Archive of Our Own ^beta

At the end of it all, there is a place for everyone. That is the rhythm of the universe, Gilbert Michaud had once explained to him. He told Stephen to imagine the universe as a large table, full of plates of food, with a seat reserved for everyone.

Some people might be late. They might not make it until dessert is served. But then, dessert was the best part of dinner anyway. He’d ended his little monologue with a flourish, dipping his sausage in a jar of garlic sauce.

(He’d always been doing that, Stephen remembers. No propriety at a table, for someone who came from such a prestigious family in the wizarding world.)

Stephen had just laughed at him, and told him that professor Whitlock would definitely fail him for trying to talk his way out of his Potions essay like that.

Thirty years later, he watches Tony lift Morgan, muttering about how she’s growing too big to piggyback on him, and if Stephen might be able to put a spell on her to shrink her down to the size of a toddler again. Morgan yells, and tells Tony in no uncertain tones that Stephen never would.

Stephen can only think Gilbert might have had a point.

(Even though Whitlock had, indeed, failed him for that little spiel.)

~*~

Stephen is twelve, when he gets the letter.

(He is four when his parents mutter under their breath, darkly, and close the door when he gets close enough to understand certain syllables. Four-year-old children do not often comprehend such hints (Stephen doesn’t remember if he did - he might have, and simply been too obnoxious to actually take the hint). 

At any rate, Stephen lies down on his belly and pushes himself against the door. His mother is hissing, but he can hear that she’s crying, and her father’s mumbling is more soft-hearted and gentle. He hears words, but he doesn’t understand. After five minutes of that, the floor has become uncomfortable enough to abort his self-imposed mission.

For eight years after that, he doesn’t understand what the whispering is about. He just knows that this is the moment it starts, and he finally comprehends when he sees the letter in his hands.)

“The Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” he reads out, and watches his parents carefully. The woman who brought them the letter, Mrs Gildry, smiles kindly. 

“It must come as quite a shock,” she says. “You won’t be alone, of course. There’s several magic-born children who come from families that don’t share the same abilities. And we always make sure that there is someone to answer all your questions, for both you and the rest of your family. I’m the caretaker, so I’ll be there all year ‘round to help you with anything you need at Ilvermorny.”

“He’s normal,” Beverly Strange whispers, and there are tears in her eyes as she clasps her husband around the neck. “He’s normal, God bless.”

“Normal as can be,” Mrs Gildry confirms. 

In the corner, Donna Strange watches her brother, and says nothing. 

~*~

Even on top of one of the tallest buildings in the city, New York emits a dreadful sort of noise.

Stephen has always enjoyed that part of it. After leaving Ilvermorny, he’d gone to Boston to study. That had been nice, too, the social sort of student life. It hadn’t been for him, necessarily, but there was always someone who was awake there. In New York, no one ever sleeps. The entire city pulses with life, and Stephen thrives on it.

Tony’s huddling in his jacket, his hair almost shielding his face. He needs a haircut, Stephen realizes absentmindedly, and then thinks of brushing his fingers through the unruly curls around Tony’s ear.

He keeps his hands to himself, even as Tony smiles at him like he knows what he’d been thinking. 

(Tony doesn’t, of course. The man has many talents, but Stephen has been taught to protect his mind, and Tony doesn’t have a single magical bone in his body.)

“You look like you’re standing on top of the world every day,” Tony says, and grins. He’s bold, and he’s beautiful, and his windswept hair only serves to make him more chaotic. There’s a blush to his cheeks, but Stephen blames the cold rush of wind for it. He’s sure that he himself sports an equally red-faced look.

“Maybe I do,” Stephen says. “I once stood on the very top of the Himalaya.”

Tony hums. “Must’ve been beautiful.”

“I don’t remember. It was very cold, and my portal had disappeared. I was rather in a hurry to get back, believe it or not.”

The sound of Tony’s infectious laughter will never cease to brighten Stephen’s day.

“Sounds like a life lesson,” Tony muses. “Something about being too busy to appreciate small things? I don’t know, maybe.”

“I could’ve died,” Stephen says in deadpan. Tony only snickers, and Stephen can’t blame him. If he wanted, he could have Apparated out of there. Except Stephen’s never really been good at that, especially under pressure, and turning towards the Mystic Arts had made more sense, even in the biting cold.

He remembers the Ancient One’s pleased smile. 

“You’re too stubborn for that,” Tony says, and Stephen grins.

~*~

“I’m sorry, Strange,” Professor Kingsby says. For his part, he really does seem sorry; his hands are neatly folded across his desk, only inches away from Stephen’s failed Defence Against the Dark Arts checklist. 

“I can write an essay,” Stephen says, his heart pumping. “For extra credit.”

Kingsby is already shaking his head the moment Stephen offers up the idea. “No, no, that won’t do at all. I’m sorry, Stephen, but if you can’t get the disarming spell right, I’m not allowed to pass you. It’s not a theoretical application, you see.”

“I just -” Stephen says, and he’s never been in this sort of position before, and he hates how helpless he feels, “I can - I can do this, I can, I just need a little more practise.”

“Look, Stephen,” Kingsby says, and takes off his glasses. “You’re a very intelligent boy. Your essay on banshees was top notch, easily the best in class. We all have our strengths and our weaknesses.”

Stephen wants to laugh frantically, but he manages to only huff instead. “I just don’t get it. I should be a wizard, shouldn’t I?”

“You are a wizard.”

“Are you sure I still qualify,” Stephen bites. “I can’t make anything more difficult than lumos work. Not consistently, anyway, or side effects. In Transfiguration yesterday, I changed a ring into an honest-to-god beetle.”

“I take it that wasn’t what you intended.”

“We were practising the softening charm. So, no. Not really. Professor Sánchez didn’t even know for sure what I’d done wrong.”

Kingsby smiles kindly. “You’re still a second year, Stephen. Some people just get the hang of it a little later. And you’ve been compensating wonderfully with your theoretical work. It’ll all work itself out, you’ll see. Not everyone goes into practical positions after school, you do know. Perhaps you’ll find yourself a historian, or a deep-magic theorist.”

“But I also might never become any better at spellcasting?” Stephen asks. 

“Don’t worry,” Kingsby says. “You still have years ahead of you. You’ll improve.”

(When Stephen is in seventh year, and barely scraping by in any class that requires more than half of any practical work, he’ll remember this conversation. Sometimes he’ll pass by second- and third-years who effortlessly perform the softening charm, and he’ll be counting the days until his magical education has ended.

But in second year, Stephen still has some hope that it’s the lack of a primary education in magic that is holding him back, nevermind that Joan Ladford always scores As, and she’s from a family without any wizards or witches too. If he just tries a little harder, he can be good at this, like his parents want him to be.)

“Okay,” Stephen says. “I’ll try my best.”

~*~

Stephen enjoys the Avengers in the way that Wong enjoys the occasional theft of his books.

That is to say, not at all, and when it does happen, with a lot of grumbling and a great many warnings flung in their general direction.

Here is the most important thing about it: Stephen is not a superhero. He never set out to save the universe with a spandex uniform in neon colours and a cape to wave majestically behind him as he flexes his muscles and carries babies out of flaming houses.

(Perhaps the cape didn’t entirely work out, but Stephen maintains that it’s a Cloak, and it’s certainly not a majestic one, the way it purposefully sets out to trip him. And he’d never leave babies in a house on fire, as Tony keeps reminding him, but it’s the principle of the thing.)

He is in the Sanctum because he has promised to protect the Earthly world from colliding with its mystical aspects. There are universes chafing against each other, and Stephen calmly repairs each hole before anything can slip through. If anything, Stephen would liken himself to a glorified tailor before he’d call himself a hero.

The first time he meets the Avengers, it’s when two dragons have slipped through a fragile point that happened to be in Philadelphia. Stephen is already there to fix the issue when Iron Man arrives, Thor and Hawkeye in tow.

“Uh, hello,” Hawkeye says. “Who the hell are you?”

“Go away,” Stephen tells them, hovering in the air as he is, gritting his teeth as he attempts to guide two dragons, both the size of an entirely decent house in the suburbs, towards a crack in the universe that may or may not be smaller than those dragons themselves.

