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Chapter Text

Filius is the first to notice the additional chair next to the headmaster’s seat in the Great Hall. It can’t be another ministry official, they always get a notice at least 24 hours in advance for those, and so he’s curious. A consultant for the tournament, perhaps. Minerva raises an eyebrow and Alastor looks even more bad-tempered than usual, but neither of them says anything as the staff and students file in.

Albus is late enough to dinner that Madame Maxime even remarks on it—some haughty sniff about English manners—and when he finally enters the Great Hall, there’s a round-faced young man at his side. This must be the mystery guest.

“I hope you don’t mind, Minerva,” Albus is clearly speaking to the table at large. “Roy and I got carried away with our meeting, and I invited him to stay for dinner. We’re having a fascinating conversation.”

“Apologies for monopolizing your headmaster,” the man grins sheepishly.

“This is Roy Mustang,” Albus preempts what’s sure to be a buzz of questions. “He’s flattered me by asking for my help on a project of his, so you might see him around for the next few months. Now, Roy, may I introduce you to our marvelous staff at Hogwarts—Minerva here is our Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration professor…”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mustang,” she offers a handshake and a curt nod. Introductions are done around the table; Filius notices that Roy is wearing oddly rough white gloves, and the poor man looks almost overwhelmed by the number of new names and faces, not to mention the scrutiny from the other headmasters. They ease off and leave him to Albus and Minerva at first.

“—and well, who am I to deny alchemical talent?”

“You’re an alchemist?”

It’s the first line Severus has spoken all evening, the harsh line of his brow smoothing somewhat. At the discovery that the new chap isn’t after the Defense Against the Dark Arts post, no doubt.

“I am,” Roy smiles proudly. It’s certainly been a while since Hogwarts hosted an alchemist—Filius remembers taking the course when he was in school, but there hasn’t been a professor for the subject in well over twenty years. It’s not exactly a thriving field, fine for a hobby but rarely enough to make a career out of.

Minerva is one such hobbyist, and she’s engaged Roy in conversation about his own introduction to it.

“I was a very curious child. Thankfully, my household encouraged such things, and I was able to start private studies with a master when I was a boy. I went to the academy of course, but by the time I graduated I’d decided to pursue alchemy professionally. I didn’t expect to travel this much for it, but I can’t complain.”

If Roy’s easy confidence and relative youth hinted at a comfortable background, his mention of private tutors and career aspirations confirm it. But he doesn’t seem like the usual armchair scholars that normally pass through Hogwarts on flights of fancy. For one, he’s actually letting other people get a word in.

Dessert appears, but Roy seems finished, pushing back his plate and pouring himself a small black coffee. Filius takes advantage of the lull in conversation to finally address the other man.

“So Mr. Mustang, if you don’t mind me asking, what school of alchemy do you follow? I know the continent prizes Jabir ibn Hayyan, but when I was in school Verdan the III was the recognized theorist.”

“Oh, I work exclusively with transmutation arrays, actually. I leave the other branches to people with a better grasp of potions.”

“Just as well,” Charity chimes in. “The field has stagnated in Britain and muggles have matched our early alchemists by now.”

Roy brightens, turning to her with a gleam in his eye.

“Oh, I’d say it’s more than that. Have you kept up with advances in chemistry? I’ve only skimmed so far, but the current work on molecular mechanics really—” he trails off with a nervous laugh at Charity’s lost expression. “Sorry, sorry, I bring work home too much, don’t I?”

Clearly charmed, Charity waves him off and switches the topic to Roy’s clear familiarity with the muggle world. He admits he’s spent the last few weeks in muggle London in order to be closer to the British Library.

“—then I hit a wall and wrote to Headmaster Dumbledore for help, lucky for me he was amenable,” he finishes good-naturedly.

Luck, or something else. Albus is certainly encouraging of scholars, but he’s also the busiest Filius has seen him since You-Know-Who was at large. For him to welcome this researcher into Hogwarts for the foreseeable future, Roy’s project must be of some use.

Not many would guess it by looking at him, but Filius is a champion duelist. His skills were honed first at Hogwarts, where he founded the first inter-house dueling club, and later during the war. It’s not something he can turn off, which is why he can’t help but notice several things. Roy has kept up a steady stream of chatter, but not once has he divulged where he’s from. From the moment he strode in, to the current moment where the man is sipping coffee, his back has remained straight and his stance is coiled, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. He also hasn’t removed his gloves. It’s definitely odd.

Regardless, Albus is a good judge of character. Time (and legilimency) have ensured that much, so if he’s welcoming Roy to the castle, then Filius will do the same.

Chapter Text

The polite young alchemist at the table looks harmless enough, but Igor wouldn’t have survived this long if he couldn’t recognize his own kind. While the man looks for all the world like a postgraduate student enjoying a gap year before settling down into an office job, he knows that's far from the truth.

His eyes are too sharp, and he’s too careful about where he places his hands.

It would have unnerved him once, the thought of looking at a boy with suspicion. But he’s seen too much in his life to go around underestimating anyone now. The English expression takes one to know one floats in his mind.

The question isn’t whether Roy Mustang is dangerous, it’s whether he’s dangerous to him. The accent isn’t one he recognizes from the continent, where wizards of all nationalities tend to mingle far more freely than in the British Isles. That, coupled with his age, should rule him out as someone with a grudge from the last war. However…Alastor Moody isn’t bothering to disguise his suspicious glare, so he could still hold ties to that world. The son of any of the number of Igor’s former comrades, or a distant branch of their families…

No matter. Dumbledore has indicated that the man will likely be a recurring visitor for his unspecified alchemy project, so he’ll simply have to keep an eye on him.

It’s not hard to get reports on Mustang’s comings and goings in the library. His students know better than to bother him with questions about why, they simply do as they’re told.

“He was in the muggle studies section, but all his books were from magical theory or transfiguration,” Poliakoff says. “I think he must have a special permission, the librarian did not usher him out for curfew like she did with us.”

An alchemist studying theory is no surprise, the field is nothing but boring speculative essays nowadays, but then why would he feel compelled to hide his reading material?

“He often studies with one of Potter’s friends. The brown-haired girl,” Viktor says some weeks later, looking vaguely disquieted. He can relate. Is this a way for Mustang to glean information on Harry Potter? Or perhaps on Hogwarts more generally? Or perhaps Viktor is simply unhappy to be missing out on time with the girl—he hasn’t forgotten the scandal of his star pupil bringing a muggle-born partner to the Yule Ball, but he really expected the boy to have moved on by now.

Nothing so far indicates that Mustang bears him any ill-will, or any will at all. They’ve barely exchanged names. And yet, with the mark growing clearer by the day and the alchemist one of the few new factors in recent months, he has to be wary.

Roy Mustang likes to be liked, that much is obvious by how he’s flattering Maxime while diffusing tensions with the English minister. Igor can respect his acting skills, at the very least.

Or maybe not. The man leaps to his feet like a foolhardy Gryffindor at the first sound of screams coming from the maze. Dumbledore actually has to reign him in. Most unseemly.

Although, the incident is yet another incongruity in the man’s cover story—because that’s undoubtedly what it is—of being an alchemist. He seems to be researching everything but alchemy, conspiring with Hogwarts students, carefully charming everyone while getting close to no one, and his instinctive move to interfere just now points to someone versed in combat magic or at the very least curse-breaking, not the ivory tower of academia.

Viktor is eliminated from the competition. Not ten minutes later, he feels the mark burn, and all previous curiosities become irrelevant.

Chapter Text

Tonks has known Roy Mustang for possibly five minutes. All she knows is that he’s young, foreign, and an alchemist who can create the Philosopher’s Stone, the latter of which has landed him squarely in You-Know-Who’s sights and subsequently the Order’s protection. It’s a little intimidating.

Then he interrupts an Order meeting to comment on her hair, and it becomes obvious that for all his knowledge, he’s just a dork.

“How do you do that?” he’s good at hiding his surprise, but she still reads shock in the tense line of his shoulders.

“I’m a metamorphmagus?” she raises an eyebrow, changing it to purple for the sake of matching. “Don’t they have those where you’re from?”

“Sorry, we do, it’s just…I thought they were really rare. Are they more common in Britain?”

“Not really, I’m the only one I know.”

“That’s amazing,” he breathes. Dumbledore is smiling at them indulgently, but he’s the only one, so they both tune back into the meeting. Mustang flashes her an apologetic grin, and once they’re adjourned, he approaches her.

“Miss Tonks…”

“Just Tonks,” she snaps more curtly than she meant to, but he doesn’t look bothered.

“Tonks it is. I was actually hoping, since you’re an auror and clearly suited for undercover work, that you’d consider a quick bodyguard mission. I want to go to Diagon Alley ahead of the new term, but with Voldemort’s interest in me…”

“Of course!” she barely restrains a flinch at the name, but figures Roy doesn’t know any better, not being native to Britain and all. “You’ll be in good hands.”

“Thank you,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I really didn’t want to have to ask Alastor.”

She laughs, and that’s that. Dumbledore is frowning at Roy, but he doesn’t say anything, so she figures it’s fine. And then Molly finds out.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea is all,” she wrings her hands nervously after she’s cornered Tonks during another deep cleaning session of Grimmauld Place. “Not that you don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s a big risk for Roy to go wandering off right now when every Death Eater knows his face.”

“He won’t be wandering, Molly, it’ll be a quick trip to pick up essentials for the new term. We won’t be going anywhere outside of Diagon Alley, nowhere that a Death Eater could approach us without blowing their cover in front of dozens of people,” she soothes.

