, and he is so starving for information that she becomes his number one source, both of them absolutely flogging his Equivalent Exchange philosophy by dumping equivalent mountains of questions and answers on each other.

Aside from her, Ginger Girl might be his favourite. She is as bad at waking up as the rest of them, but as soon as she realises Ed does his exercises in the morning, she demands to join him. When she learns he usually spars as well, she insists on doing that, too. It’s not real sparring, of course. He ends up teaching her self-defence after their reps. One thing he has learned here is that the wizards are incredibly soft, so what he does with Girl Ginger would hardly constitute training, but he knows if he hurts her then Mother Weasley will have a fit. As it is, he makes do with only giving her the occasional real blow when Mother isn’t watching, and smirking when she winces reaching for the peas at dinner. Girl Ginger blooms under the challenge. She could be a real warrior if he was allowed to teach her right. 

The Order meetings are as boring as he expected them to be. Mother Weasley won’t let the children in for some reason, so Ed doubts they will all live through this war. He tells them what he can when the adults aren’t listening, but it’s not all that helpful. The Order members do a lot of surveillance reports and not much else. They’re all caught up watching their civilian asset, the Potter boy; it’s a huge waste of resources. Currying favour with potential allies is going poorly, and the spy has had nothing helpful to report. None of the Order are even aware of the ‘horcruxes’. Ed might protest this if he wasn’t keenly aware that wizards have ways into each other’s minds that far surpass torture or brainwashing. There are ways to defend against them, but Beardy takes one look into Ed’s mind and claims it won’t be necessary. Ed’s not overly surprised; his head is not a place you wanna be without some damn good armour.

Ed details all of this in biweekly reports to Roy, which he makes through a leather-bound book. Roy has a matching one, and when ink is pressed into the pages of one, it will apparently show up in the other. While he’s been assured that it’s secure, his reports are always encoded. This is also how he and Al communicate; Ed simply includes his letter in a separate code known only to them, which Roy then passes on to Al. Al does the same in return. He’s deathly curious about everything, and Ed does his best to explain it all in as much detail as possible. Al writes for Winry too, and Ed finds himself missing her like a limb (he would know), tugging absently on the little gold earring they got in lieu of a wedding ring. Hers sticks out among all her silver ones, while he’s only got the one. She said they’d both lose silver ones with all their other metal junk, and they should get something special that matched his eyes. They could never wear rings, what with both of them working with their hands so much. Still, an armband would’ve been fine. There was barely room for another earring in Winry’s ear anyway. But she insisted. Ed suspects it might have something to do with the fact that the military doesn’t allow earrings. She never stopped him serving, but she never liked it, and it is so Winry to stand by a grudge in these little, passive aggressive ways. He’s known far and wide as the rebel, but she’s as bad as he is, he swears. Truth, he misses her.

The days pass in this manner for a while, with Ed slowly getting a grip on the language and culture of this place. He cooks and cleans to earn his stay, much to Mother Weasley’s delight. He manages to narrowly avoid the twins and their pranks. He learns how to speak like a real person instead of a dictionary from Ex-Con, and everything else from Granger. He even exchanges notes on teaching with a couple of Order members that drop in from time to time. Then comes a night of some expectancy: the retrieval of the Potter boy. Ugh, the fuss! You’d think they were going to escort the Fuhrer! It’s all the kids talk about, and the adults aren’t much better. Ex-Con is near vibrating with excitement, and Mother Weasley is twice as overbearing as usual. There’s an expectant buzz in the air, even more so than that tense night when the news came that Potter had been attacked. Ed slept through that one. 

Ed stays behind, mostly indifferent. He makes a half-hearted attempt to reassure Granger, since she’s his favourite and she’s all worked up and worried about her friend. Fighting with Boy Ginger seems to be more effective at that. Ed gives up and tries to go to bed early, but that turns out to be a mistake. Even if he somehow managed to sleep through all the ruckus of the returning party, the unfamiliar voice (no doubt Potter) yelling at the top of its lungs not two doors down would’ve woken him. That, of course, starts up the old hag in the painting again. Ugh, children! Were it not for the laws of this land, he would beat them.

Girl Ginger is particularly vicious in training the next morning. Her anger pretty much guarantees she’ll learn nothing today, but hitting him as hard as she is is probably cathartic. It’s also a good opportunity for Ed to grill her. 

‘Do you not like Potter?’ he ventures while easily catching her next vicious kick.

‘What?’ she huffs distractedly. He repeats himself, and she’s almost surprised out of her barrage. ‘No, it’s– ugh, it’s mum . She’s treating me like a goddamn child.’

‘You are a goddamn child,’ Ed says evenly. ‘She’s treating you like a flimsy little petal.’