“I don’t think so,” Iron Man says, and appears right next to Stephen. “I don’t know who you are, but my insurance sure as hell doesn’t cover you, and I don’t like civilian casualties. It gives us a bad rep, even if you were here first.”

Stephen snorts. “I think you have enough insurance to break every single bone in your body two times a day, Stark, and I’m definitely not in need of your help. This is my area.”

“Iron Man, do you want us to engage?” Thor shouts towards them. Stephen turns his face towards Iron Man’s faceplate. 

“Don’t,” he warns. “I’ll get them back where they belong. Don’t get in the way.”

Iron Man is silent for a few moments. Stephen is under no illusion that the man underneath the armour is checking up on him, looking for the truth of his appearance. That doesn’t necessarily bother him: he’d always known he might run into the Avengers sooner or later.

His existence isn’t a secret. Not like that, anyway.

“Five minutes,” Iron Man says. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Stephen manages to steer the dragons back in four minutes and thirty-eight seconds. He’s counting, because he knows Tony Stark is doing the same thing. The break in reality trembles, and Stephen closes his eyes as he hovers in front of it. The magic glows gold on his fingertips, and he feels more than sees how the gap closes. 

Reality, stitched back together. Stephen lets himself drift back towards the ground, exhaustion pulling at him. 

“Nice one, pal,” Hawkeye says, once he’s back on the curb. The streets are empty, and at least that’s something to thank the Avengers for. Stephen doesn’t thank the publicity that comes with these rescues, few as they tend to be. It’d been bad luck that the dragons had been nearby enough to collide with this universe at the same time the crack opened.

“I’m not your pal,” Stephen mutters, and rubs his eyes. 

“Dr Stephen Strange,” Iron Man says, and his face plate opens. Stephen is familiar with Tony Stark, of course, like everyone is. He’s a figure that lives far away, in the land of the heroic well-doers, a man too far away to be real except for when he’s on television. It’s odd, seeing him in real life.

“That’s my name,” he acknowledges.

Tony Stark grins. “And there’s nothing in this file, at all, about a former neurosurgeon donning a cape and fighting dragons. That’s a little bit fascinating, I’ll admit. Where’d you get those powers from?”

Tony Stark, with no knowledge at all about the worlds beyond his own. 

Stephen huffs in amusement, and turns. Making a portal is a non-issue, despite his exhaustion. He can take a bath in the Sanctum, after Wong’s done lashing out over the book Stephen borrowed (stole) from him yesterday.

“Goodbye,” he says, and steps through his portal.

It’s not the last time he’ll see them. 

~*~

On the morning of the 22nd of August, a rainy Monday, Mrs Gildry meets him at Grand Central Station on platform forty-four and a forth. She’s standing next to another family. The parents seem content, as the father holds a sleeping baby and has a hand resting on the shoulder of a boy who must be leaving for Ilvermorny too, judging by his age. The mother holds the hand of another boy, a few inches smaller than Donna. 

Stephen feels oddly alone, even as his own mother lays a hand on his arm. Donna didn’t want to come to say goodbye. 

“I’m so glad you could make it,” Mrs Gildry says. She smiles pleasantly, but Stephen remains silent, and so she continues. “Please meet the Michauds. Their son, Gilbert, he’s starting this year too. The Michaud family is an old name in the magical world, and I thought Gilbert would make a wonderful companion to introduce you to everything in Ilvermorny.”

Because having a guide is so inconspicuous, and Stephen wants to stand out more than he already does, that is. His eyes wander over to Gilbert. The boy tilts his head, but he smiles while he does it. He’s dressed in the odd way that most of the wizards and witches seem to prefer, and the way Stephen had refused to before coming here. Now he regrets that decision.

“Nice to meet you,” Stephen says, more on command than because he means it, really, and Gilbert’s grin broadens. 

“And you,” he says.

“Now, it’s time to say your goodbyes,” Mrs Gildry says. “I’ll come to check on you on the train, Stephen. You’ll love it.”

And so begins Stephen’s first year in Ilvermorny, and his first year of friendship with Gilbert Michaud.

~*~

On the other side of this fragile wooden door, in the middle of a god-forsaken street in the middle of Kathmandu, is the answer to his problem. 

And Stephen does not have enough power in him to dare to Apparate. Besides, he’s certain it would not be appreciated. His wand is shoved in his pocket, useless and powerless. One end has been splintered by the fight with those thugs who’d wanted to take his watch. That, too, is broken.

“Please,” he begs, and knocks some more on the door with his broken hands. “Please . I’ll forget everything I think I know, I’ll do what you say. Please, just - just help me.”

He sits there for three hours before the door opens, and he falls into Kamar-Taj.

~*~

There is a word for the students in the Medical Student Residence of Boston University during exam week. The word generally used is overworked.

Stephen has been studying deep into the night for Disease and Therapy, and had only gone to bed once he’d finished annotating the final chapter for his exam. His digital clock had read 4:12 before he’d fallen headfirst on his pillow.

Which is why he’s not glad to be woken up at eight in the morning.

“Go away,” he groans into his mattress, and clutches his duvet. 

“You have to get up,” says Noah, tugging at his pillow. Stephen’s head falls away and he curses.

“No, I don’t,” Stephen complains, and steals back the pillow. 

“Come on, bastard, I’ve got us two seats in the library. You’re going to help me with my essay for Public Health, remember?”

At that, Stephen turns in his bed again, only to find Noah staring at him. After all the effort Stephen went through to get a single room, intent on his privacy as he was, he doesn’t actually mind Noah’s presence all that much.

(He has shared rooms with three boys for the duration of his stay at Ilvermorny, and he’s keen on not repeating the experience. Explaining his situation to the Magical Congress is the only reason he’d been able to get a single, since he’d claimed that he’d want to use magic, even if he wasn’t planning on pursuing a career in the wizarding world. Given their need for secrecy, they had grudgingly obliged.)

 “I forgot,” Stephen says. “I’ve been up studying all night.”

Noah barks out a laugh. “That’s rich. What’s your grade point average again?”

“Shut up. I didn’t go to all the lectures for Disease and Therapy, and if I remember correctly, that’s mostly your fault.”

Noah’s grin turns sly, and he lets him fall on top of Stephen. His fuzz scratches along Stephen’s cheek as Noah kisses his cheekbone.

“So you want to stay in bed, hm?” Noah asks.

Stephen laughs, and throws him off. 

~*~

When Donna turns twelve, Stephen is sixteen and in his fifth year at Ilvermorny. 

“It’s not fair!” she says. Stephen is home for the Christmas holidays, and there is more than enough food on the table to feed a family twice their size. Stephen has never been sure if it’s to make up for all the time he’s gone, now, or if it’s an apology.

“Hush, Donna,” Eugene Strange says, and Donna crosses her arms. “We agreed that we wouldn’t be having words over this, remember?”

“You agreed. I just sat there while you didn’t let me talk.”

“Now, now,” Beverly hushes. “There’s nothing wrong with a normal high school, darling. There’s plenty of good schools you can pick from. Stephen couldn’t even choose!”

“Stephen’s going to a school for magic,” Donna says slowly, as if their parents have lost their minds. 

Stephen takes another bite of his stuffed turkey. It’s a little dry, and there’s bits and pieces of burnt thyme clinging to his fork. He stares at those, rather than at the rest of his family. 

“Because he has that ability!” Eugene says, and leans forward. It sounds like an argument they’ve had a dozen times. “That’s like - going to a high school for people who are really good at dancing. Or some sort of high school for people who want to do things with mechanics. It’s just not meant for everyone.”

Donna scowls. “Those things are stupid,” she says. “I want to learn magic, too. If Stephen can, then -”

“Donna,” Beverly Strange says heatedly. “No more discussion. It’s not happening, and leave it alone. If I hear anything else about it, you won’t be allowed to pick your own high school either.”

Stephen stays silent and jabs at another piece of turkey. Christmas hasn’t been the same since he got that letter.

“It’s not that amazing, anyway,” he says.