“Still, it’s a lot to risk for new robes. Say you do get into a duel—you can more than handle yourself against a single Death Eater but if they have a partner, then what? We’re supposed to be protecting the man, not throwing him to the wolves.”

“I’m sure Roy can…” she trails off, realizing that an alchemy scholar is likely to be as useful as a squib in a fight. “Apparate away,” she finishes.

“That’s just it, the dear can’t even apparate!” Molly throws her hands up.

“Oh.”

Roy’s pretty fun, she admits to herself halfway through their not-date. But Merlin, he’s a dork. If he’s going to stick around, she might have to teach him a few self-defense hexes. And some other stuff.

"You don't know the jelly-legs jinx? Did you grow up in a monastery?"

He laughs.

"Far from it, but I was always caught up in alchemy. I hardly made time to eat most days."

"Well, if we're going to be friends, prank spells are absolutely required. Next you'll be telling me you never cast a trip jinx."

"You said it, not me."

"How are you real—"

Chapter Text

“I’m telling you, it was working earlier—”

“I’m telling you, we shouldn’t have stretched it that far, two meters is the best we can get without losing transmission—”

“Well it’s not like there was anywhere to stand two meters from the bloody door—”

“As fascinating as your extendable ears are, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley, I'd advise you not to discount your actual senses,” comes a voice from behind them on the staircase, and the twins turn in unison, excuses already forming.

It’s a dark-haired bloke who looks barely out of Hogwarts, and he’s holding the severed end of their extendable ear.

“Who’re you?” Fred says suspiciously.

“So you didn’t catch the entire conversation downstairs? Good,” the man smiles. “The name’s Roy Mustang, and you must be the twins Molly’s warned me about.”

“How did you even find it?” George sulks.

“Do keep in mind that Alastor’s eye never rests, he saw you leaning over the banister directly above our meeting room and acted accordingly. Fortunately for you, he held no interest in telling your mother,” and at that, the twins breathe a sigh of relief. “But I certainly should. I’m sure she raised you better than to spy on a household where you’re the guest.”

Mustang’s tone is the deliberate lightness they know well. He’s blackmailing them, even pausing dramatically to let them stew.

“I want a set of these, and I want the next iteration once you figure out how to extend the range,” Mustang says simply. It’s not what they were expecting, but they recover quickly.

“Well well, I never, and a member of the Order of the Phoenix at that—”

“Now what use would a fine upstanding citizen have for these?”

“You don’t like the offer, don’t take it,” Mustang shrugs, making his way down the steps.

“Did we say that, George?”

“Don’t think we did, Fred. We were just remarking—”

“The difference from our normal clientele—”

“But business is business after all. One pair of extendable ears, coming up!”

Mustang pockets the set and glances back at them thoughtfully.

“The meeting wasn’t anything major, guard rotations mostly. Your parents and siblings are not among the options we discussed.”

It’s an odd feeling, shock and relief at once.

“Why would you—”

“As much as I agree in theory that war is no place for children, wars also tend to be long and you won’t be children forever. I’m telling you this so you can rest easier knowing your family is as safe as they can be, and focus on your own skills. Inventions like this can help a war effort more than you know. The Order has insisted that none of you be brought in yet, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take steps to be ready for when you are allowed into the fight, if it comes to that.”

That’s new. George even blushes. People tend not to take them seriously—not that they particularly want to be taken seriously, but these inventions aren’t easy dammit and it’s nice to get a little respect—so it’s a pleasant surprise to get a compliment like that from an Order member.

He leaves with a casual reminder that their mother is headed upstairs to inspect their work in cleaning the library. Barely a week later, they get a letter from Hogwarts informing them that Professor Roy Mustang will be teaching an alchemy class, of all things, and they only need to share a glance to know that they’ll both be signing up.

Chapter Text

Dolores is immediately suspicious of the new alchemy professor at Hogwarts—a useless art, and taught by a man who was reportedly at Dumbledore’s side for half the year prior? The only thing stopping the Ministry from denying the course is the pesky fact that they don’t technically have that authority yet, as well as the positive responses from nearly all of the pureblood families in good standing. They certainly seem to approve of the return to one of the classics, with Lucius Malfoy even remarking that his son is taking the subject.

So she has to let this farce continue, at least until the Board of Governors is reshuffled and certain decrees fall into place.

She arrives at Hogwarts with only a few hours to spare before the sorting, and immediately promises herself that a room upgrade will be her first priority once her High Inquisitor post is confirmed. At least Hogwarts has plenty of house elves available.

Soon, she’s sitting at the staff table, taking these last peaceful moments before students pour in as an opportunity to scope out her new colleagues. Severus, she’s been assured, is on their side, but she can expect a frosty reception since the man is notorious for trying for the defense post every year. Minerva McGonagall is as unflappable and subtly hostile as ever, but she’s also the country’s leading figure in transfiguration and arguably the only reason Hogwarts remains ahead of Durmstrang in international academic rankings. She won’t be able to find fault with such a prominent professor without scores of parents and influential alumni complaining. Rolanda Hooch is similarly untouchable due to the sheer fervor of quidditch fans across Britain. The rest, however...at least the half-giant is nowhere to be seen.

Her eyes land on an unfamiliar figure, certainly not a part of the Hogwarts staff files. The man is young, almost baby-faced, with dark eyes and hair. He’s listening attentively as Charity Burbage recounts how many house points are typically acceptable to dock or award in class, and she notes that he’s wearing white gloves.

That’s Roy Mustang?

He’s certainly younger than she was expecting, maybe twenty-five at most. The dark grey robes are probably meant to make him look older and more serious, but it’s a wasted effort. Some of her suspicion ebbs away—scholars aren’t usually into politics, young people even less so, and his blithe acceptance of her start-of-term speech that evening bodes well. The minute Dumbledore officially starts the welcome feast, she pounces.

“Now, I know most of the faces here, and look forward to working closely with you all! But I don’t believe I’ve met this young man here,” she puts him on the spot, but instead of looking embarrassed he only smiles.

“Professor Roy Mustang, ma’am. Alchemy,” he tacks on, extending a hand for her to shake. She does, noting the slight accent immediately. That explains the lack of Ministry records on the man. But Minerva interrupts before she can so much as ask him where he’s from.

“That reminds me, Roy, you wanted a list of class vacancies in case any students drop your course. Divination, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures still have plenty of seats left, but do remember that Septima won’t take students later than two weeks into term.”

“They won’t be able to catch up otherwise. I’m certainly not going to take extra class time for latecomers,” Septima Vector drawls.

After that, conversation picks up among the students and staff alike, and the seating arrangements don’t give her a chance to talk to Mustang again unless she wants to raise her voice. No matter, she has plenty of time.

By the end of the first week, she’s surprised to see that three students have already dropped out of alchemy. But, she supposes, there’s really little point in taking such a course unless one is aiming for an academic career. All of those students switched into Divination, however, and she’s less happy about that.

It takes only two weeks for the last resistance on the Board of Governors to crumble—and on Monday she’s pleased to see that the piece on her new position has made the front page of the Prophet. What’s more, it looks like Flitwick and Grubbly-Plank have received her notices about class inspections. Mustang, when she glances at him, is tearing off a corner of the newspaper to mark his place in a dense alchemical text as he turns to his breakfast.

She decides to leave her inspection of alchemy for another week.

On Thursday, Roy Mustang receives his notice of inspection and seems to shrug it off. That just won’t do; as a new professor, she fully expected him to be nervous about his first trial by fire. The man is too serene—it might simply be the single-minded focus of someone who spends most of their time researching, but it also makes him hard to read. She heads to the classroom fully intent on obtaining a reaction one way or another.

“Put everything except your quills away. As I said last class, you have twenty minutes to answer the questions.”

Now that’s different. According to Mustang, he’s exclusively focusing on alchemical theory for the moment. That, she can certainly approve of. But she still needs something substantial for her report.

“So, Professor Mustang, I understand this is your first year at Hogwarts, is that correct?”

“Yes, I’ve just started,” his eyes are on the students, no doubt watching for any attempts at cheating.

“And how did you come by the position? There has been no alchemy class at Hogwarts in a few years.”

“I approached Professor Dumbledore a few months ago looking for some input on a project of mine—I am certain you are aware of his impressive reputation in the alchemical field—and after a few conversations he offered me the chance to teach at Hogwarts.”

“I see,” she carefully keeps any disapproval out of her voice. Dumbledore is admittedly one of the foremost figures in Western alchemy, and she’d be a fool to disagree publicly. “Have you ever taught before?”

“No, this is my first time.”

“I suppose you are a little young for a professor,” she says cuttingly, to no reaction. “How old are you, Professor Mustang?”

“Thirty.”

That gives her pause. Her first instinct is to assume the man’s lying, and certainly there are no documents to prove his claim, but there’s also nothing to gain by pretending to be older. Since the Ministry has no records of Mustang, he could have just as easily lied about his teaching career instead, tried to make it seem like he has actual experience being a professor.

“Would you mind demonstrating your alchemy?”

To her surprise once more, he agrees.

The resulting display is almost intimidating—Mustang draws a circle and adds on symbols she can’t even begin to guess the nature of with practiced movements, and transforms the entire classroom in a crackle of light. Transfiguring the same results would require multiple spells, and that’s not even touching the way he doesn’t even look ruffled, while she’s heard that transmutation arrays are physically draining for users.

There’s nothing exactly alarming to write to the Ministry about, but nonetheless, Dolores resolves to keep an eye on this one.

