The Deal

Edward’s excitement never waned.

Izumi couldn’t help but smirk each time she saw his eyes light up at a new prospect - merging magic and alchemy to create unheard-of advancements on things like border patrol, long-range weapons, and agricultural development to name a few. Alphonse seemed interested purely in knowledge, but she wondered at his questions related to the medical field. His inquiries tended to lean toward the effects of magic on the body, and his little girlfriend popped up in her mind every now and then when he got particularly animated.

After they’d confirmed that all Pillars had access to magic, Izumi sat back to watch the boys hash out ways of bringing magic to Amestris, and in turn, the rest of their world. Mustang sat back in his own seat, eyes dark and brooding in a way that she’d only heard about from Edward. If she had to hazard a guess, she’d say the man was thinking of his own ways of improving or restructuring Amestris.

What she’d seen at Hohenheim’s funeral - a haunted look into the flames, his face gaunt in the harsh light, and shoulders tight with an unnamed emotion - hinted that he was thinking of Ishval. Izumi couldn’t say she was surprised that he remained haunted. Ishval was a stain on the Amestrian name, a genocide that shouldn’t have happened, and one of the men responsible for a good portion of those deaths was sitting in the chair next to her. She imagined that magic opened up a lot of possibilities for the reformation of the war-torn land.

She could imagine the fields in the East growing in crops, too, her little home of Resembool gaining farmers and even a school. There was a lot to look forward to if Mustang was really going to work on fixing wrongs. Not that it really changed much - too much had happened.

Izumi didn’t trust Roy Mustang, she mused, deliberating on where they all were and their next steps forward. He was a dog of the military and had pulled these two boys into the same path, had destroyed countless homes and families, and didn’t seem to be slowing down in his ambitions to climb the ranks. His little Lieutenant followed his every move like a shadow, too, and that just wasn’t the position a woman should be in.

But she saw how Edward looked to him first, before even her. She saw how Alphonse clung to the man and reached for him as he would for Edward. She saw how his men had rallied around him when he showed up blind and staggering, smiting the God-like being that had risen from the depths of Amestris with what little power he had left.

For the sake of the future of Amestris and for her boys, Izumi would tolerate Roy Mustang. She even admitted to herself that she enjoyed his perverse mind when he wasn’t using it against those she cared for. After all, Edward might have gotten Alphonse’s body back without the military, but Mustang had guided him to search in some of the most desolate places. She could be mad that he’d indoctrinated the boy in the first place, but that didn’t take away from the fact that both of her boys were alive, whole, and had dominated in a coup against a corrupt tyranny.

So Izumi didn’t trust Mustang. She couldn’t help but like him despite it all.

As the boys were winding down in their questions, Mustang sat forward in his chair and Izumi braced herself for another overload of information. When Edward talked, he babbled with enthusiasm and emotion, thoughts stringing together to form tangent after tangent. Alphonse tended to speak softly, voice hesitant but growing the longer he explained his ideas and theories. Both boys tended to get distracted by the infinite possibilities of their musings.

Mustang spoke concisely, with a concrete goal, and pulled a lot of information from whomever he talked to in only a few words - though she'd seen him babble as well, recalling his animated questions at breakfast. It was refreshing to see that skill used on this old man who seemed to be more than just an old man.

“You mentioned that you might know who we are searching for,” he said candidly. Edward and Alphonse tapered off and sat forward, subconsciously imitating the man. Izumi didn't know if she was amused or resigned at the sight. 

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said patiently. She didn’t like Dumbledore; he had an air about him that screamed cagey and covert. It reminded her of the Amestrian military. “The being you described as a homunculus rising in power.”

Dumbledore stood from his desk - waving for them to stay seated when Alphonse hopped up to follow - and rounded the desk to pick up a floating pool of shallow liquid.

“This is a Pensieve,” he explained. He brought the bowl over and set it down slowly, face lit from the iridescent glow the liquid gave off. It hovered about five inches from the wood, spinning like two opposing magnets. “It allows one to view memories as if they are happening in real-time. It is a great way to find something you might have missed in the moment.”