Donna turns away from him and pointedly eats her own turkey. Although Beverly and Eugene start their own conversation, neither Stephen nor Donna says anything else.

It’s the last Christmas Stephen ever spends with his family.

~*~

When Stephen gets back into the Sanctum, after sealing the breach in Philadelphia and having the unfortunate luck of meeting the Avengers in real-life, there is a letter waiting on his desk.

Dear Mr Strange, it reads. We have received intelligence that you have used magic while in the presence of non-magic users. As you know, the use of spells while in an unprotected public area is in violation under section 13 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. 

You are scheduled to report in court on the 14th of September at 8:15am. Please refer to the next document for the FAQs and how to reach the Secretary of Magical Secrecy. 

“Damn it,” Stephen says. 

~*~

“Patient with a fracture of the thoracic spine, significant comminution,” Christine says, appearing out of nowhere when Stephen’s just sipping from his coffee. He almost drops the mug, and from the way Christine lifts her eyebrows, she’s noticed.

“Don’t do that,” Stephen orders, and waits a moment. “And go look for someone else. I’m on my break. I just spent five hours on a decompressive craniectomy with complications, I just want to eat my bagel.”

Christine, quick as a fox, takes the bagel from the table and takes a large bite. Stephen sighs.

“I need you,” she says, swallowing. For someone so small, she’s awfully good at that venomous look. “I’m not a neurosurgeon, Stephen. She’s a child, no more than thirteen years old. Car crash. Come on, the damage is extensive. She’s in critical condition.”

“What about Nicodemus?” Stephen demands, his last effort of getting a break. 

“I’m not asking Nicodemus, I’m asking you.”

Stephen groans and rises. “You owe me a bagel,” he says, and Christine smiles.

~*~

He should not have been surprised to find Tony Stark standing in front of the Sanctum. There’s no car anywhere in the street, so he must have walked at least for a part of it. It shows: the rain is pouring, and Stark is drenched.

Still seems pleased, though, if the grin on his face is any indicator.

“Nice place you have here,” he says before Stephen can even comment on his presence. “A little gloomy, but I wouldn’t have expected differently from our resident brooding wizard.”

“I’m not a wizard,” Stephen says. He is, technically, but he took the Sanctum’s title of sorcerer when he first joined. It fits him better, he likes to think. Although the alliterative nature of his title and name together make him sound like some sort of fairytale prince.

“Sure you are,” Tony Stark says, unaware of how sore a point it is, and pushes past Stephen. 

“Can I ask what you’re doing here?” Stephen asks him, although he does lead Tony towards his study. It’s spacious and he just boiled some tea, so it’s the best place for visitors. Not that he usually gets any. 

Tony hums, and investigates the room. He peers out of the window. “Nice view.”

“It’s not,” Stephen says. “Now. Sit.”

That does the trick. Tony takes the couch, and Stephen puts a cup of tea in front of him. He gets a mildly amused expression in return.

“I prefer coffee,” Tony says, holding up the mug as if in doubt whether its contents are entirely legal. 

“Too bad. Perhaps I could’ve gotten some if you’d told me you were coming, but you didn’t, so you’ll have to make do.”

Tony grins. “You should’ve left me your phone number if you’d wanted me to tell you.”

“You found my address, I’m pretty sure you can find my phone number.”

“Oh, I already have it. Just didn’t want you to hang up on me, so I thought this might be better.” Tony takes a small sip from the tea. It must still be scorching hot, and Tony makes a face.

“You want something from me, then,” Stephen says.

“Yes. Well, the Avengers do. I’m more like, like the liaison. Person. Sponsor?”

“You’re certainly something,” Stephen says dryly. “Let me guess. You want me to join your little band of superheroes? I’m afraid I will have to reject your offer, Mr Stark. I’m really not in the superhero business.”

“You aren’t?” Tony says, and raises his eyebrows. “You’ve got the cape. You stopped a bunch of dragons from destroying Philadelphia. You helped us when we were fighting Magik, and then there’s that time you saved a kid from a falling building before we managed to get there when we were dealing with Absorbing Man.”

He can’t deny any of it. Wong warned him what would happen if he became more public with the Mystic Arts. They are not the Magic Department, though, and Stephen is not bound to secrecy when it comes to the Mystic Arts. 

“Hazards of my occupation,” Stephen says. “Sorcerer Supreme, if you were wondering."

"Stephen Strange, the Sorcerer Supreme? That sounds like a superhero name, if you ask me. Very alliterative."

"A happy coincidence, I assure you. Nevertheless, I don’t want to be an Avenger. I don’t need your team. I have my own people, and my own responsibilities. These are matters that don’t concern you.”

“What matters are those?” Tony asks, leaning forward.

“Breaks in the omniverse. People with magical abilities on the loose, from my Sanctum or otherwise.”

Tony stares at him intently for a few seconds. The papers are not wrong about him; he can really be very intense. Stephen was prepared for this day, and yet Tony has managed to catch him off guard. 

“Right,” Tony says eventually. “But there’s something not adding up here. That’s all fine and dandy, you found yourself some sort of magical order. Can’t even pretend to be surprised by anything anymore, since I do have a literal Norse god on my team, but let’s skip past your abilities for a second here. You were a neurosurgeon up to two years ago.”

“I was. I left.”

“After an injury. And then you just decided to join a cult?”

“It’s not a cult,” Stephen says irritably. 

“Whatever,” Tony says, and there’s a thousand thoughts a second that Stephen sees racing on his face. “Okay. You know what, I believe you. Man’s saving puppies left and right, saving me a whole lot of effort, so I’m going to begrudgingly trust you. Here, take this.”

He throws a pass in Stephen’s lap. There’s a big, stylized A on both sides, and one finger scanner of some sort. When Stephen touches it, it emits a soft blue light.

“What’s this?”

Tony rises. “You might not want to join the Avengers, but there’s no reason we can’t help each other out now and then. If we ever need a wizard man, I’ll press that and you’ll get an alert with a location. It’s encrypted, so no one can hack that. Mostly, it’s for you. You press that, I’ll come.”

“Don’t you mean the Avengers?” Stephen asks.

Tony winks. “Guess you won’t know until you use it, will you?”

~*~

Throughout his life, Stephen has always had an event to signify some break in the evenness of his existence. The first one, as far as he remembers, was the birth of Donna. 

The most shaping one, the one he knew would form him even as he held the letter, happened on 17 November 1993. 

“What?” says Gilbert Michaud, and grins as he climbs on top of Stephen’s bed. “Birthday card not to your wishes? C’mon, Strange, cheer up. It’s your seventeenth tomorrow! Adulthood! Independence! Doing everything you’ve ever wanted!”

Stephen has the letter in his hands, still. The owl who brought it cocks its head and flies away, utterly steadfast in its knowledge that Stephen won’t send a reply.

Gilbert’s hands are rough as they settle on Stephen’s shoulders. “Stephen? What’s up?”

“My parents,” Stephen says, his voice treacherously thick, and can feel the moment breaking into a before-and-after. A classification for momentous occasions, some happier than others, but all of them significant in some way. Before-and-after Donna, the first of his memories. Before-and-after Ilvermorny, the relief of his parents as Mrs Gildry explained the strange happenings of his childhood.

Before-and-after his parents’ death, and he feels strangely numb as Gilbert grabs the letter from his hands.

Stephen’s seventeenth birthday is spent making funeral arrangements.

~*~

The girl’s surgery goes off without a hitch. Stephen spends three more hours in the OR, but it’s always worth it when the patient is carted off again, with the relatively steady knowledge of their condition.

She’s thirteen. Her parents sit in the waiting room, not even under the pretense of thinking about anything but their daughter. Their hands are clasped together, and the mother has mascara streaks on her face. 

“Mr and Mrs Hannover?” he asks, and they rise in unison. The father opens his mouth, and closes it again.

“Diana?” the mother croaks. “Is she -”

“She’ll make a full recovery,” Stephen says, and crosses his arms involuntarily. He usually isn’t the person to bring the news, whether it’s good or bad, but Christine had pushed him towards the waiting room before he’d really had the chance to complain.

“Oh, thank you,” Mr Hannover says, and starts crying again.