Chapter Text

This is probably the first time Pomona has seen Roy anywhere near the greenhouses—outside of classes, the poor dear regularly submerges himself in research, and more than once she’s passed through the library aisles to see him sitting cross-legged on the floor, books covering every surrounding surface. But this morning, he’s waiting for her outside of Greenhouse One with an expression of poorly-stifled nerves.

“Good morning Professor Spro—ah, Pomona,” he grins. “I was...well, wondering if I might call on your expertise.”

Honestly, Roy is so formal it’s endearing.

“Of course, that’s what I’m here for,” she unlocks the greenhouse with a tap of her wand and waves him inside. “What’s this about?”

To her surprise, he blushes.

“I’ll be seeing my…my girlfriend for the first time in a while and wanted to take her out to a nice dinner to make up for it. And I couldn't find a florist in Hogsmeade, so...”

“Oh, how sweet! Roses are traditional, but I also have a new batch of singing carnations about to bloom.”

“She likes roses,” he scratches the back of his head in faint embarrassment, as if he expects to be teased.

“Well, come to the back here and see if any shades catch your eye.”

Roy is appropriately awed by the greenhouse contents, seeming almost to forget his original purpose as he asks question after question. She can see why he decided to become a scholar. Finally, he settles on a few butterfly roses, and insists on paying for them.

“Nonsense, we’ll just put these in a statis charm and set them aside for your date, I won’t hear a word about payment.”

He looks remarkably like a student receiving house points for the first time.

“Thank you, really.”

The next day at breakfast, there’s a lovely crystal planter at her table setting, with only a scrap of parchment saying I won’t hear a word about payment.

Chapter Text

Dora never talks about work too much during her visits—Ted would get nervous hearing about her auror escapades, and while Andromeda knows her daughter is a brilliant witch, she still finds cause to worry as well. Which is why she’s blindsided when said daughter drops by to raid her closet.

“Need pink robes for tomorrow, doing a bodyguard mission.”

Well, she can hardly let that lie.

“Oh? Since when does Shacklebolt decide these kinds of details?”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Nymphadora snorts. “It’s a favor for a friend of Dumbledore’s. He’s starting as a professor and wants to go to Diagon Alley for supplies but there’s been some threats made against him, so I’m going with,” she pulls out a set of mauve tartan robes and makes a face. “Wow. It’s not the seventies anymore mum.”

“Still, I’m surprised you’re letting this man pick your robes.”

“He pointed out that it’ll be an easy way for him to find me if we get separated. Not a lot of people wear pink robes you know. That’s for a reason,” she holds up another set of robes—hot pink silk—with a pointed smirk.

“So it’s a fine shade for your hair but not my robes? Come now Dora…” she pouts teasingly, directing her daughter to a more agreeable shade of pastel pink.

“Ugh. Mustang owes me.” But she takes the robes.

“Well, Molly wasn’t happy about our supposed ‘risk-taking behavior.’ But it went fine, honestly. Roy was happy to be outside too, poor bloke. I don’t think Dumbledore’s really let him out of Hogwarts much since uh, the threats started.”

“You’d think he’d have a little more faith in his new defense professor.”

“Oh no, Roy’s not taking up the defense post. He’s teaching alchemy, the nerd.”

Andromeda doesn’t miss the fact that Mustang has now become Roy in Dora’s stories. She’s made some subtle inquiries (okay, so she’s flooed Molly Weasley) and found that this “friend of Dumbledore’s” is not an octogenarian as she’d originally assumed but rather a young alchemist starting his first-ever professorship.

She can’t help a spark of hope—for the last few months, her daughter has sounded fairly enamored with Remus Lupin, and a respectable scholar her own age could be a great distraction. She resolutely ignores the corner of her mind that laughs at the idea of Dora ever being interested in a respectable scholar.

Then Dora drops by in October asking whether she has any dress robes for a formal dinner.

“Roy’s taking Andrea out to Deverre on Friday, and I don’t think I’ve bought dress robes since Robards’ wedding last year…” she’s already making a beeline for the closet.

“Actually, what if we went shopping?”

“Really? Andrea doesn’t technically exist, mum. Plus, what if someone links you to—”

“Nymphadora Tonks, if you think you’re the only member of this family who can pull off a disguise…”

“Fine, fine. Please just don’t go overboard.”

“Of course not dear,” she hums.

They end up at Twillfit and Tattings, with only Dora’s dedication to not breaking cover keeping her from glaring at her mother as Andromeda pulls a canary yellow chiffon number from the rack, adding it to the pile in the assistant’s arms.

“You know Andrea, if you’re going to the trouble of new dress robes for this man, I feel like I should at least get to meet him.”

There’s a faint choking sound behind her. She graciously doesn’t turn to look.

“Mum! We’re not—”

“I really must insist. I’ve heard about him for the past few months, I’d say it’s getting pretty serious, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose…” Dora falls back into her role as Andrea—sweet and girlish, with a hint of embarrassment.

“I was serious about meeting this man you know,” she announces once they’re back home, three new sets of dress robes between them. “Call it meddling if you want.”

“As long as you don’t forget that he’s a friend, mum.”

Roy Mustang is charming, she has to admit.

She enters the room to him ribbing Dora good-naturedly, but he stands up at her entrance and doesn’t miss a beat when she presents a hand for him to kiss rather than shake.

“Oi, quit flattering my mum,” Dora snorts from the couch.

“You know I only have eyes for you, Andrea,” he smirks, easily dodging a kick aimed his way, and that’s when she sees it. He moves like someone with training, and it snaps Andromeda back into her own. She fought in the last war, they all did, but her main skillset has always been information.

They make some small talk over tea, and Andromeda has to tamp down on a sudden bout of nervousness. Old instincts take over and she scrutinizes the man over the rim of her cup. His wand is holstered, and that at least gives her a small sense of security. Her own is strapped to her arm, and one quick movement would have it dropping into her hand.

“So Roy, Dora says you’re an alchemist?”

“That’s right,” he says with a proud smile. He doesn’t elaborate.

“Have you been teaching long?” she asks, though she knows the answer.

“It’s my first time actually.”

“Oh? And how are you finding Hogwarts?”

“It’s certainly a change of pace from individual study,” he sets the teacup down and clasps his hands, the very picture of politeness. But he’s not rambling like most, and she’s got nothing to work with.

She’d grown up a member of the House of Black, and some things don’t go away just because you run away from home. Something about Roy Mustang puts her on edge, the same way she used to feel when around one of the many artefacts she wasn’t allowed to touch.

Thankfully, conversation is cut short as the pair head off to their dinner reservations.

She doesn’t say anything to Nymphadora—she can just hear her daughter laughingly comparing her to dear old Alastor—but she drops the subject of her dating Mustang. In fact, she’ll be rather glad when this whole bodyguard stint is over.

Even now, she can’t place his accent.

Chapter Text

Molly takes to Roy immediately; Arthur can just tell. The man is soft-spoken and polite, no trace of resentment about his circumstances. But he’s also shown no concern, and as the father of seven very rowdy children, Arthur already knows that Roy will be trouble.

The fact that Roy makes a beeline for Sirius after most meetings just proves his theory. But he can’t deny that their friendship has been good for the other man—there’s more and more glimpses of the old Sirius, a mischievous streak he’d previously only shown around Remus. And so, bit by bit, he relaxes. It helps that, according to Ginny’s letters, the twins are actually studying for the first time in living memory so that they can do well in alchemy. That just about cements Molly’s admiration for the young professor, and even Arthur is reluctantly impressed.

It’s not until Christmas that he actually has a conversation with the man, however. He’s released from St. Mungo’s on the last day of break, and Sirius breaks out the firewhiskey to celebrate. Roy smiles crookedly as he’s handed a glass, and tips it in Arthur’s direction in a silent toast.

“I do hope the healers have cleared you to drink,” he remarks.

“Well, that’s why Sirius has the bottle and I’ve only got a glass,” he shoots back.

He does manage to only have one glass of firewhiskey, but between Sirius, Remus, and (surprisingly) Roy, they soon bring out a better vintage.

Roy spins the bottle in his grip and pours a neat row of shots.

“Nice trick,” Sirius raises an eyebrow.

“Well, I used to bartend a bit when I was young.”

“Oi, quit talking like a veteran. You’re young now.”

“And I’m bartending, aren’t I?” Roy’s voice is deliberately light, but he really does have the air of a veteran then, something almost defeated in his artful slouch.

Arthur shakes it off as an effect of the firewhiskey—the healers haven’t actually cleared him to drink, so he has to watch himself.

Chapter Text

As much as he’s happy to be back at Hogwarts, Hagrid also isn’t feeling up to visitors just yet. The twinge in his back whenever he stoops has only gotten worse and some of his cuts have re-opened—healing charms are as blunted as other spells on him—so all he wants to do after that ruddy inspection is sleep.

But there’s knocking at his door, so he goes to answer it.

To his surprise, it’s Roy, bearing a small cloth-wrapped bundle.

“Sorry to drop in like this, but it’s not like Hogwarts has phones. May I come in?” the smaller man asks politely, and Hagrid waves him inside, curious.

“I brought you some painkillers. Madam Pomfrey mentioned that you’re healing the natural way, but there’s no need for you to be in pain during it.”

“A numbing draught don’t work right on me, yeh see, erm—”

“Not to worry, these are my own creation. If one doesn’t work, take another every twenty minutes or so until you feel the effects. Just don’t take them together all at once.”

It’s not a potion Roy brings out, but a glass jar of chalky white pills. Muggle medicine then.

“Er—thanks,” he says, reluctantly fascinated.

“Of course. We’re glad to have you back Hagrid, but don’t push yourself when you should be recovering.”

He huffs a small laugh as if nervous, and Hagrid supposes it is odd for the young professor to be scolding someone like this.