‘I KNOW! I have a right to know everything they do!’

‘Zey don’t know as much as you sink,’ he hums, jabbing at her side. She grunts.

‘Harry should get it out of them,’ she pants. She sounds somewhere between proud and jealous. ‘He always does.’

‘Nosy, is he?’

‘He’s sort of brilliant,’ Girl Ginger smiles. ‘But if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll kick your teeth in.’

Ed smirks, resituating himself. ‘Let’s zee it zen, Freckles.’

Her smile widens and she flies at him with renewed vigour. 

It was Ed’s turn to cook yesterday, so Mother Weasley has breakfast ready by the time they come back in. After a quick shower, he’s put to work with the doxies, and that’s when he finally meets Harry Potter. 

The kid is short, with big round glasses that make him look smaller than he is. He’s thin, too, but there is an athleticism to his build that suggests some promise. Ed would put him more into endurance than power, though. More suited for agility than strength. He has brown skin, but it’s a tone that he could pass for Ishvalan with were it not for his clear green eyes and incredible bush of black hair. It’s even wilder than Granger’s, falling into his face to hide the lichtenberg scar slicing down the right side of it from his forehead. Unique as his appearance is, the first thing Ed thinks is, wow, this kid’s got some eyelashes on him. 

They size each other up. Ed gives him a nod and receives one back. They get to work, and no more is said. 

They make slow progress with the cleaning. Everything in this house seems eager to bite, sting, trap, or maim. On the upside, Ed finally has enough of the screaming woman and just transmutes the wall behind her. He’s been stopping himself since someone told him it was Ex-Con’s mother, but seriously, the bitch is a nightmare! Fortunately, instead of being angry, Ex-Con leaps for joy and all but kisses Ed square on the mouth, running around and proclaiming himself free in a delighted jig. 

‘So that’s Alchemy,’ Father Weasley breathes, the only other person around. Ed is glad for it; he doesn’t want to answer Granger’s questions now.

Then there comes the day of Potter’s hearing. Everyone is up early for some reason. Both Heads of Weasley, Ex-Con, Lupin the shabby wolf-man, and Tonks the Shapeshifter (and boy, was that an introduction. Ed thought she was Envy) are all sitting around the table, conversing in hushed tones. Everyone’s dressed except Mother Weasley, who sits nursing a mug of tea in her quilted purple dressing gown. Girl Ginger won’t be up for a while now, either, so Ed has time for his run, but he elects to investigate the gathering instead. He says a soft good morning and makes for the coffee pot, but a few less-than-quiet gasps stop him. He turns to the small crowd and raises an eyebrow. He follows their eyes and… ah. His arm. He wears a tank top for his morning run, no gloves. He’s always back in time to change before anyone wakes. 

‘Fuck me, is that a muggle prosthetic?’ Ex-Con blurts. ‘Looks nothin’ like Moody’s.’

Ed scoffs. ‘I should hope not. Zis is ze finest automail money can buy. You von’t find better in all ze vorld. To compare it to zat old vet’s oversized shplinter iz to compare tin and titanium.’

Ex-Con snorts. He’s been all over the place lately: tense and gloomy, cooped up, snappish with Mother Weasley, clingy with the wolf-man, and every kind of emotional with the Potter boy. The shapeshifter snickers too. She has curly blonde hair today. 

‘He’d probably agree with you, except wood can’t be hacked,’ Wolf-man says. Ed likes Wolf-man. He’s one of the teachers that’s exchanged notes with Ed and told him a bit about the school. He has a soft voice to match the rest of him, even with the slight edge that speaks of one too many cigarettes. Even with his scars and angles and worn-to-shit clothes, he comes across soft. There’s a half-eaten chocolate bar beside his mug of tea. Ex-Con helps himself to it.

‘No vone controls zis arm except me. Only I and its maker know its compounds, its exact makeup. She made it special to be sure. Even among automail, it is one awf a kind. Her finest vork,’ he says proudly, flexing the fingers for extra effect. He knows he’s probably sparkling, but he can’t help it. He hasn’t seen her in ages, and his wife is awesome.

Ex-Con looks impressed. Shapeshifter looks teasing. Mother Weasley melts like butter, her eyes twinkling over at him. 

‘She must really be something special, Ed,’ she sighs encouragingly. Shapeshifter snickers again.

‘When ya gonna ask ‘er out? Do I hear weddin’ bells?’ 

‘No,’ Ed frowns. ‘If you are hearing bells, you should check your ears. And vhy vould I– vhat does zat mean, ‘ask out’?’