“Now, she needs to be carefully monitored for a while,” Stephen says, “so no strenuous exercise or physical work. In fact, she’ll stay in the hospital until she’s cleared, and after that, she’ll still need to remain in bed for a good long while. She’ll need to be rehabilitated, but she’s still young. With enough time, she’ll be back to her old self.”

Mrs Hannover hesitates for a second. “Can we move her to another hospital?” she asks. “Not that I’m not grateful for your hard work, of course -”

“You’ll need to take that up with someone else -” Stephen begins.

“Do you really want to take her to the HMME?” Mr Hannover whispers to his wife. It is not meant for Stephen to hear, but he perks up at its mention anyway. “They helped her here, and I’m not sure the procedures are the same -”

“I just want her to have all options -” Mrs Hannover mutters back.

“Excuse me,” Stephen says, and the parents look back towards him. He smiles awkwardly. “She goes to Ilvermorny, then?”

The shock on their faces would be funny, had he not just performed a laminectomy on their child.

“How do you know?” Mrs Hannover demands. 

“I went there myself,” Stephen says. “If you are debating whether an alternative procedure is more appropriate for your daughter, I can just tell you that the Metro General is more than capable of providing good care until it’s time for her to go home. The Home for Magical Medical Emergencies might be more useful for you in terms of rehabilitation, though. You should contact them for the options.”

Mr Hannover hugs him. Stephen blinks, and then pats the man’s back.

“Thank you,” he says, and when he pulls back, he wipes his face with his sleeve. “It’s a shame you won’t be around at the HMME, certainly, Dr Strange.”

(When he was fifteen, Stephen had gone to an information day on becoming a surgeon in the Home for Magical Medical Emergencies. Whereas Ilvermorny is a magical place, it has the more general air of knowledge that any prestigious school accumulates in its time. The HMME was a wonder of its own, the tickly sensation of magic mixing with the sulfuric smell of antibiotics. 

He’d been fully intent on applying, only to see in the brochure that an A in Transfiguration was a firm requirement.

He would have used a spell to burn the brochure, but the application of more volatile magic had been explicitly forbidden by Ilvermorny. Instead, he’d thrown it in the garbage, and had ignored the concerned look that Gilbert had sent him.)

“No, it’s fine,” Stephen says, and smiles. “I’m of far more use here.”

(Christine brings him a bagel after his shift has ended. She runs out of the hospital to give it to him, and the wind plays with the stray strands of her hair. He takes it with a wry smile, although he almost forgot about it.

“Thank you,” Christine says, and stands there for a few seconds, her smile tainted with uncertainty.

This is a moment that Stephen knows well. This is the moment he should kiss her, were his life any different than it is. Perhaps if he hadn’t gone to Ilvermorny, he would have. If he had not been burnt before, by Gilbert, and if he hadn’t meandered down this road before with Noah.

“You’re welcome,” Stephen says, and pauses. “She’s the same age my sister was, you know. When she died.”

Christine blinks. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Stephen says, and holds up his bagel. “Thanks for the bagel, Palmer. Even if it’s only because you stole the other one in the first place.)

~*~

There is no mention of the Avengers or Iron Man on the news, Stephen gathers from a quick check even as the Cloak settles on his shoulders. Nor is there any mention of alien invasions, android attacks, or villainous intentions that a superhero should be intervening with.

Stephen opens a portal, and steps right into Tony’s living room in his New York mansion. The orange sparks sizzle on the ground, but Tony is standing right in front of him, his arms loosely crossed.

It takes two strides for Stephen to be at his side, firmly grabbing Tony’s shoulders. 

“What’s the emergency?” he demands.

“You,” Tony says, “are avoiding me.”

Stephen lets his hands drop.

“I’m not,” he says. A lie, of course, but he can hardly be expected to tell the truth to a remark like that. Tony’s eyes are dark, the light of the overhead lamp reflected in them and making them appear almost liquidy. Stephen, in his concern, had rushed so close to him that he can make out the faint freckles on the bridge of Tony’s nose.

“Not sure what else to do,” Tony admits, and steps away, to Stephen’s relief. “Because I thought, well, you know, what am I to think, anyway? But you didn’t pick up your phone, and you never know because it’s you, you might be, I don’t know, doing yoga or sipping tea -”

“I don’t do yoga,” Stephen interrupts.

“- or playing Tetris on Mount Everest, for all I know. And I know there’s all those other places you go to teach, the other Sanctums, and that’s all fine, but that’s a temporary thing. But you’d stay in New York, right? I’d hope you would, that’s the point - well, not the point of this, but the point is that you’d have reception in New York to pick up my calls -”

“Tony,” Stephen says. 

Tony shuts up.

“You kissed me,” he says, almost accusingly. “And then you ignored me.”

(Stephen had, in fact, kissed Tony and then proceeded to ignore him. He’s been burnt before, and Tony shines so fiercely that Stephen doesn’t think he can contain the flame. At the same time, it can be hard to resist.

Tony had made an awful pun, and his armour had been smeared with alien goo. He’d taken off the helmet, and his hair had been gently mussed in a way that made Stephen want to tousle every strand.

He’d kissed him, and Tony had kissed him back. Stephen would like to blame the adrenaline rush of the mission, but it had been rather standard, considering. He’d made a new portal and left the Avengers to deal with clean-up, instead finding the safety of his Sanctum and locking himself up for a full week.)

“I’m not ignoring you now,” Stephen says.

Tony barks out a laugh. “That’s rude, Strange,” he says. “Alright, you’ll come for emergency calls. That’s good to know. You could have let me know something, you know? You didn’t say a word, you just disappeared, and I was worried.”

That, Stephen hadn’t considered. He has rarely had anyone be concerned for him.

“I don’t -” he says, and stops, realizing he doesn’t quite know what he wants to say. “That is - I didn’t know. What would I have even told you?”

“Myriad of options,” Tony says easily. “I don’t know, maybe something like, ‘hey, fancy dinner with me and my magic Cloak sometimes’, or, ‘let’s do your place because you don’t host a thousand sorcerers’, and I would’ve even settled for something like, ‘I’ll call you later because I need to go freak out’. Honestly, I’ve heard the last one before. Wouldn’t have surprised me.”

Stephen blinks. “You wanted me to ask you on a date?”

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” Tony says. “Did you think we really needed you to fight a dozen AIM agents?”

That’s a good point. Not even all the Avengers had come along.

“That,” Stephen says, “is an abominable way of hinting to someone that you like them. Truly horrible.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “You’re one to talk, Strange. Not even Morgan is so socially inept that she’d meet someone she likes and proceed to ignore them. In fact, she’s got a whole bunch of friends, so she’s better than you or me in that regard. And she’s seven.”

“Right,” Stephen says. “Dinner, then?”

Tony grins. “Thought you’d never ask.”

(“Were you playing Tetris on Mount Everest?” Tony asks later that evening, a bowl of gnocchi in front of him.

Stephen just gives him a flat look.)

~*~

Gilbert falls against him during breakfast, still blurry-faced as he leans against Stephen. Their yearmates don’t even look up from their breakfast: they’re long used to Gilbert’s antics.

“I wish,” Gilbert complains into Stephen’s shoulder, “that they made some laws against giving out tests before eight in the morning. It’s child labour.”

Stephen shoves him off, nonplussed by his friend’s presence, and puts another spoonful of yoghurt in his mouth. He had, in fact, been up since six in the morning, in an attempt to cram some last-minute studying. 

“You could do these tests at three in the morning and still get all As,” Stephen snaps, but he pours out a glass of juice for Gilbert. “You can get back to bed right after. We don’t have our Arithmancy E.A.G.L.E. until Thursday.”

“Bless God for small miracles,” Gilbert sighs, and takes the juice. “Not that I’m looking forward to this. Professor Sánchez has been butchering us back and forth. I heard that she’s made this year’s tests even harder, and you know how Evelyn McLean cried last year.”

“You’re top of the class. If you won’t pass, no one will.”

Gilbert grins, all concerns gone like snow in the sun. “It’s only because she loves me, Strange. Cheer up, you’ve studied plenty. You’ll get that C at the very least.”