The pills do help, but with his regular visits to Grawp, healing is slow-going. One morning, his back doesn’t ache and he decides he’s finally fit to do his morning inspection of the grounds, which he hasn’t done all term. Dumbledore hasn’t pushed him to do it either, he thinks guiltily, letting him focus on his classes and his recovery, but he is still the groundskeeper.

“C’mere Fang, time fer a walk.”

That’s the boarhound’s favorite word, and he’s up with an excited bark.

Before he was a professor, this used to be his favorite part of the day. Just him and Fang in the early hours of the day, with the weak sunlight catching on morning dew and bathing the grounds in silver. He’d walk along the edges of the forest, keeping an eye out for any critters getting too close to the main grounds—the thestral herd is fed six times a day but a few of the cheekier foals like to go after birds now and then, and need to be trained out of it while they’re still young—and noting any areas in need of a touch-up where students have worn the grass away from picnicking or (more likely) small jinx skirmishes.

It’s calming work, and he’s nearly back home, mind occupied with thoughts of breakfast, when Fang suddenly gives an excited wiggle and darts off. Nothing new there; the overgrown puppy knows not to mess with any magical creatures, but he delights in chasing after squirrels. It’s the yelp that follows that gets his attention. Turning around, he sees his dog perched atop a very squashed-looking alchemy professor. With a chortle, he heads over and picks him up, tucking him under his arm rather than setting him on the ground so that Roy can get back on his feet.

“Well, I’ll count that as reflex training,” the man quips, brushing grass from his front, and that’s when Hagrid realizes he’s not in robes but rather a baggy long-sleeved shirt and soft pants, plus his usual gloves. Muggle clothes.

“Sorry ‘bout tha. Bundle o’ energy, he is.”

“Not a problem, I love dogs,” Roy grins, reaching up to give Fang a good ear-scratch. “I’m halfway through laps, you’re welcome to join.”

“Laps?”

“I’m either lecturing or in the library most of the day,” he gives a self-deprecating laugh. “It leaves me feeling a bit like Fang, I need to move around.”

“Yeh haven’t tried the quidditch pitch? Staff can rent out the brooms an’ all.”

“Mm, so Madam Hooch has mentioned. But I prefer to keep my feet on the ground.”

That, he can understand. Standard brooms can’t support him, so the only times he’s flown have been either on thestrals or on Sirius’ deathtrap of a bike, and the experience still leaves him a bit queasy. There’s still plenty of time before his first class of the day, so he sets Fang back down and half-jogs alongside the other two in companionable silence. Eventually, Roy must reach his number of laps, because he slows his pace for a few minutes and then comes to a stop. Fang gets another head scratch, they part ways, and that’s that.

Only. He finds himself joining Roy on his runs every now and then. It’s not really any strain for him, since all he needs to do is walk slightly faster than usual, but Fang certainly appreciates the exercise.

It’s nice, peaceful even. Grawp is coming round, but he can still be tetchy some days. Umbridge hasn’t let up with her class inspections, and even his groundskeeping duties are starting to be scrutinized, so now more than ever, he appreciates his early morning routine.

When Dumbledore goes on the run, he knows it won’t be long until he has to do the same. Still, their sporadic runs continue when Hagrid’s duties permit it. Roy looks progressively more exhausted, and he wonders if the man regrets coming to Hogwarts. He only wanted help on an alchemy project, but now he’s in danger from Death Eaters, facing a bureaucrat on a power trip, and Dumbledore himself is in the wind. But despite their interactions over the past several weeks, he doesn’t know Roy well enough to ask him something so personal.

He’s not expecting the aurors. Seeing them turn their wands on Minerva has him seeing red, and he has half a mind to stay and fight Umbridge herself, but reason wins out and he takes off with Fang for an Order safehouse that had been set aside specifically for something like this.

The first couple of days are hard. He’s told that Minerva is recovering at St. Mungo’s, but that’s the extent of the news. He hasn’t told the rest of the Order about Grawp, so he can only hope that Harry and Hermoine are taking care of him. Fang is clearly unhappy about being stuck inside, and scratches at the door with quiet whines.

“It’ll be okay, Fang,” he says. “Bet Roy will even have treats fer yeh next time yeh go runnin’.”

There’s not really anything for him to do while in hiding, he’s too noticeable to even think of popping out in disguise, so he passes the time by stress-knitting and combing the Daily Prophet for any inklings of real news.

He’s never been so happy to see Remus’ patronus.

Chapter Text

Minerva has proven her place as head of Gryffindor House a hundred times over. She’s heard about the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, the whole Order has by now. Roy has very noticeably kept to his rooms since the incident.

Well, she’s not going to let him.

It’s hard, admittedly, to reconcile the earnest academic who brought her a book during her convalescence with the duelist capable of brutally burning people alive.

But she’s nothing if not practical. Roy took out a squadron of the most prominent Death Eaters from the last war. Each one of them has a body count that’s seared into her mind. Each one of them is now imprisoned, wandless, and incapacitated to boot. As far as she’s concerned, Roy Mustang saved not only the Order members present that day, but countless muggles and muggle-borns who would have been targeted when the war broke out in earnest. And he broke his cover to do it.

Voldemort will certainly be on the warpath, she muses, passing by portraits that grow more and more subdued as she nears her destination. Roy was already a target, but now…

He’s probably come to the same conclusion. And he’s probably facing the ensuing panic alone, convinced that the Order will turn their backs on him.

She knocks on the door.

When Roy said he wouldn't be a very good match, he wasn't lying. She takes half the board in the first five minutes and then spends her next moves essentially stalling for time so that he doesn't feel too embarrassed.

"You don't need to go easy on me," he smiles wanly, clocking in to what she's doing immediately. "I'll be better by the second match."

She raises an eyebrow.

"Giving up on this one so easily?"

"You'll have my King in two turns and you know it."

"Where was this attention at the start of our match?"

He laughs. It's brief, more of a huff than anything else, and so different from the easy demeanor that she's come to associate with Roy. She wonders if he feels the need to put up walls around her now. Or maybe the Roy of before was the mask, and this is him doing the courtesy of dropping it. Well, there will be plenty of time to find that out. She takes the King in two turns, as predicted, and waves her wand to reset the board.

Roy is white again. Despite how spectacularly he'd lost just now, the pieces don't squabble about his choices or offer their own advice. They simply obey. Minerva is no legilimens, but there are other ways to read people.

This time their match takes nearly an hour, and she's relieved to see Roy's gaze grow bright with actual competitiveness. Now that she knows he'll be okay, there's no need to feel guilty about trouncing him again.

A house-elf comes by with a tray of tea and some hearty stew per her earlier instructions, and Roy definitely knows that she knows about his skipped meals, but he takes the bowl without complaint, eyes trained on the new board.

"I'll win this time."

He doesn't, but he does come close.

Chapter Text

Mundungus has seen a lot of shit in his years.

He knows what people think of him, and that’s fine. His business is business, not idealism. Working with the Order of the Phoenix boils down to the fact that he doesn’t want to die at the hands of blood purists, thank you very much. If only the other members were half so pragmatic.

Everyone’s always been convinced that it’ll come down to Dumbledore versus You-Know-Who. Then the Potter kid had entered the equation, but Mundungus hasn’t seen him contribute anything since he was a baby. In the meantime, people are dying. People are being tortured. People are disappearing.

But it’s not any bigwigs, no one reputable, so he supposes it’s not urgent. What’s he going to say, my smoking buddy who I didn't know by name never came back after handling a delivery to the Goyle estate? Ha.

No, he keeps his head down, passes along information that he overhears, and focuses on keeping some food on the table the rest of the time.

Sometimes though…well, sometimes he becomes aware that he’s in a room filled with the most powerful witches and wizards of the age, and he wants to scream at them to bloody do something. To take the fight to the Death Eaters, to hunt them down, to actually win this war instead of taking clandestine half-measures.

And then Roy Mustang, of all people, does just that. It’s as big as a shock as the time Potter defeated You-Know-Who while still in nappies. The rest of the Order is concerned about how he did it, whether it was Dark Arts, but frankly, Mundungus is just glad to hear that a bunch of Death Eaters are down for the count.

It’s not until later in the week that he really stops to think about it.

One of his drinking buddies is an on-staff healer at Azkaban—it’s the position that mediwizards with the lowest grades tend to go for, since all you need to do is fix concussions from people throwing themselves against the bars. And you don’t even need to be that diligent about it, since they all go mad eventually. He shows up one day and orders a triple shot. It doesn’t take much prodding for him to spill his guts after that.

“I’ve been pulling overtime. Overtime, can you believe that? Gross shit, the Death Eaters that escaped are back in prison and that’s great and all, but they need to be kept alive for their court dates so I’ve been changing bandages day and night. The smell, mate, I might turn vegetarian thanks to this—” he signals for another drink. “And of course there’s not even hazard pay. You know, because they’re all…missing arms and whatnot. Well, I dare the overseer to look Lestrange in the eye and tell me that woman’s not still a bloody menace…”

Mundungus stares at his own drink. He’s never really thought about what happens when someone is lit on fire—and why should he have, he’s not a sick bastard. But apparently those things are fifth-degree burns and possible organ failure as a result of edema and bone grafts where skele-gro isn’t enough.

Both of them end up ordering the pub’s lone vegetarian option, which makes for a grim dinner. They drink more to make up for it, but as he’s stumbling home, the whiskey in his gut only serves to drive his mind to places he’d rather it didn’t go.