Ex-Con leans forward, mouth full of chocolate, slipping an arm around Wolf-Man. ‘It means, y’know. On a date. When ya gonna make a move?’

‘Court her?’ Ed clarifies. The wolf-man tilts his head in relative confirmation. ‘Vhy vould I need to court my vife?’

Ex-Con squawks and throws himself up and around the table, scrabbling for Ed’s hands. No ring. He turns them around a couple times like it might be hiding from him. 

‘No way! I totally pegged you for single. You ain’t got a ring!’ 

Ed shrugs, shaking him off. ‘Ve both vork vis our hands, awf course no ring. Ve used earrinks inshtead.’

Five sets of eyes flick up to his earring. Ed sips his coffee, unbothered. The Heads of Weasley look like they might congratulate him, and the shapeshifter looks surprised. Ex-Con clicks his tongue and goes back to sit with Wolf-Man. 

‘Anyvay, vhy are you all huddled up in ze kitchen at ass-o’clock in ze morning? Muttering to each ozer like ferrets, vhat are you doing?’

That settles the gloomy tension back over them quickly enough. Ex-Con withdraws his arm from Wolf-Man and glares at the table. Mother Weasley sighs worriedly. 

‘It’s Harry’s trial today,’ Father Weasley explains delicately. 

‘Ya?’ Ed drawls, a little confused. ‘I have studied your laws, zey cannot hold him. Zere vere multiple vitnesses, and no vone vas killed. Potter vas completely visin his rights to act in self-defenze. He is a figurehead in vizarding society, so ze fact zat zey haff publicly acknowledged his case visin a trial context relegates zem to going sru viz a legal, if not biased, hearing. Zat, coupled vis ze rights awf civilian minors here in England, means zat any charges zey shtick him vis vill not hold. Zis is a foolish, but not altogezer uncharacteristic show of ill-advised desperation on ze Minister’s part, nozing more.’

‘I suspect you’re right,’ Wolf-man says, ‘but we can only hope.’

‘Zis still does not explain vhy you are all up. Muder Veasley, maybe I understand, and Black, and zen maybe you are here to support Black,’ he tips his mug at Wolf-Man, ‘but ze rest awf you? It’s not even five.’

‘We thought we ought to get going early,’ Father Weasley explains. 

‘Surely you’re not all going?’

‘I’ll be taking Harry in with me, since I have to go in to work anyway.’

Right. That’s fair enough, though Ed doesn’t see why the boy can’t just go himself. Then again, this is the boy they’ve been wasting half their resources guarding for no damn reason all summer. Really, can kids not look after themselves in England? Well, not with mothers like Weasley, he supposes. 

Ed goes off on his run, and Father Weasley is gone when he gets back. Mother Weasley keeps readjusting her dressing gown with a supremely perturbed expression on her face and huffing. Ex-Con stalks everywhere. Honestly, the boy will be fine, Ed’s sure.

And when he does, the whole house acts like Yule’s come early. It was inevitable, really, but Ed finds himself smiling along anyway. 

After that, the responsibilities of his actual undercover job start buckling down on him. Ed does yet more research to decide on a textbook– because apparently each class has to follow only one book– for his class. That’s absurd. You can’t learn alchemy from one book, and all the wizard books are rubbish anyway. He sends for some Amestrian ones and just decides to use as many as he likes off the record. 

Once the book lists come out, there’s a party. Apparently Boy Ginger and Granger have been made prefects, which is a certain level of leadership over the other students. They try to stay modest about it for Potter’s sake, but Ed can tell they’re pretty pleased. Boy Ginger even gets a new broom out of it, which is supposed to be something special. 

Quite a few people actually show up. It’s the liveliest and happiest the house has been all summer. Ed meets even more people. Beardy’s conspicuously absent yet again, and Ed’s starting to suspect the man just doesn’t like it here.

Ed keeps an eye on Potter through the whole thing. It’s honestly hard to keep up with him; the kid’s mood swings so fast Ed just about gets whiplash. Then the old vet Moody has a talk with him over a picture, and the kid adopts a noticeably sick countenance. He all but flees the scene. Ed looks around one last time at the festivities and follows. Normally, he’d let the kid figure himself out, but… ahh, maybe he’s getting soft himself. It’s been a long time since he’s seen kids with real innocence of any measure, and there’s the slightest chance he can help them retain that, so he’ll try. Besides, having an in with Potter might prove handy. Everything seems to revolve around him, after all, and Girl Ginger said he tends to know things.

This is when things go to shit. As things always do when Ed tries to do the right thing.

Both he and Potter stop dead at the sound of hysterical sobbing on the second landing. Ed remembers there being talk of a creature in the room it’s issuing from. He’s quick to pull Potter back by the collar and insert himself between the boy and the scene, which he takes in now. 