Stephen isn’t much cheered. “For the theory part, maybe. You know I can’t get the spells to work. If she’s asking me to Transform an ant again, she’s going to fail me.”

Nine times out of ten, Stephen will be dangling at the lowest of the list in his classes. Before he came to Ilvermorny, he used to be on the top, and without much trouble. Born with the ability, but nothing more than an average student at best, and that’s only because Stephen’s a natural at learning theory.

The spells are another story altogether. From the first year Stephen came to Ilvermorny, he’s never been able to make it work. Whereas his peers quickly overcame the initial issues with the production of actual magic, Stephen’s main strengths remained academic.

Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have these powers. He could’ve gone to a normal high school and done his APs. There is no doubt he could get a full ride on a scholarship. It’s still not an impossibility, but he could’ve saved himself so much painful effort on something he’s not even going to pursue, in the end.

He can almost see Donna’s disappointed gaze, upon thinking that thought. Throwing away something she’d wanted. Two years after her death, and he can just see the way she’d turn away from him.

“She won’t fail you,” Gilbert says, unbothered by Stephen’s inner turmoil as he grabs a piece of bread and shoves it into his juice. Stephen makes a face. “I mean it. We’ll pass the E.A.G.L.E.S., and then it’s off to study some more! No more Transformation, anyway.”

“No more magic,” Stephen mutters.

“What?”

He hasn’t told Gilbert yet. He’s not sure he’ll tell him until the day they graduate. “Nothing. Why don’t you eat breakfast like a normal person, for once?”

Gilbert grins, and waves his soggy bread in Stephen’s face. “It’s for good luck, Strange. You’ll see. We’ll pass, and then it’s goodbye, Ilvermorny.”

~*~

The Ancient One watches him with more focus than anyone ever has. Stephen can feel his fingers twitch at her attention, and she undoubtedly notices, from the way her mouth twitches into a smile.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” she says, and sits down in front of him, cross-legged. She is nothing like any of his professors at Ilvermorny, although she probably would’ve fit in if she’d wanted to.

“Don’t I?” he asks in deadpan, although his mouth is dry. “This time yesterday, you threw me back out on the streets after I asked for your help. I think I’m allowed to be a little tense .”

She raises her eyebrows. “We have a great many people who come to us for help, Stephen Strange. Not all of them can be helped. Not all of them really belong in the Sanctum, although they might think they do. And you certainly don’t even think that.”

“I’m not here to stay,” Stephen says decidedly. “I told you. I want to fix my hands, that’s all.”

“Right. And tell me, why haven’t you gone to any of your associates for Ilvermony? Or the Home for Magical Medical Emergencies?”

Stephen lets out a bitter laugh. “Don’t have the money. The rate for American dollars to knuts is horrible, anyway, even if I had any normal dollars left.”

She seems skeptical as she rises from the ground. He can’t see her face as she turns towards her tea table, busying herself there. He waits for a few minutes until she is done, and she offers him a cup of Earl Grey.

With a frown, he takes it. The cup trembles in his hands, and he sets it down before he spills.

“You are a wizard,” she states, pacing the short length of the room. “For seven years, you studied at Ilvermorny. Give me a single reason why I need to teach you when you’ve had more of an advantage than any student I’ve ever had.”

Stephen stares at her. There is a genuine anger in her words, her nostrils flared. She’s not the kind mentor who gave him tea, nor is she the calm and powerful sorceress who showed him the possibilities of the universe.

“I don’t know,” he says helplessly.

She deflates.

“I cannot help you. You already know magic. Anything I were to teach you would be detrimental to your current understanding of the world. I’m not -” she says sharply, as Stephen opens his mouth to argue, “trying to pawn you off to somebody else, you understand? You have been practising a certain kind of magic since you were twelve years old. As a scientist, you must understand that unlearning what you know is a tremendous effort that, in the end, might prove futile.”

“I haven’t used magic in twenty years,” Stephen says.

She pauses. “Why?”

“You like that question.”

“As we all should,” she says wryly. “Now answer me.”

“I can’t do it. Not well, anyway. I scored a D on my Transformation E.A.G.L.E., if you must know. I only managed to graduate because I got enough As on the theoretical stuff. I have the ability, but talent? Definitely not.”

She eyes him, that razor-sharp keenness back. “Is that why you became a neurosurgeon?”

“In part,” he says. “I didn’t have many ties with the magical world to begin with.”

She sighs and sits down again before him. Stephen can feel his hope surge as she takes her own cup of tea and takes a delicate sip from it. She holds it for a few seconds, her little finger tapping the side of it as she regards him.

“Alright,” she says. “You must forget everything you think you know, Stephen Strange. That is the only way I can help you.”

“I’m on it,” Stephen says.

~*~

The wizarding world has rules in place. The laws are strict and change is slow to come, because so much depends on secrecy in their society.

It is strictly forbidden to show someone magic, or to tell anyone. Stephen knows these rules, and he’s never been bothered by them much. He left the world of fantasy and magic when he was nineteen, and he likes the world of medicine far better. It’s hard facts and rational thought.

Sometimes, he forgets to factor in the human component. 

It’s not one moment where it happens. Sometimes, Stephen wants to make a joke, or make some sort of comment, and it all relies on the knowledge of his old life. He’s left Ilvermorny, and he’s long lost touch with Gilbert Michaud, and he was never that close to any of his other yearmates anyway. 

There is no one left who knows. And yet, the words rest on his tongue, sometimes, and he catches Noah looking at him. The longer they go on, the more prominent the furrowing of Noah’s brows becomes. And one day, Stephen will have to face his questions and answer them.

There’s the rules: he can tell a significant partner. A lot of bureaucracy is involved, of course, and Stephen would have to pay a not-insignificant percentage of his remaining knuts for the license. It can be done, is the thing. Stephen is hardly the first wizard of his time to shack up with someone who doesn’t know the first thing about spellcasting, or Ilvermorny, or any part of their world, really.

( "Tell me your secrets," says Noah, half in-jest, but with some secret hope that Stephen will divulge answers. Stephen never does.)

He doesn’t want to tell Noah. It would mean that Stephen has to acknowledge that part of himself, and he’s spent so long trying to get away from it. Being accepted into medical school, distancing himself from anyone who knew him in Ilvermorny; all of these were ways of moving on.

So this time around, he is the one breaking hearts.

~*~

Stephen has rarely been in the Congress. Two times only, in fact: the first time was two days after the funeral of his parents and his sister, as there’d been some issues with legality. There was talk of a guardian, considering Stephen had been orphaned a day before formally reaching adulthood, but also the matter of him actually having turned seventeen a whole day before that conversation even happened. In the end, they had left the matter alone.

The other time had been to arrange his departure from the wizarding world and make sure he could take all the tests necessary to enroll in Boston School of Medicine. The clerk had frowned at him throughout the entire procedure, and Stephen had hummed his way through it.

Anyway, both those instances had taken place in the same year, and Stephen had barely ever seen the majority of the Congress. The Woolworth Building has sixty stories, after all, and he’d only ever needed about two. The court, however, takes him up to the fifty-fifth floor, and when the elevator dings, Stephen can only feel faintly amused at the grim air of it all.

“This way, please, Mr Strange, Mr Wong,” their guide says, a twenty-something witch with neon pink hair who seems like she’d rather be doing anything else. Without a care for anyone around them, she beelines for the grand doors at the end of the hallway. The floors are pure marble, and Wong looks around him with a perpetual scowl on his face.

“Don’t worry,” Stephen says, “we’ll be out of here again in half an hour.”

Wong huffs. “If you’re so confident, why did you need me?”

“I just didn’t want you to steal my bagels while I was gone.”

The doors swing open before them, giving way to a spacious room built shaped a half-moon. The entire back wall is rounded, with rows of wizards and witches sitting there and looking at them as they enter.

“Mr Stephen Vincent Strange answers to the court, Your Honour.”

Although Stephen didn’t think he actually had any expectations beforehand, upon seeing Judge Donnelley, most of them are confirmed. He has never seen the wizard court in person, but he’s had one or two classes on the subject, mostly in reference to Azkaban. Somehow, it’s not surprising to see that the majority of the people who fill the seats are white-skinned men with greying hair. There’s a couple of women, too, but no one who seems to have missed the invention of sliced bread.