Power like that…can Mustang really control it? Either the answer is yes, and he knew exactly what he was doing when he burned entire limbs to the bone…or he can’t, and he unleashed that spell in the heart of magical Britain uncaring of who got caught in the literal crossfire.

He’s not sure which answer he’s hoping for, but Mundungus knows he’ll be avoiding Mustang from now on. He survived the last war, and he’d like to survive this one too.

Chapter Text

It’s bad enough that Sirius Black is the only member left of the main line, but at least when he was in Azkaban Kreacher could simply devote himself to looking after the manor. Now he’s back, and what’s more, he regularly opens the Black ancestral home to all sorts of filth. The mistress would have a fit if she saw it—and her portrait regularly does.

But one visitor is an oddity.

There is no Mustang listed among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but the man has never mentioned where he’s from—or if he has, he’s had the sense to not do it within Kreacher’s hearing range—so there’s no real confirmation of his blood status. Yet his bearing is a little too reminiscent of the class of wizard that Kreacher is used to. It’s subtle, but this is clearly a man more used to giving orders than following them.

Kreacher, by explicit orders, is confined to his quarters whenever a meeting is taking place, but Master Sirius is a typical brainless Gryffindor and hasn’t said anything to limit his movements the rest of the time. As the manor’s official house-elf, Kreacher is tied to Grimmauld Place by a magic that goes back over twelve generations, and he knows when a non-Black enters the property. He’s forbidden from harming any guests, true, but he’s free to observe.

The first time he tries that with Mustang is also the last. Master Sirius has been visiting him at Hogwarts to teach him the Patronus charm, but this is the first time he’s returned from one such session with the alchemist in tow. It seems he and Mistress Andromeda’s brat are joining the Black heir for dinner. Kreacher knows exactly when the half-blood arrives, not only because of his own magic alerting him to an arrival by floo, but by the loud crash followed by screams from the Mistress’ portrait.

“I’ll be right back—nah, stay there, the last thing that old hag needs is another target to yell at. I’ll be back once I can pull the curtains shut, maybe I’ll try a sticking charm again…”

He doesn’t want to watch Master Sirius disgrace himself further, so he decides to observe the young alchemist from as close as he dares, which is the adjoining room, originally meant to contain the evening’s various courses that would then be transported to the table during dinner parties.

Mustang gives a casual shrug and heads back to the table, but instead of sitting down, he tenses. Kreacher is currently under the house elf variant of the disillusionment charm, meant to help his kind work unobtrusively, and he’s in another room besides, but the man still seems to sense that he’s being watched. It’s eerie, and what’s stranger is that he doesn’t go for his wand, instead bringing his gloved hands up to chest level as he scans the room. Wandless magic? That hardly seems like something an alchemy scholar would be versed in, but Kreacher knows better than most how appearances can be deceiving.

He withdraws. A lifetime serving the House of Black has imbued him with a strong sense of self-preservation.

Several days later, Mustang and the woman drop by again, and Master Sirius says something about having a look around at this dark wizards’ lair. As luck would have it, the first place they start is the same spare bedroom where Kreacher has been hiding several relics from the previous head of the family. Since this isn’t an Order meeting, he’s not barred from being in the room, and as long as he doesn’t harm anyone, he won’t be disobeying orders.

Goading Master Sirius is easy enough; he has the same spectacular hair-trigger temper that he had as a first-year. It’s a relief when he takes the bait, but somehow it’s just as much of a relief when Mustang leaves the room.

Mistress Bellatrix is a welcome return to normalcy. Not for the first time, he wishes that she had become the head of the House of Black rather than marrying that Lestrange dullard. Respectable though that match may have been, the man himself is nowhere near her caliber.

He tells her everything he can, apologizing for his failings and explaining that Master Sirius had given direct orders that prevented him from listening in on meetings. She punishes him of course, but also listens with great interest to what he can report.

"So Mustang hasn't been back since they fought?"

"No, Mistress. Nor sent any owls."

She cackles.

"Maybe the man's finally wising up. The Dark Lord will be pleased."

From his cupboard, Kreacher is dimly aware that the fireplace has been flaring nonstop. Most if not all of the Order of the Phoenix is here, and Master Sirius has been unusually precise in his orders to stay put. It can only mean that the plan has failed.

Then the magical signatures are gone, all but one.

"How did you manage to help the Death Eaters? The truth. It's an order."

Master Sirius is furious, a familiar black rage that detractors always joked had given the bloodline its namesake. Kreacher doesn't dare look at his face, focusing on his hands, which more than once spasm as if wishing to choke him. He's reminded of Mustang standing alone in front of the table all those months ago, wandless but still promising violence.

But he doesn't regret it. He won't.

Sleep comes easily; house-elves are efficient that way. He's not sure how much time passes, but he's eventually summoned. He fights it, sullen and sure that Master Sirius will be cruel enough to deny him a proper beheading to join his forbearers. But he is loyal to the House of Black, so he goes.

It's a surprise, and an unwelcome one, to see Mustang there as well.

And then—Kreacher has no idea how the man even knows of Master Regulus, or what precisely it is that he knows. He chances a look at Master Sirius, whose face is nothing but honest desperation. Blood traitor he may be, disowned and disgraced, only reinstated on a technicality…but he loved his brother, and his brother loved him back.

Kreacher dredges up the words from somewhere, and they pour out like blood from a wound.

He can't believe what Mustang is saying. A way to destroy horcruxes...

It's absurd. It's a clear manipulation. It doesn't even bear thinking about. But the Dark Lord had been interested in Mustang for a reason, and the Order of the Phoenix had taken him under their protection for a reason. This has to be it.

Kreacher knows obedience. But he hasn't known devotion in years. It seizes him now, and he swears he'll follow Mustang into battle against the Dark Lord himself if need be to avenge his Master's memory.

Chapter Text

With nearly twenty years in the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol and later the Auror Office, Gawain Robards prides himself on being—well, not unflappable, exactly, but rational and good under pressure. He began his career during the tail end of the last war, just when it was getting the bloodiest, and even after You-Know-Who was defeated, his followers proved that they were plenty capable of atrocities without him. Crouch had authorized the use of extreme measures up to and including the Unforgivables, and while Gawain had been too junior to join those kinds of missions outright, he'd still been a witness to it all.

After the war, strict limits were instated on the nature of spells that can be used on the job. Anyone who breaks this rule goes on automatic probation while a review panel decides whether their spell work can be considered a reasonable and proportionate use of force. If the answer is no, they’re discharged from their duties and (depending on the Wizengamot’s ruling) either see forced retirement with regular counselor visits, or see the inside of a cell in Azkaban.

Though most of his career has spanned peacetime, Gawain has still seen things out of nightmares, both from Death Eater remnants and from members of his own office gone mad with pain or grief or even power.

Just never from a civilian.

He’d already arrived at Hogwarts by the time the Death Eaters were carted out of the Department of Mysteries, and he’s fervently glad of it. He still had to sort through photos of the carnage, but at least he didn’t have to smell it.

The aftermath of Voldemort’s return is absolute chaos, not in the least due to the sudden arrests of several senior governmental officials, including Dolores Umbridge and Lucius Malfoy. Naturally, once the fourteen-hour workdays and wideye potions are finally behind them and the shortlist for the next Minister of Magic is compiled, nearly every employee cashes in their personal days with the aim of getting spectacularly drunk. Levels one and two rent out a pub.

The night is blissfully fuzzy, but he remembers Umbridge’s senior assistant double-fisting dragon barrel brandy less than twenty minutes in and toasting to the health of Professor Roy Mustang.

“I’m serious!” the tiny brunette—Hermia or Hera or something—hiccups. “Seven years I’ve fantasized about setting that woman on fire, but he actually diiiid! Anyone know if he’s single?”

“Well, I happen to recall you’re not!” her friend quips, sending the room into hysterics, which is why he discounts John Dawlish’s next words.

“He gives me the creeps. Was him that nearly killed all those Death Eaters, you know.”

It's said quietly, just a throwaway comment muttered into his cup, so Gawain throws an arm around his friend's shoulders and tells him to relax and enjoy the mead. After all, they likely won't be getting another night like this for a while.

The next morning, a sobering potion curdling in his gut, Gawain listens to his boss confirm that Dawlish’s words were true.

“We have no way of knowing whether the remaining Death Eaters and their leader know about this, but on the off chance that they don’t, we cannot be the ones to alert them. Mustang is not native to Britain, nor does he have any particularly strong ties here besides his teaching post, so it would take very little to spook him into leaving for his native country,” Scrimgeour barks. “His involvement in the arrest of Dolores Umbridge was witnessed by Hogwarts students and we can’t hope to contain public knowledge of it, but his role in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries is henceforth classified.”

Some aurors grumble about it, but they understand. As much as it smarts to let an asset and potential flight risk walk free, they trust that Scrimgeour wouldn't be so lax if the man was a threat, so it stands to reason that he's on their side, or will be shortly.

Amelia Bones is murdered. Gawain and his squad are recovering bodies in the aftermath of a giant attack when they hear. They don’t even have time to mourn, because with the front-runner gone, Scrimgeour is shoved into the line of succession for Minister for Magic, leaving the entire department cursing. That’s their best fighter out of the war, stuck behind a desk for the foreseeable future. When he finally gets home that night, he finds a special edition of the Daily Prophet confirming it.

That’s also how he learns that he’s being promoted.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been his captain when he was just starting out, and he’d also been part of the cleanup crew to arrive at the Ministry that night. If anyone can prepare him for this upcoming interview, it’ll be him.

“Roy Mustang? I know as much as you do, Gawain. Alchemy professor. Not registered in Wizarding Britain, though we know he bought an Ollivander wand last spring. And apparently, capable of one serious incendio.”