Mother Weasley is curled into herself on the floor, weeping uncontrollably. Before her is the fresh corpse of her youngest boy. Ed can see no signs of violence, no blood or broken bone, but the boy is undeniably dead, as cold and pale as stone. His body is the kind of still one only sees in dead things. There is no soul left. He’s gone. 

And yet, Ed just saw the boy alive and well downstairs. 

This is a magic thing. That doesn’t mean the boy isn’t dead, it just means Ed can’t trust what his senses are telling him with any degree of certainty. This could be an illusion, or the boy downstairs could be. Either way, this is an infiltration; an attack. Ed can be sure of nothing, except that there is a threat present. 

He moves quickly, pulling Mother Weasley back from the thing and hoping she is not part of the illusion. But the moment he sets himself before her, bringing him closer to the pseudo-corpse than her herself, the situation changes. Ed watches as the body folds into itself in unlikely ways, more like fabric or paper than flesh. Its mass varies, which sends a strike of terror through Ed despite his awareness of transfiguration. It’s just not right. Everything in his body and soul rejects it on principle. 

The form starts to unfold into something new, and Ed goes utterly cold. 

It’s just as Ed remembers it. There is no humanity in its position, the limbs protruding unnaturally from uneven masses of blackened flesh. An elbow snapped back the wrong way, flailing weakly out from half a pelvis. A broken, shrivelled neck, a poor attempt at skin half-grafted to the bone, and clumps of hair swimming in the growing pool of blood. Ed watches the organs try to work around the protruding ribs, the spine half-stuck through the liver, the intestines tangled in the pile of viscera. He watches the heart struggle to beat, the lungs rattle with a horrible, thin sound like rotten paper. One spidery limb falls with a wet splat, and it can’t be, but it looks like it’s reaching out to him. It knows he’s here. It knows what he did. It’s looking at him.

The mangled jaw unhinges, and Ed catches sight of the few teeth unevenly mashed into the general area; the roof of the mouth, the nose, the tongue. They’re a glaring yellow against the black flesh. And when a curl of hot breath Ed’s been trying not to feel on his collar for over a decade now peels out from that abyssal maw, his body fails him. It won’t even help him get away. He can’t move. He can’t speak. The world crumbles away, and Ed feels with certainty that he’s going to be swallowed whole by his sins as keenly as he feels the incomprehensible terror of that truth. And still, he can’t move.

And that is when he sees the actual horror. Because burrowed in amongst those horrid teeth, are familiar silver rings. And just to confirm it, smashed haphazardly into the cheek, one gold one. To match his eyes. 

Then it all disappears. The blood, the hair, the bones, they’re all gone with a CRACK . Vaguely, Ed registers shouting. Shuffling. Someone moves him out of the room. Ed fights through the haze. He needs to stay alert. There’s a threat. Illusions– a psychological attack. Focus, Elric!

‘What was that, that was– what–’ he gulps and takes a few breaths, trying to bring himself back to English. He needs to be able to communicate.

‘It was a boggart. Just a boggart, lad,’ the old vet rumbles, passing Ed off to the wolf-man. Wolf-Man grips him by the shoulders reassuringly. His voice is much more calming.

‘It turns into whatever you fear most. It’s only illusory magic, it isn’t real. They’re generally harmless. You with me, Ed? It wasn’t real.’

Ed heaves in a great breath, taking far too long to mentally translate the words. Not real. Not real. ‘Is it dead?’

‘It’s gone, Moody handled it. It’s been dispersed, it won’t regenerate.’

‘Are zere ozers?’

‘No, that was the only one.’

‘Okay… okay…’ Ed nods breathlessly. He forces his hand out of petrification to pat the wolf-man’s hand, both in gratitude and assurance that he’s alright. Wolf-man hesitantly lets go. Ed can feel his worried gaze, but only peripherally, in the same muted way he’s aware that there are a lot more people around all of a sudden and they’re all watching him too. Father Weasley is supporting his wife, speaking to her in hushed tones. The children are here. Ed hopes they didn’t see… 

‘Don’t worry mate, we’ll clean up here,’ comes Ex-Con’s rough drawl. It’s strange to hear it so soft when he’s not addressing Potter. Ed dazedly drags his gaze over to the man, who’s giving him an unquantifiable look. ‘Think this warrants turnin’ in early.’

For once, Ed takes the dismissal gratefully. He’s grateful again when no one moves to escort him to his room like he’s an invalid. He mutters something that hopefully gets this across and all but throws himself down the corridor in the direction of solitude. 

Yes, Ed decides, this is by far the worst thing Mustang’s ever done to him.