“Is this another object that has permanent access to the immaterial plane?” Alphonse asked, eyes wide and face leaning in. Dumbledore lifted a hand to gently stop him from getting closer.

“Yes,” he agreed. “However it is not the object, such as the bowl, with permanent access. Indeed it is the potion that has been poured into this bowl that is magical. When one's face is close enough, the potion will dilute the pupils of their eyes very wide and saturate them. This activates something of a hallucinogenic effect, which allows one to view their memories.”

“Interesting,” Izumi said after a moment of absorbing silence. “I’ve experienced some interesting drugs before due to some matters that were out of my control. Does this . . . potion of yours cause any lasting effects?”

“Not at all,” Dumbledore smiled. “You will simply wake up as if you were never there to begin with.”

Izumi still wasn’t convinced it would be worth it to view whatever memory Dumbledore wished them to see, but she couldn’t find any reason to keep arguing besides her general feelings of discomfort. She looked at Mustang again, the only other adult in the room capable of possibly seeing every angle, and smirked when she saw him eyeing the ‘potion’ dubiously. It was nice to know she wasn’t the only one completely thrown.

“Very well,” she allowed, unable to find another reason to hesitate. “Do we view one at a time?”

“This is big enough for three,” Dumbledore said, motioning toward Mustang and herself to lean forward. Edward grumbled, the brat, but otherwise didn’t protest. Both boys watched as they leaned in.

When Izumi was close enough to see the whites of her eyes in her reflection, a tug in her gut was the only warning she had before her vision disappeared and she spiraled down, down, down.

///

“Where are we?” Roy asked.

They were standing in a courtyard, barren and covered in broken roads. It was reminiscent of Pendleton, a run-down military base that contained nothing but old rations and old guns, abandoned after the Ishvallan Massacre. The place had been booming before the war - a centralized hub that tugged and charted products back and forth to supply the front lines for seven years. This place had the same dusty look after it had been abandoned, with broken glass and trash scattered in holes from missing cobblestones. 

“We’re right outside of an orphanage,” Dumbledore explained. He waved his hand in a gesture to direct their attention upwards, where a dilapidated sign swung in a gentle breeze. It simply said Orphanage. “The being you call a homunculus is inside.”

“I see,” Roy said. "Please lead the way."

The orphanage was as dusty as it looked from the outside, dull in a grey-toned way. There were no spots of color besides the occasional toy he saw lying dirty in the corners. There were also no kids, but Roy did spot Dumbledore - a younger version of him, with a coat in tawny brown instead of soft grey robes - stride past them purposefully. The Dumbledore of the present - dubbed Albus in Roy's mind now - smiled at them genially and gestured for them to follow.

They rounded a corner into a hallway and walked past several doors with dilapidated numbers of 1A through 9A. One of the doors had what looked like a fist-sized hole in it. The next few doorways had no doors, and the rooms inside were barren and dusty. It wasn’t until they reached the end of the hallway, and in turn, the only door left, that they stopped.

The Dumbledore of the past knocked politely on the door, only for a young man with soulless eyes and chocolate brown hair to answer. Peering past the kid they noticed a single wardrobe and a desk against the back wall, facing a barred window. There was nothing outside, just a bright light that didn't cast any shadows.

“Hello, Tom,” Dumbledore said warmly. “It is nice to meet you. May I come in?”

The kid stepped back without a word, face expressionless, and watched Dumbledore cross the threshold warily. Roy and Izumi traded a look, and Roy was glad to see the same fear in hers. So far the kid was almost an exact replica of Pride.

Tom turned to stare out of his barred window while Dumbledore took that as an offer to look around his tiny room. There was a cot behind the door with a single blanket and pillow. The only toys looked to be seven rocks, laid out on the windowsill. Seven rocks for seven sins?

“Don’t,” Tom said unexpectedly, which made everyone but Albus startle. Dumbledore dropped the picture he was holding, turning to face the kid with innocent intent.

“The matron,” Albus started, drawing Roy and Izumi’s attention. “The matron claimed that the boy had presented nasty behavior, acting in such a way as to invite chaos and fear among his peers.”