“Your Honour,” he says. Wong just lets out a grunt and stays behind Stephen.

“Mr Strange,” Judge Donnelley says gruffly. “You are here because you have violated section 13 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. On August 8th, this year, you were seen using magic in front of a large group of non-authorized non-magical people in Philadelphia. What do you have to say to defend yourself against this accusation?”

“It’s Dr Strange, actually,” Stephen says, and takes a step forward. “If you don’t mind, Your Honour.”

“That’s not a degree we recognize, Mr Strange.”

Stephen raises his eyebrows. 

“Alright. I have an alternate title that you are also free to use - Sorcerer Supreme.”

Wong lets out a low whistle, and Stephen can’t help but grin at the horror on Judge Donnelley’s face. 

“We will not,” he says in aggravation.

“This court,” Stephen says, as loudly as he can, “holds no power over my actions. I am not a wizard - I may never have been a wizard. You were wrong to send me to Ilvermorny, and you have been able to hold it over me ever since. I am the Sorcerer Supreme of the Sanctum Sanctorum, which you have ignored and disdained for centuries. You don’t have any authority over them, which means you don’t have authority over me.”

“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong,” Judge Donnelley says. “You are registered as a wizard, Mr Strange.”

“On what grounds?” Stephen says.

“Your magical ability.”

“My magical ability is the Sanctum’s. It doesn’t take a genius to look over my records of Ilvermorny and see that I have never managed to perform spells the way a child would that was born to your side of the fence.”

“That’s not the point,” Judge Donnelley says, his face contorted as if in pain. Stephen should not take as much satisfaction out of it as he does.

“It is the point, it’s exactly the point! You’re relying on a divide of centuries ago, and you’re ignoring any and all magic that doesn’t follow your basic rules! You ignore children who have magic, but not yours. You let them fall between the gaps, and you condemn them to a life without guidance. There’s no Ilvermorny for those who don’t think in magic with words, are there? For people who will it into existence rather than use a wand as a conduit. There’s too much you don’t understand, and the Congress won’t admit it.”

“The chaos magic belongs to Dark users,” a suited man on Donnelley’s left grits out. “We teach our children to structure -”

“You teach some children,” Stephen corrects. “And some are unteachable. Wong, remind me, at what age did you come to the Sanctum?”

Wong raises his eyebrows, but turns towards the court. “I was twenty-seven.”

“Did you ever get an invitation to Ilvermorny or any other magical school?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And you learned all you know now in the Sanctum?”

Wong grins. “Yes. Very successfully.”

Stephen turns back to the court himself. “Neither Master Wong nor I are suited to your magic, the ones taught at your schools. Today, both of us are Masters of the Mystic Arts in our Sanctum, teaching our own students. It is not ability we lack, Your Honour. Your magic is not the same as what we do on a daily basis. You have never claimed any authority over the Mystic Arts.”

“It’s all just magic!” Donnelley says. “You can’t come in here and make wild accusations about the nature of our -”

“I can, and I have,” Stephen says calmly. “The separation of magic and the Mystic Arts has long been assumed, and I am here to set the record straight. The children who fall between your cracks have a place in the Sanctum, as long as I live and breathe -”

“If you don’t stop talking right now, Mr Strange, I will charge you with contempt for this court,” Donnelley says, rising. He is a large man, so it’s not entirely unthreatening. His hair might be more grey than brown, but there’s power in his stance.

Stephen holds his ground. “This court has no authority over me,” he says. “I will answer to a court of my own people only, and they would not condemn me. I was doing my job, which you know nothing of. I came here to tell you I renounce the wizarding world. You can’t denounce so many people who wield a magic you remain willfully ignorant of, and then expect me to fall in line with your world. Your Secrecy act is yours, and I will not tell anyone of your existence. But my magic is my own, and I will not accept your interference any longer.”

The court remains silent.

Donnelley scrapes his throat and sits down again. “Is this your defence?” 

“Take it however you will,” Stephen says. “Send me a letter again, and you’ll find a few very unfriendly sorcerers on your doorstep. And you might not deign to study the Mystic Arts, but I am very knowledgeable on your magic.”

With that, he turns around. A flick of his hands, and the gilded doors swing open without any of the majesty that it was granted earlier. The bright-haired witch is still standing there, her mouth slightly agape; she must have been following the entire thing from behind closed doors. Whether she’s supposed to, Stephen doesn’t know, and he’s past caring.

“They’re going to proclaim you guilty,” Wong wheezes, when they’re back in the elevator. “Oh, their faces.”

Stephen cracks a smile. “Let them,” he says. 

It’s the last time that he ever steps foot in the Congress again.

~*~

There’s something about Tony that always feels larger than life, to Stephen. It never really goes away, no matter where they are. They can be standing in Tony’s workshop, surrounded by the creations of his life, and he’ll see it, that spark of innate Tony-ness. It happens everywhere: in Central Park, when the morning sun hits Tony’s hair so that it seems he’s wearing a halo, or in front of Morgan’s kindergarten, when Tony’s holding his daughter and his smile is so genuine that Stephen’s heart wants to skip a beat, regardless of the dangers of arrhytmia.

Tony is a beacon of unadulterated goodness, most of the time, even though it comes in the package of a cocky, over-caffeinated superhero. There’s something about him that is sure, in anything he does, that makes it hard to feel doubt in his presence.

It is, Stephen is convinced, what made him such a good businessman. It’s also what makes it impossible for him to step away from Tony when he turns his charm on him. Perhaps he should have. There’s things that Tony doesn’t know about him, and things that Stephen feels uncomfortable giving up.

It’s too late to wonder about things like that, anyway. Stephen has been split in half yet again, in a time before-and-after loving Tony. 

(He remembers a time where life was divided in before-and-after Donna, and a life before-and-after the death of his parents, and a time more recently where life was before-and-after leaving the magical world and starting med school. The most recent break, the one he’d thought would be most important, is before-and-after finding the Sanctum. Tony is wholly unexpected and completely wanted.)

The thing about Tony Stark is that even when he’s being steadfast, life will find a way to come back to bite them in the ass anyway. This time, it comes in the form of a six-year-old Morgan Stark, levitating bits and pieces in her father’s workshop.

"Oh," Stephen says, the first time he sees her doing it, and winces.

~*~

Mrs Gildry finds him. The halls of Ilvermorney are as good as emptied out, with the exception of certain couples taking advantage of the deserted classrooms and kitchens in the castle. It’s raining in a way that feels cleansing: it’s why Stephen loves May. It’s a gentle month.

“Congratulations,” Mrs Gildry says as she sits down next to him. She doesn’t ask for an invitation. To be fair, she never has.

Stephen stares up at the familiar walls of Ilvermorney. After tomorrow, he’ll never wander these halls again. It is a relief to be rid of a place that holds such disparate memories for him, but now that he’s actually leaving, it’s hard not to be sad.

He’s spent seven years of his life in this castle. He has no idea if it was worth it.

“Thanks,” he says. 

“I thought you’d be out with Gilbert,” she says. “You might be leaving Ilvermorney, but that doesn’t mean you’ll leave the friendships you made here, you know.”

Stephen snorts. “The one friendship, you mean.”

“As long as it’s a good one,” she says, and winks at him. “Or more than that, even. Caretakers notice these things, you know.”

“That’s not what’s happening,” Stephen says, and refrains from hugging himself. He doesn’t want to think about Gilbert Michaud. 

She notices his mood, and quietens. Stephen would pretend he doesn’t want her to, but it’s actually kind of nice when she embraces him. She smells stuffy in the way that mothers do, in a way that can be both oppressing and liberating in equal amounts.

He’ll never see her again, either. Not after he’s cut these ties. There was only one person who could have made him consider it.

“Oh, my poor boy,” Mrs Gildry says, and tightens her hold.

The day after, Stephen leaves the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for Boston University. 

~*~

“Have you ever,” Stephen starts, and then reconsiders.