“But you still know more than me. I’ve only seen him in passing. You were there for his talk with Fudge and Dumbledore after the…the incident, right?”

“Yes, but he didn’t really speak much.”

“I think actions speak louder than words in this case.”

“Well, if you’ve made up your mind about him—”

“No. No, that’s why I wanted your advice. The healers don’t think it was Dark Arts, but I wanted to hear your take.”

“Frankly...” he seems to weigh his next words. “Roy Mustang strikes me as a powerful wizard, but only when he needs to be. Think about it: from what he told us about Umbridge, and what our own healers report, he could've used the same amount of force, but instead just disarmed her. She was patched up in no time. He only used that other spell against—face it—opponents that anyone in our department would have struggled to defeat, so I get the impression that it was some sort of desperate last resort.”

He nods, turning over that assessment in his mind.

“It’s just—well, the spell itself was terrifying, but I can't argue results. But how he acted afterward was...that wasn’t the reaction of a first kill.”

“Well, none of the Death Eaters were killed,” Kingsley interjects mildly.

“Luck and St. Mungo’s,” he counters. “He fried a room full of people and then strolled out to lecture the Minister for Magic, cool as you please.”

“When’s your interview with him? If you need a partner, I’m happy to join as backup.”

“I appreciate it, but it’s actually Scrimgeour himself doing the questioning, and I’m the backup.”

“Is he that worried?” Kingsley sounds worried himself.

“Between you and me, I think he’s hoping to learn the spell.”

“That’s…well, there you go. If the Minister wants aurors to learn this spell, then it falls within our guidelines for appropriate spell work, and Roy Mustang isn’t a dark wizard.”

He can’t technically argue with that logic. Still, he suddenly wishes that Kingsley could attend the interview too.

Mustang surrenders himself and his wand for inspection almost carelessly, looking every inch the serious academic in his neatly-pressed gray robes and white gloves. At least he’s not complaining about the new security measures, unlike some prissy purebloods he could mention. Once he’s past the checkpoint—and alright, maybe Gawain had authorized the front desk to be a little more stringent than usual—he holsters his wand and marches over, not even pretending like he doesn’t recognize him.

“Professor Mustang.”

“Auror Robards. I hope I’m not late.”

“Right on time sir, if you’ll just follow me.”

He walks him over like he would a suspect rather than a witness, staying barely half a pace ahead so he can keep the man in his periphery.

“The Minister wants to see to this matter in person, circumstances being what they are.”

“Of course.”

Scrimgeour is standing when they enter, cutting an imposing figure against the dark paneled walls.

“Ah, Professor Mustang. I have been looking forward to meeting you.” It’s still so weird to hear his boss sound like a politician.

“Minister,” Mustang returns politely. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same, as I hadn’t heard of you until quite recently.”

So Mustang wants to push, does he? Gawain nearly scoffs at the nerve. It takes a lot more than that to unbalance Rufus Scrimgeour, and the man’s tense smile says as much.

“Understandable. I believe you have been focused on Hogwarts until very recently? Please, take a seat, Professor. I’m afraid this is an important matter we must attend to.”

Scrimgeour doesn’t move until Mustang does, and Gawain waves his wand to activate the auto-dictation quill. He sits too, and doesn’t reholster his wand.

The offer of a drink is refused. Already, what should be a standard witness statement is shaping up to be more like an interrogation.

“We are here to discuss the events that took place at the Department of Mysteries, Ministry of Magic, on June 18th, 1996. Interview by Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic, to Roy Mustang, Professor of Alchemy at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, witness and participant at the incident. Notes taken by Head Auror Gawain Robards…” it’s the standard stuff, and Mustang seems at ease with it. He even leans back to get comfortable once the actual interview starts.

He holds back a cringe when Mustang mentions Umbridge, but he can’t contain his flinch when the man drops You-Know-Who’s name into the story as well. Very brave or very stupid, then. Clearly not the latter, because then he reveals that his spell at the Department of Mysteries wasn’t a spell at all.

“Seeing that my companions and I were outnumbered, I activated an alchemical array to neutralize the Death Eaters.”

Neutralize. A neat way to package it.

“An array,” Scrimgeour says slowly. “And would you—”

“No,” Mustang cuts in. “I will not share that array. Aside from the fact that it would take literal years for anyone to learn how to control the technique, I refuse to put such power into anyone’s hands.”

“But it’s safe for you to have it?” he asks pointedly, and is met with the most scornful look he's ever experienced this side of Minerva McGonagall.

“Whether it is safe or not is a moot point, Auror Robards. I have it. I know this power, and I won’t pass it on to anyone. End of story.”

He sounds like Moody used to back when he was a captain, and it makes Gawain shrink back instinctively before he remembers who and what he is.

“That array could change the course of the war,” he says, searching Mustang’s face for any break in composure, but it’s gone marble-cold.

“Yes,” he acquiesces. “But can you guarantee it would be for the better?”

Gawain has nearly two decades in the field under his belt, and Scrimgeour has twice that. Though Mustang has been growing steadily more polite and outwardly relaxed, they recognize the flint in his eyes for what it is. A warning.

“If that is all, I believe we are done with the interview,” Scrimgeour finally says, and dismisses him but asks Mustang to stay. An olive branch, and they all know it.

“If you don’t mind, Professor Mustang, I was hoping we could have a conversation. I wanted to speak to you the other day, but I was informed you weren’t at Hogwarts.”

“I needed a break from life,” Mustang’s expression doesn’t change, since he never allowed it to slip to begin with, but something shifts and it’s clear he’s no longer hostile.

Gawain leaves the room. Well. He can see now why Dawlish finds the man creepy.

The thing is, he can almost empathize with Mustang. Overnight, Gawain has become a prime target in this war. If You-Know-Who knows about what happened at the Department of Mysteries, it must be much the same for the other man.

The difference is, Gawain is a target because of his eighteen-year career fighting the Dark Arts, while Mustang is a target because of how he permanently maimed half a dozen people. Death Eaters, yes, but still people.

He goes to find Kingsley. That whole interview has left him unsettled, and he needs to clear his mind before he’s sent back out in the field. With the way this war is going, he knows it won’t be long.

Chapter Text

She never liked Roy Mustang from the get-go. Honestly, going along with a child’s blackmailing scheme…not to mention, there’s nothing quite so frustrating as smelling a story but being unable to dig into it. And Mustang is a career-making exposé waiting to happen. A handsome, mysterious wizard from abroad reviving a nearly-dead art at Hogwarts and making himself into Dumbledore’s right-hand man within the year? Witch Weekly would have paid her for regular columns. And double for photos, with a face like that.

Unfortunately, he had the foresight to mark himself off-limits.

Her forced sabbatical over the past year has made quite a dent in her savings, and she found herself stooping to the level of copy-editing to make ends meet for a while there, but thankfully the Quibbler piece had given her enough publicity to stage a comeback.

And of course, there’s no shortage of work now, not with…recent events. Her piece criticizing Amelia Bones’ potential term as Minister was yanked due to the woman’s untimely murder, but she can reuse most of the content for a similar piece on Scrimgeour once he’s sworn in. If any editors take it, that is.

She knows this song and dance. Wars mean a steady readership, but they also come with trouble from the censors. She’s running into that already.

She's not even particularly looking into the issue, but something about Mustang has the Ministry in a tizzy. Her sources at St. Mungo’s say that he had a hand in the arrest of Dolores Umbridge, but are uncharacteristically dodgy about specifics. He was also almost certainly present the night of the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, but no one’s confirming or denying much about that whole fiasco beyond the information in the official statement given to the Prophet. Rita is confident she could find out more if she really wanted to, but the risk isn’t worth it after Mustang’s ultimatum.

Well, he only said she couldn’t publish anything. That doesn’t mean she can’t compile a story for her own curiosity.

Roy Mustang

• Description: 25-30M, hair blk, eyes blk, approx. 170cm
• Profession: Alchemist (?-?), Hogwarts Alchemy Professor (1995-Present)
• Relationships: Albus Dumbledore (boss), Hermione Granger (co-conspirator), unknown blonde 30-33F (girlfriend, long-term)
• Previously approached Albus Dumbledore for alchemy project...Flamel link?
• Flamel lovechild?????
• No information in British Magical Registry, accent possibly continental
• Boarder at Leaky Cauldron (May-June 1995)
• Possibly muggle-born, known to use muggle stationery and jog at ungodly hours
• Large orders of specialty texts from Flourish & Blott’s, points to wealthy background. Hogwarts starting salary unchanged since 1977 stats
• Capable of wandless magic

The latter is still a sore spot. She’d been so sure that the young foreigner in the Ministry box at the Third Task would be a perfect perch to listen in on the event and maybe even get a scoop as to the judges’ internal politics, but she’d hardly made it within hearing range when she’d been caught in a spell and thrown into what she now knows was an enchanted vial. No warning, not a single word. At the time, she hadn’t even realized Mustang’s role in it all—she’d simply been plunged into total darkness, and unable to get out. Only after beating against the walls until her wings had given out had she recognized the feel of twigs and glass, and realized she'd been captured.

What felt like days later, a bright blue light had washed over her prison, and the newly-clear walls showed her Granger and Mustang’s entirely unsympathetic faces. The situation had devolved from there.

Rita’s been threatened, jinxed, stunned, arrested, and on one notable occasion, even transfigured in her pursuit of journalistic truth, and she’s still kicking. Years in the field have taught her that circumstances are always changing, and she likes to think of defeats as something more like temporary setbacks. Granger and Mustang's threat of revealing her animagus status is only effective up until she has something bigger on either of them.