“Are you the doctor?” Tom asked, turning from the window to sit in the little wooden chair before his desk, feet and elbows tucked stiffly. Dumbledore closed the door to the hallway, trapping them all inside the tiny room, and sat on the edge of the kid’s bed, now eye level with him.

“I am not a doctor,” Dumbledore explained. “I am a professor.”

“I don’t believe you,” Tom replied, tone still oddly empty of feeling. “She wants me looked at. They think I’m . . . different.”

“Well, perhaps they’re right,” Dumbledore stated earnestly.

“I’m not mad,” Tom dismissed, this time with the smallest inflection of something, almost frustration.

“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, derailing the kid, “is not a place for mad people. Hogwarts is a school.

“A school of magic.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Albus said, “I was there to enroll him, convince him to join. After the war with Grindelwald, our population had been dwindling. We needed as many new wizards and witches as possible to keep up with the economic disasters the war had plagued us with.”

Roy supposed it made sense. War was a profitable venture for most countries; decades of history taught him that much. It wasn’t so profitable for the losing side, unfortunately. He wasn’t sure how the structure of this world worked, but he did know that a drop in population caused many complications down the line. Namely, increased risk for abandonment among the elderly, a decline in military strength, less innovation, and a higher dependency on the workforce. The last issue was particularly troublesome since most people didn’t want to work until they died; rebellion could fester. 

“You can do things, can’t you, Tom?” Dumbledore of the past asked the kid after the pressing silence. “Things other children can’t.”

“I can make things move without touching them,” Tom admitted with his inflectionless voice. “I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me.

“I can make them hurt, if I want.”

The implications behind those words roused up memories of Kimblee, deranged and joyful in the midst of another’s agony - a true monster. This kid wasn't as animated, sure, but he could see a glint of something there, something that spoke to him the way Kimblee did.

“Who are you?” Tom asked again. Dumbledore sat back, eyes no longer welcoming but frigid, analyzing. It was a sight Roy was familiar with, one he'd given and received.

“I am like you, Tom,” Dumbledore finally said.

“If I could go back,” Albus interrupted. “I would not have said we were similar. I would not have drawn any parallels between those I call my peers, and Tom Riddle.”

“I’m different,” past Dumbledore went on earnestly.

“Prove it,” Tom challenged, voice sharpening from disinterest to . . . something that was hard to name. It went past interest.

The wardrobe behind Tom was suddenly on fire, and Roy stepped back, hands up and ready to snap. Izumi similarly was tense. None of the wizards, past or present, had moved. In the intense silence, the fire raged on, cackling happily and burrowing its way into the pages of a handful of books and clothes locked behind wooden doors.

Roy heard a clicking noise, then, as if someone were shaking a pot with a lid. The sound was coming from the wardrobe, and Dumbledore seemed just as keen to find out what it was as well, for he said, “I believe there’s something in your wardrobe that wants to get out, Tom.”

Without hesitation, Tom stood from his chair, strode across the room, and opened the still-burning wardrobe without a change in expression. A small metal box, elegantly molded, sat shaking in the middle of a torrent of flames. When Tom pulled it from the fire the wardrobe door swung shut on its own, and the flames died down until there was nothing left. The wardrobe looked the same as it did when they first arrived.

Quietly, Tom poured the contents of the box onto his bed beside Dumbledore. A yo-yo and what looked like a pocket knife settled into a fold of the blanket.

“Thievery is not tolerated at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore warned, voice finally broaching a sterner tone. “At Hogwarts, you’ll be taught not only how to use magic, but how to control it. You understand me?”

The silence then was loud, stifling. Despite the lack of emotion on Tom’s face, everyone in the room could read his discontent with the way Dumbledore was handling this situation. This was a kid who definitely didn’t like being told what to do.

Dumbledore stood with a sigh and gathered his satchel.

“Well, then, Tom,” he said. “I shall pick see you on the first of the term.” Without another word, he turned to stride out of the door.

Before he was able to cross the threshold, Tom blurted out, as if he was lonely, as if he needed to disclose this information because he knew, even then, that this was abnormal. Even by magic terms.

“I can talk to snakes, too,” he said, eyebrows furrowing. “They find me. Whisper things. Is that normal for someone like me?”