Wong is mostly annoyed at the intrusion of his reading time, but he’s a good friend. The best Stephen has had, really, grumpy though he may be. “Have I ever what?”

Stephen sighs and leans forward. The library is completely silent, this deep into the night. It’s only them left, and only because Wong happened to be translating a manuscript written in Geʽez that they had received from the Hong Kong Sanctum for safekeeping. Stephen had told him it could wait until morning, but Wong’s love for spellbooks in languages that no one speaks goes unrivalled.

(Although they’d had a short contest with his love for tuna sandwiches, which Stephen had grumbled about, since Wong doesn’t have a penny to his name. Wong usually wins their arguments about who is to pay, however, mostly because he’s the most stubborn person that Stephen has ever come across. Anyway, the books still win out. Stephen had tested this by waking up Wong for both of these at ungodly times to test his theory. Wong had been less than pleased.)

“Have you ever regretted not being able to attend Ilvermorney?” he asks.

Wong snorts. “No.”

“You would’ve enjoyed it, I think. Definitely would’ve been sorted into the Horned Serpents. I had some friends in that House, always carrying spell books with them. You would’ve fit right in.”

“What House were you in?”

Stephen smiles and rubs a hand over his face. “Pukwudgie.”

“Charming name. They’re good at that, aren’t they?”

“It’s the House that favors healers.”

Wong frowns at him, the book before him forgotten. Stephen leans back in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. “Makes sense,” Wong says. “At least they got something right, even if they didn’t manage anything else.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Stephen says.

“I thought you hated it there?”

“Parts of it, maybe. Not everything.”

Wong slowly nods. A lamp flickers above their heads; with a snap of his fingers, Stephen brightens it again. The yellowish light seems all the more pronounced for it, casting shadows over Wong’s face.

“I don’t regret that I never got the invitation to Ilvermorny,” Wong says eventually. “I would’ve wanted one at the time, I think. But that is what the Sanctum is for. It catches those who fall through the cracks - the unwanted and unseen of the magical world. They would’ve taught me things that would take a lifetime to unlearn. I see that in you, too.”

Stephen looks back up at the lamp. It had taken him only a second to illuminate the bulb, and now it’ll be lit for centuries, until that spell runs out. 

“They’re a little outdated,” he says, “but not necessarily wrong.”

Wong huffs out a laugh and stands. The chair scrapes as he does so, and he carefully stores his manuscript with the rest of the books. 

“There’s no wrong when it comes to magic, Stephen,” Wong reminds him, and leaves Stephen to contemplate that shining bulb of light by himself.

~*~

After Stephen’s first year at Ilvermorny, Eugene and Beverly Strange hang up banners that say ‘Welcome home’, and the neighbour, Mrs Moore, makes him his favorite cake. 

(It’s chocolate raspberry. Tony had tracked her down and got the recipe from her, after Stephen confessed that no one had ever made it like her, and that it’d put him off the cake ever since. Tony can’t bake cakes to save his life, but he’d tried, and Stephen had laughed for ten minutes when he had seen the streaks of chocolate in Tony’s goatee.)

For three hours, he recounts information about his classes, and his teachers, and his classmates. They want to know everything, and Donna sits next to him the entire evening, almost vibrating with excitement.

“Will I be able to go, Stephen?” she asks, her eyes large. “I want to go, too!”

“You’ll see when you’re twelve, Donna,” Eugene says, laughing.

Stephen thinks, in hindsight, his parents were wrong to ever give her the impression that she might go to Ilvermorny. Stephen had been three when his parents found his toys floating around him; Donna is thoroughly ordinary, in comparison.

At that moment, he doesn’t think about Donna at all. When the cake is gone and Mr and Mrs Moore have gone back home, he excuses himself. He’s exhausted, and he’s been smiling and laughing all afternoon.

When he gets up to his own room, tidied for his return, he falls on the cover and cries his heart out. He’s quiet about it, because he doesn’t want them to know how miserable he is. How relieved he is to be home.

In August, he goes back. The only good thing about it all is Gilbert.

~*~

“Morgan is not,” Tony says, “a witch.”

“A bit rude to be so offended,” Stephen mutters.

Tony turns to him like a whirlwind. There’s nothing more frightening in the universe than the self-righteous anger of a concerned parent.

“You chose that,” Tony bites. “Morgan is eight years old. Eight! She shouldn’t be - able to open doors like that, or have items float around her!”

Stephen takes his arm, pressing him close. “You can’t repress that part of her. It’s her decision to make, not yours. She doesn’t have to do anything with it, Tony. Not if she doesn’t want to. But she’s still young now, and she needs to learn to control it.”

“Did you teach her?” Tony says. “Did you, Stephen?”

Stephen sighs. “Do you really need to ask me that?”

Tony’s eyes soften. Stephen lets him go, but it’s a little awkward to just stand around each other. They haven’t had disagreements; not about Morgan, anyway. Stephen is not her father, so he’s happily let Tony take the lead in everything on that front, only giving opinions when they’re asked for. 

This is his domain, however. Whether Tony likes it or not.

“Did I do something?” Tony asks. Now that the anger’s gone, only anxiety is left. “Did I - I don’t know, did I expose her to something? God, Stephen, please tell me I didn’t fuck up my daughter for good. She’s levitating screws!”

“There’s a school,” Stephen says. “It’s called Ilvermorny. You’re not supposed to know about that, but since Morgan’s going to get an invitation letter for it in a couple of years, you might as well know now.”

“There’s a what?”

“It’s a school for witchcraft. It’s where I was sent, when I was twelve.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “You didn’t go to the Sanctum until you were forty. That’s what you told me.”

“Yes. That’s where I learnt to use magic. They attempted to teach me once before, however. It didn’t work out so well, but the school is real. It’s one of her options, if she chooses to go that way. She doesn’t have to, but she’ll need to learn to control her abilities either way.”

“You were a wizard. At twelve. Is what you’re telling me.”

Stephen nods. “A horribly poor one, that is. But yes. I decided it wasn’t for me, afterwards, and left to become a neurosurgeon. I didn’t return to that world until I found the Sanctum.”

Tony sighs, and pulls Stephen towards him.

“Okay. Start from the beginning.”

~*~

The Sanctum buzzes with energy in a way that is both similar to Ilvermorny and couldn’t be more different. There are no teens running around in the hallways, and the colours of the Houses plastered on the wall. But the air cracks every now and then, and Stephen doesn’t even realize how much he’d associated this smell in the air with magic until he’s back in the Sanctum.

“You need to focus,” the Ancient One instructs him, and peers at the way he is holding his hands. Automatically, Stephen extends his little finger a little more prominently, just so that she can’t say that he’s slacking. His hands hurt, but he promised her he’d try.

“I am,” he says, gritting his teeth. “I can’t get this to work.”

“It’s because you’re thinking of it the wrong way,” she says, and takes his outstretched hands and folds his fingers. “It’s not about how far you’re extending your fingers, Stephen. It’s about how you are perceiving the magic, how you’re envisioning it.”

“But it does matter,” Stephen insists.

She sighs, and drops his hand. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to unlearn this,” she mutters, and then speaks up again. “Ilvermorny told you to pronounce clearly. Ilvermorny told you to stretch your wand so-and-so, or the spells wouldn’t work, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Did that work? Hm?”

Stephen crosses his arms. “No. Not for me. But for everyone else -”

“You’re not everyone else, Stephen,” she says strictly. “You have a gift. A very strong gift, if I’m not mistaken. You can do this, and by the Vishanti, you will do this. Do not think about what your professors in Ilvermorny told you. Their ways are not suited for your kind of magic.”

“It’s magic,” Stephen says in exasperation. “There’s no kinds about it.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’ve read textbooks for seven years. Magic is just magic, and the wands are the conduit. If you’re really good, you don’t need the conduit to harness it, but mostly -”

“Yes?” the Ancient One interrupts. “I don’t need one, do I? Everyone else here? Are they all just above average users of magic? No, Stephen. Seven years of Ilvermorny does not constitute a full awareness of the intricacies of the Mystic Arts. Stop waving your hand around, and listen to the magic around you. You can hear it, can’t you?”