That thought used to give her comfort, back when she was taking temp jobs while her Gringotts vault shrank and shrank. Now, even if something newsworthy does come up, she knows she can't do anything. Granger is one of Harry Potter’s best friends, while Mustang is close to Dumbledore. Both clearly have a role to play in the days to come. Knocking a war hero down a peg in peacetime is one thing, but to do so during the war itself is career suicide.

So it's not that Granger and Mustang scare her, exactly. Certainly, she's wary, and she can admit when she's been outsmarted, but it won't be that way forever. The current war has made them untouchable, but that just means they'll have further to fall once it's over. In the meantime, she'll keep an eye out and an ear to the ground.

Chapter Text

Of course she’s proud of her daughter. Anyone would be. It’s only that…well, boarding school would be hard enough. A secret wizarding boarding school that she can’t discuss with anyone in her usual social circle…it gets to be a bit much, sometimes.

Hermione had been doing so well in primary, too. There had even been talk of bumping her a grade or two, but she and Eli had wanted her to stay among students her own age since she’d had such trouble making friends as a child.

That’s an understatement.

Whenever she and her husband sit down to a too-quiet dinner or vacation alone, whenever they start to have doubts about this whole Hogwarts thing, she just has to remember those painful years of snubbed birthday invitations and schoolyard bullying. Hermione is happy now, that’s clear to see, and even if it’s away from them, Jean is glad.

Besides, she’s here now, so there’s really no point in getting all misty-eyed. Filled with a new surge of fondness, she heads to the study, which has always been Hermione’s favorite room in the house. For once, she’s not scribbling on parchment—and hadn’t that taken some getting used to—but jotting down notes in a legal pad as she flips through one of Eli’s old college textbooks.

“Chemistry?” she raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, Ro—Professor Mustang—erm, remember I told you about alchemy?”

“The one course that included a science curriculum? How could I forget.”

“Well, I’m continuing with the course for next term, and he’s recommended a deeper study of physics and chemistry, so I just want to be ready.”

“Anything I can help with?” They both stopped being able to help Hermione with her homework the minute she transferred to a magical school, so this is a welcome return to her wheelhouse.

“Ah, right now I’m on reaction kinetics, and there’s this one equation…”

“Mm, your father’s old textbook is probably the real reason you’re having trouble. He still likes to bemoan the fact that his professor made the class buy the same edition he edited. I still need to pick up the dry cleaning, so why don’t we swing by the library first?”

Hermione perks up and agrees, rushing off to change. Jean tidies up her notes and reshelves a few books. That’s how she catches sight of a letter. She doesn’t like to think she’s the type of mother to go snooping into her child’s life overmuch, but the bright green ink makes it impossible not to notice. The first few lines are what Hermione mentioned; a recommendation to delve into the “muggle” sciences to better prepare for alchemy. But the second paragraph takes her off-guard.

I am writing to you to request information on the Defence Club (Dumbledore’s Army, truly?). If I am to become its overseer, I would like to know what we will be working with beforehand. Could you write me a list of the spells and tactics you studied? I would also like to know how you set up the training room.

The rest of the letter is covered by a paperweight, and she doesn’t dare move it because that would certainly cross the line into snooping. But. Hermione’s never mentioned a Defence Club.

…now that she thinks of it, Eli had sent off several volumes on medieval warfare for a research paper last term. Maybe this club was the result? It sounds relatively new, if Mustang is asking for feedback.

Part of her is disquieted that her daughter has chosen a Defence Club of all things as her extracurricular, but part of her is honestly relieved. She’s not stupid, the magical world clearly has some lingering prejudices against families like hers. The summer before her first year, Hermoine had devoured every book on wizarding history that they’d bought her, and her enthusiasm had been contagious. So Jean knows there was a war not too long ago. If Hermoine’s going to be off in another country, in another world, for the better part of each year, it’s best that she knows how to defend herself.

It also helps to know that Mustang is apparently the staff supervisor for this Defence Club. It’s silly of her, but Jean feels more inclined to trust a fellow scientist. She bets the whole parchment thing irks Mustang as much as it does her.

Chapter Text

For all the borders that humans have invented, there’s only one sky. Yet when he looks at Roy Mustang, he sees nothing, as if the man was born under different stars, impossible as that sounds.

It could be that the man was born in an unplottable territory, which would account for his blank zodiac, but this oddity catches his attention, and though he only spent half a term as Mustang's colleague, he finds that his attention doesn't wane.

So Firenze must read him in other ways. He’s shown no prejudice toward his kind, is friendly with Hagrid, strict with his students, and didn’t hesitate to maim Dolores Umbridge when she was threatening bodily harm to others. He doesn’t know how wizards view the latter because their laws and morals are ever-changing, but to him, sparing a life is a sign of strength, because true strength requires both power and control. Among the herd, this is shown by lodging an arrow a scant few centimeters from a vital artery, cutting off air to the point of fainting and no further…delivering a kick hard enough to crack ribs but not break them. He runs a hand absently across the place where he still expects to find Bane’s hoofprint. The bruise is long gone, and he doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not.

Admittedly, one of the reasons he watches Roy Mustang is because he, like Firenze himself, is fighting a war that isn’t his. There are only a handful of reasons why that could be.

Guilt is a likely motivator, but the man is barely more than a foal, so it seems unlikely. Love is another, but from what he knows, Mustang is not from these lands and previously held no ties here. Naivete cannot be discounted, as there are always humans chasing glory though wars, wishing to make a name for themselves. But though the alchemist has an unmistakable prideful streak, that doesn’t seem to be the case either.

The final possibility is perhaps an unkind one. Yet he can’t help but think that Mustang is here because he has no other choice.

He considers Albus Dumbledore a friend, and a wise counsel, but that does not make him Firenze’s chieftain. Fighting alongside him for a mutual cause does not blind him to the wizard’s faults. He is manipulative, preferring to pull strings rather than ask for something outright. He is also knowledgeable, and it is not difficult to imagine him dangling alchemical knowledge in exchange for a young scholar’s help.

The questions is, help with what?

Hogwarts was built with humans and only humans in mind, and it is irritating to wear his hooves down on the stone floors. Such a small thing, he knows, but noticeable.

And Roy Mustang is observant.

“Sorry to be so forward but, ah, why don’t you wear shoes?” he remarks one day after his morning run, seeing Firenze’s relief as he moves from cold stone to soft grass.

The image is startling, and he laughs.

“I believe I would have difficulty with the ties of your human footwear,” he says gently. He carefully doesn’t think about how Bane would react to such a question.

“No, I mean—ugh, wizards. Let me guess, they have some spell for use on horses to protect their hooves.”

“Yes,” he says carefully. “You are not the first professor to offer me this charm, but it is not our way to accept human magic.”

Especially not magic designed for livestock. Humans, enlightened though they believe themselves to be, still tend to treat centaurs as half-human and half-animal rather than magical beasts in their own right. If Mustang turns out to be that type, it will be a disappointment.

“I understand. But it can’t be comfortable walking around the castle like that.”

“It is bearable,” he is curious as to what the other is building up to, and unlike Albus, he has no qualms about being direct. “I assume you have an alchemical solution?”

Now it’s the other who laughs.

“Well, if you’re willing to consider alchemy separate from human magic—”

“Of course,” he says seriously. “As I imagine you do.”

That gets him an uncharacteristic, half-stifled flinch, but the man doesn’t deny it. And after all, alchemy, along with astronomy, divination, and herbology, obeys the natural laws. Why should centaurs consider them part of human magic when it was they who taught them to humans, long ago?

“Well, no time like the present,” Mustang takes out a piece of chalk and casts around for materials, lighting up at the sight of one of the ever-present suits of armor around the castle entrance. He pries the longsword from its grip and drags it out into the sun, leaning it against the wall. Firenze appreciates that he doesn’t use his wand, even just for setup.

In quick, economical movements, he’s drawn a transmutation circle and pressed his gloved hands to the stone. It results in four arches of metal where the sword once stood.

“You’ll find that steel will weather these floors a lot better, so your hooves won’t be worn down. Medieval steel is also impure, which in this case is good because there was enough tungsten to line the edges, it helps with grip in the winter—and I’m rambling,” he cuts himself off almost bashfully.

“Interesting. May I?” he gestures to the chalk. Normally he’d draw a circle in the ground with a branch, as alchemy is best when it is closer to the earth, but he’ll make this concession to human customs since he’s already teaching at their castle.

Mustang seems pleasantly surprised as he hands over the chalk, watching with something close to nostalgia as Firenze draws a basic circle—he’s only changing form, after all, not composition—and envelopes his hooves in steel. He gives an experimental tap against the stone of the entryway and is pleased to note the difference.

“Well, guess we won’t be needing these,” Mustang transmutes a handful of nails into a comically small sword, placing it back in the suit of armor’s hands with a grin that belies his youth. “I was given to believe that alchemy was a dying art here.”

“Humans prefer transfiguration. They tend to see the natural laws as more of a challenge.”

“Yes,” Mustang says blithely, and though Firenze cannot read his stars, he can still read the bitterness buried deep beneath his cheerful demeanor. “That’s us all right.”

Whatever knowledge Albus has promised this young alchemist, Firenze hopes it’s not something he'll regret seeking.

Chapter Text

When he spots a dark-haired young man with Albus, his first thought is that his friend is finally delivering on his joking threat to bring round one of the muggle property owners of his temporary hideouts. But he’s in proper robes and noticeably not falling into hysterics at the destruction around him, so that’s clearly not the case.