Before they could get the answer, the very fabric of the reality they were standing in rippled and poofed into cloud-like ink in water. A brief tug on the navel, and Roy, Izumi, and Dumbledore hurtled upwards and out.

They all pulled away from the liquid with a gasp as if rising out of the ocean. Miraculously there was no wet hair or cloth, and beyond the slight breathlessness, Roy did not feel like he had been waterboarded. Edward and Alphonse were on the edge of their seats, eyes wide while they watched the adults reorient themselves.

Roy sat back in his seat, mind whirring.

“When he asked about talking to snakes?” Izumi asked after a long, thought-absorbing silence.

“Ah, yes, parseltongue,” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a hereditary trait, and a rather heavily stigmatized one at that. You see, the bloodline that holds this trait belongs to one of the founding members of this school, and in turn, represents the blood purity of wizardkind.”

Dumbledore stood to begin pacing behind his desk, robed hands waving to exacerbate his point. Roy smirked, having been in those shoes more than once. He recalled Edward going on a similar type of rant multiple times in the past, as well. It seemed some things were universal.

“Blood purity,” he repeated. Another war driven by a desire for control, masquerading as justice towards the other.

“Yes, the very thinking that is keeping our population from booming,” Dumbledore affirmed, frustration leaking through his voice, animated in a way he hadn’t been in the depths of Tom’s orphanage. “We are stuck in the past, with old money in control of the economy. Our ministry is saturated with a prejudiced view of those with magic born from those without. The enemy, your homunculus, has used hate to spread an agenda. That agenda being: muggles are filth, and so are muggle-borns.”

Edward scoffed quietly and Alphonse nudged his shoulder, frowning at his lack of manners. Edward rolled his eyes at him, leaning forward to look at Dumbledore dubiously.

“So it’s another hate war. We can deal with that. If it’s spread to your government, then we definitely can’t use them to help us catch the homunculus,” he reasoned. “Do you know where it is?”

“No,” Dumbledore admitted. “But I do have suspicions. Once I indoctrinate you all into the Order, we can converse more about courses of action.”

“Just taking down the homunculus won’t be enough,” Roy said. “You’ll have to purge your ministry.”

“I’m sure we can cross that bridge when we get to it,” Dumbledore started. Roy interrupted.

“No, this type of conversation needs to happen while making the plans. It's how we’ll be able to win in every absolute way with one fell swoop,” he said firmly, voice steady and strong as if he was talking to his men. Confidence in what you said won arguments more than even facts sometimes. “Winning everything at once is both the easiest and hardest way to win a war, but it is the most efficient at preventing another breaking out. Plans for every avenue need to be explored.”

“I do believe you will have a great time with the Ministry’s head auror, Mr. Shacklebolt,” Dumbledore said politely, and Roy felt his opinion of Dumbledore shift with that single sentence.

Polite, and a complete deflection and acknowledgment of Roy’s words. Political move, and something Roy wasn’t accounting for in an old man who claimed to be ‘but a simple professor and headmaster of a modest school.’ A simple headmaster, directly in contact with future generations for hundreds of miles; definitely a political seat. He likened it to the military academy’s Lieutenant General Phillip Armstrong, now retired. A superintendent, who needed to be educated, high-ranking, and politically smart enough to get the role.

Dumbledore was now Roy’s Queen or one of his biggest adversaries. He would do what he could to predict his every move and influence them to better reach the goal of total domination, or Roy would remove him. Not without cataloging the cost of loss, mind you.

“Yes, I would very much like to speak to someone who can understand why it is important to look at every avenue,” Roy said dryly, directly acknowledging the headmaster’s remark. The man’s eyes twinkled back at him in amusement. Roy still didn’t know if he was faking it, but time would tell.

“Yeah, yeah,” Edward interrupted. Alphonse sighed loudly next to him at his brother's complete lack of care for propriety. “Come on, can we get some books before term starts?”

“Yeah,” his brother perked up. “Please? We need to know what we’re getting into.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore chuckled. “I'd like you to stay out of the library until term starts, but this will be a good opportunity to see Diagon Alley. I think you might enjoy it.”