An auror, then? No, from what he’s heard, Albus is hardly on good terms with the Ministry these days…although maybe the new minister—

The completely unnecessary wand to his gut cuts his thoughts short, and he dispels the illusion with an undignified wheeze, suppressing the childish urge to cast a discoloration charm on Albus’ horrid robes in retaliation.

He doesn’t enjoy arguing with one of his oldest friends, but that’s obviously where this conversation is heading. Then the other man cuts in.

Not even five minutes later, it’s as if he’s outside his own body, watching himself agree to give up the original memory, to bare the shame he’s tried time and time again to burn out of his own mind.

He doesn’t even spare a thought for what Albus will think of him once he sees it. There’s no forgiveness for what he did, what he started. But he’s not doing this in hopes of being forgiven.

There’s a way to destroy Horcruxes, or there will be.

“Horace, allow me to introduce Roy Mustang, Hogwarts’ dreaded alchemy professor.”

That’s unexpected.

He takes Roy Mustang in with new eyes. Young, but none of the brashness that usually clings to young geniuses. A friendly air, but tailored robes of good quality, the sort of posture seen in the more seasoned aurors, and bright white gloves at odds with the rest of his muted ensemble. And the obvious: he’s never heard of a Mustang before.

Albus’ job offer leads to a lengthy discussion on benefits and salary, which in turn becomes afternoon tea, and he knows it’s no coincidence that his friend excuses himself to the restroom shortly after, leaving him alone with the alchemy prodigy. He and Albus know the worst of each other, after all, so it’s without an iota of shame that he pounces.

“It’s been ages since I spoke with an alchemy scholar that wasn’t Albus. Tell me, m’boy, how did you get started? A family connection perhaps?”

“I’m the only one who studied alchemy, but my family was very supportive. Though I’m sure being a professor is the last thing they would have expected from me,” Mustang says modestly.

“Well, you must have impressed to have the post so young, don’t doubt yourself. What exactly were you up to before?”

“I came to Britain for a personal project a while back. The British Library was good, but I still hit a wall and decided to reach out to Hogwarts. What about you? Have you been, ah, moving all this time?”

“Afraid so,” he sighs. “I was the former Head of House for Slytherin, and—not to brag—my students thought highly of me. Some of the more wayward ones of the bunch have made no secret that they’d like to have me join their ranks, and so I’ve been on the move since the Azkaban breakout.”

His tale gets him a commiserating frown, enough to be polite, but Mustang’s eyes are bright and sharp.

“Why haven’t you left Britain? It seems like this war is pretty localized.”

“Ah, were I just a tad younger and a tad less well-known, I would have, if only to escape these English winters…but it didn’t feel right.”

Actually, the truth is that he’d tried the continent and very quickly found out that foreign governments don’t appreciate wizards with a target on their back blending into their muggle populations. Too much risk to the Statute of Secrecy. And while the British Ministry is just lax enough to let him access his Gringotts vault even without a permanent residence, Germany wouldn’t hear of it and France wanted to tack on additional fees for his non-citizen status. Better the devil you know, so he’s been flitting about the British Isles for nearly a year. He’s not about to say all this to Mustang, who—as the young are wont to do—would doubtlessly disapprove of Horace’s need for creature comforts while on the run. Well, when he’s been forced to endure the squalor of war, then he can judge.

“And so Albus managed to rope you in to the whole Order business, eh? Before or after he knew about your alchemy?”

“He offered me protection after it became known that Voldemort was after me for my knowledge on the Philosopher’s Stone,” the man pours himself a fresh cup of tea while Horace nearly has a coronary.

Albus returns, with eerily perfect timing as always, and Horace glares balefully at him but drops the subject of a pay raise and accepts the job.

The Philosopher’s Stone. Well. That explains why Mustang looks so young. He’s not French, but that doesn’t preclude him from having ties to old Nicolas, and anyway being one of Flamel’s protegees is more than enough reason to change one’s name, the paparazzi being how they are…or it could be that he has no ties at all, which just makes his genius all the more rare.

He's already planning the menu for Slug Club dinners next term (aided by some excellent advice from an old pupil who now heads catering at Peu de Lard) when Albus pays him another visit. Alone this time.

"Preposterous."

"He admitted to Horcrux manipulation and knowing how to create the Philosopher's Stone, is it really so far-fetched?"

"A boy nearly killing half the elite Death Eaters with an alchemy array? Yes."

"Really Horace, after what we've both seen—"

"You know, I used to think you were the most terrifying wizard alive."

Albus pales.

"I'm not scared of you, don't get me wrong, Al. You're the smartest of us, you're the strongest of us, and you make the hard choices. And you're sick of it, I can see it in your face. Sometimes I think..."

Sometimes I think you find monsters to fight just so you won't have to face the one in the mirror.

"...well, sometimes I think you're too quick to see power as a bad thing. He took out some Death Eaters with no casualties on either side, that's good. Great, even."

"I'm not saying Roy Mustang is a bad person, far from it," Albus says calmly, composed once more. "Nor do I discourage you from becoming friends with him, as I believe you'd get along splendidly. I'm simply advising—"

"Telling."

"Cautioning you against pushing too hard."

"Well, I'm not fool enough to go around encouraging academic papers on the Philosopher's Stone, but surely if he's mastered so much—let's even say I believe you about the fiendfyre array—then aren't you curious about what else he's capable of?"

"Not so curious that I'd want to find out."

"Really now, where's that Gryffindor spirit..."

The evening dissolves into tea and reminiscing, and Horace lets the subject drop gracefully, though he noticeably doesn't promise anything. Albus will no doubt want to revisit this conversation again, but as he's proven over the past year, Horace is good at evasion.

Chapter Text

With Umbridge gone (arrested, to be precise) they might actually get a half-decent professor this term, but given the well-known curse on the position, Anthony’s not holding his breath. It’d be helpful to resume DA meetings given…well, everything, which is why he’s relieved to hear from his fellow prefects aboard the Hogwarts Express that Headmaster Dumbledore has signed off on the group as an official club, staff supervisor included.

“And lucky for us it’ll be Roy,” Ron snickers, elbowing a flustered Hermione.

Anthony barely refrains from rolling his eyes. No doubt they’ll have an influx of female students signing up for the DA once that little tidbit becomes known. Thankfully, the alchemy professor has proven to be a no-nonsense sort to rival McGonagall. Still…

“Mustang, really? What’s he know about defense?”

“He actually gave us advice the first time around, mate.”

“The mock battles and teams were his idea. Plus he’s friends with the—with some aurors, so he can get us a list of spells they use in the field.”

He blinks, a little taken aback at how quickly they both jumped to defend the man. Then again, saving Hogwarts from Umbridge does kind of merit it.

“He knew? Last term?”

“Oh yeah,” Ron grins. “Remember that time Hermione got detention? Mustang set it up so we could meet without Umbridge suspecting—”

“You make it sound like we knew that at the time—”

“Anyway, he passed on some useful spells and we looked them up in the library—”

“I looked them up—”

He still has to patrol the compartments, which means cutting this lovers’ quarrel short.

“Oi, if you say he’s good then he’s good. Just make sure the meetings don’t clash with any house’s quidditch practice, remember?”

“Course,” Ron grins.

Patrol goes pretty smoothly, it’s not like anyone’s got the energy to pull stupid pranks with the impending Wizarding War on their minds. Well, the Weasley twins might’ve, but they’re staffing their joke shop in Diagon Alley, not terrorizing the train corridors.

It leaves him time to think.

A tiny corner of his mind wonders where Dumbledore even finds these people. In third year, when Dementors were swarming Hogwarts in search of Sirius Black, he’d gone and found one of the few people capable of a Patronus Charm. Granted, Lupin ended up being a werewolf, but he was also a damn good professor and if it hadn’t been for the uproar from the Board of Governors he could’ve easily stayed on even after the truth came out. And then in fourth year, in response to the return of a notoriously deadly tournament, Dumbledore brought in one of the best aurors on record, even if he had gone a bit nutty by then. The less said about Umbridge the better, but fifth year also gave them Mustang, who’s proven to be an alchemical genius and master duelist, as well as Firenze, who almost makes him wish he was taking that useless subject if only to see how a centaur would teach it, since they’re notoriously isolationist.

At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if the next staff addition is a bloody dragon trainer or even a cursebreaker.

An even tinier part of his mind is a little put out by Mustang being so good at everything. This is a man who trounced a senior Ministry official in under a minute, is apparently on good enough terms with aurors to consult with them about a school club, and obviously a professorship at thirty is nothing to sneeze at, especially in such an obscure and complicated subject. He knows Professor Vector managed the same, but she’s also a product of Durmstrang’s ruthless curriculum. Though to be fair, no one really knows Mustang’s alma mater. He’s certainly never mentioned.

Anthony frowns.

Mustang hasn’t volunteered anything about himself, come to think of it. Everything he knows is secondhand—the whole school found out his age after Umbridge’s inspection, and they know he has a girlfriend because some Hufflepuff girls had asked Professor Sprout about the butterfly roses he’d carried out of the Great Hall that one time. They know he jogs in the mornings because the early risers see him do it. And they know he blasted Umbridge’s wand into a pile of ash because members of both the DA and the Inquisitorial Squad were there when it happened. As for his home country, any work prior to Hogwarts, education, hobbies, a middle name if he even has one…not a word.

That hasn’t stopped the speculation. Despite Mustang’s many muggle habits, from his odd green pens to the “protractors” and other tools he’d forced upon them during the geometry unit of class, most Slytherins insist he’s from a pureblood family abroad.

Well, Headmaster Dumbledore must know, he reasons. He can't imagine anyone managing to keep secrets from him.