Stephen narrows his eyes. “Everyone can.”

“Nope.” The Ancient One is cheerful as she strides around him. “Not the students of Ilvermorny, not in the way that you are doing. Or the professors, really, except for maybe one or two. They tap their powers in a different way entirely - a way that requires precision, and study, and a lot of Latin, mostly, for some reason.”

“The power of words,” Stephen says.

“Versus the power of nature,” the Ancient One counters. “We can learn to use this, Stephen. You have so much capacity for magic, so much unfilled potential, that the Magic Department noticed you. It overflowed, and they tried to teach you to control it. You do control it, to a certain extent, just by refusing to use it. But you do not belong to their world. You belong to this one.”

Stephen sighs. “I’m not powerful,” he says. “My spells have never done what I needed them to do. Why would it be different now?”

“Because we are.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

She smiles. “It doesn’t need to. That’s the beauty of it. Now, try it again.”

~*~

The headstone is simple and grey, and does no justice whatsoever to the intricate relationship Stephen has with the people to whom the headstone belongs.

Stephen’s family hadn’t been rich, and they hadn’t been influential or important in any sort of way. There is no extended family, and so no one had taken care of the funeral, or the headstone. No one but Stephen.

“They would have been proud,” Wong says eventually.

Stephen lets out a humourless laugh. “They had no idea what I was doing,” he says. “To them, magic was something you could or couldn’t do. They didn’t know I was bad at it.”

Wong regards him. In the setting sun, the planes of his face are hard to read. “Did you ever tell them? That you hated it?”

“How could I have,” Stephen mutters, and runs his fingers over his sister’s name. “She was jealous of me. Donna always thought it was so amazing, to be able to do magic. Last time I saw her, she didn’t say a word to me. I just thought it’d get better once I left Ilvermorny, but she wasn’t alive when I did. She would’ve hated that I went to med school.”

“She was a child,” Wong says. “She would have grown up to see that you were doing what you needed to do.”

Stephen sighs. “Maybe,” he says, and stands up again. His pants are muddy from the dewy grass, and he absentmindedly wipes his palms.

“And you are a sorcerer now,” Wong says. “She might have been, too. The Mystic Arts aren’t as obvious as what your Congress prefers in children.”

“She would’ve liked to,” Stephen says, and he thinks, for a second, about a twelve-year-old Donna, focusing intently on a spell in the Sanctum. He would’ve enjoyed that, he thinks. He would’ve enjoyed seeing his sister grow up, anyway, whether she’d come to the Sanctum or had become something else entirely.

Wong hums. “So you still want to continue your plans?”

“I think I have to.”

“We’ve made do for centuries. You will get in trouble with your magical world.”

“They’re not mine,” Stephen says. “The Sanctum’s mine.”

There’s a grin playing on Wong’s face that tells Stephen all he needs to know. It’s not the first time that Stephen’s history in Ilvermorny has played a role in what he does in the Sanctum; it won’t be the last time. He’s been shaped by that, for better or worse.

“They’d be proud of you,” Wong repeats, and it’s gentler. 

“I want to name it after her,” Stephen says, and looks down at his sister’s headstone again. It’s so unassuming for a girl whose fiery temper was feared by everyone who knew her. In life, Donna Strange had been a supernova.

Yes, she would’ve made a wonderful sorceress, had it come to that. And Stephen knows what to do with that.

~*~

Gilbert hasn’t even started packing yet, despite the fact they’re leaving in three days. Normally, Stephen wouldn’t mind. Gilbert always packs four hours before the train leaves for New York, but this time, they won’t return to Ilvermorny. They can’t leave anything for next year. 

“Come on,” Gilbert whines, and pulls at Stephen. He goes down with an oomph, and falls right on top of Gilbert’s skinny legs with his ribs.

“Unnecessary,” Stephen wheezes, but sits upright in Gilbert’s bed. “What’s so important you want me to look at it? I’m picking out what books can go into recycling.”

“All of them,” Gilbert says absently, and takes the letter. “Look what I got in the mail. Read it, Stephen, come on!”

(Gilbert is right about the books, but Stephen won’t realize this until two days later. His suitcase is far lighter without his copies of A Guide to Medieval Sorcery, Magical Theory, or the Encyclopaedia of Toadstools. It’s not like he can bring them to Boston.)

Stephen takes the letter, shifting so he’s leaning against Gilbert rather than uncomfortably wedged on top of him, and reads. 

“Your acceptance letter for the Alchemist’s Association in New York,” he realizes.

“It was a long shot, but they wanted me!” Gilbert says excitedly. “Apprentice, first, of course, but it’s a decent starting position. And New York has one of the finest branches in the association, too.”

Stephen knows all of this only because Gilbert has talked about it so often over the past three years. The way Stephen wants to be a doctor is the way that Gilbert wants to be an alchemist - except one of them actually had a decent chance at being accepted for education in their desired field.

“That’s great,” Stephen says.

“And the best part is that they sometimes work together with herbalists, too,” Gilbert says. “Might run into you!”

“I’m not going to the herbalists.”

That stops Gilbert right in his tracks. Stephen stares back, his heart beating loudly in his chest. For an entire year, he’s told Gilbert that he would go to the Centre of Herbology and Medicine, to study a more theoretical approach to science and healing. The Centre researches medicine, although there’s mostly a lot of paperwork involved.

It would be a decent option, had Stephen not gotten his acceptance letter from Boston School of Medicine.

“You’re not?” Gilbert says. “Where’re you going, then?”

“Boston,” Stephen says.

Gilbert frowns. “What’s in Boston?”

“Medical school,” Stephen tells him. “So, I’m leaving. The wizarding world, that is, not just Ilvermorny. I had to take a couple of extra credits, and the Congress actually needed to get involved, but I can go. Full scholarship, even. They were very impressed with my essays.”

“You’re leaving?” 

“Well. Yes.”

“You can’t just leave,” Gilbert says in exasperation. “Going to Boston! That’s no more magic, you know, living with them?”

Stephen snorts. “You’re pretending I can actually do magic now, Gilbert. I’m by far the worst student that Ilvermorny has ever seen. The only reason I was accepted for that herbology position is because I’m smart and you don’t need spells to do the work. I’ll just be handling health warnings all my life.”

Gilbert is silent for a few moments, his own acceptance letter crumpled in his hands. “That means I barely will get to see you,” he says. 

“It doesn’t have to. I can still use the hearth, and -”

“Can you, though?” Gilbert says. “Boston doesn’t have a lot of wizards. It’s just not the same, Stephen. You’re going to be studying, and there’ll be all sorts of people who can’t see, and I can’t just Apparate into a university building -”

“It won’t be like that,” Stephen says. “I don’t need the magic, but you’re my friend. You’re - we’re -”

“I just don’t understand why you’re going to a school where you can’t even use any magic, when there’s a perfectly good position in New York that you wanted -”

“I didn’t want it!”

Stephen slowly slides his way off of Gilbert’s bed. It’s not as cozy as it used to be when they were twelve, when Stephen didn’t yet know how ill this world would fit him. 

“Stephen -”

“For seven years, I’ve been trying to do something I can’t,” Stephen interrupts him. “I used to be good at school, do you know? I liked studying, and I liked feeling I was good at it. Now, it’s all - it’s extra credit, trying to make up for not being able to do one goddamn spell right, not even when it matters. It’s more effort to do a spell than just to - to open the curtains myself, or to cook a meal. Now I’m in med school, and I can just be good at things again. I can do something I really want to be doing, instead of being condemned in the wizarding world for the rest of my life.”

“They don’t,” Gilbert says helplessly. “Once they see how smart you really are -”

“But I’m always going to have to prove it.”

Gilbert swings his own legs off the bed. The acceptance paper remains on his pillow, but he only looks toward Stephen. There’s something gaping in his chest, and there’s a complicated sting at having blurted out all his issues at the exact moment Gilbert is getting what he’s always wanted.

“So that’s really it, then?” he asks.

Stephen shrugs. “I can’t stay. Not if I want to do something with myself. Not even for you.”

“You know I’m not -” Gilbert says, a little breathless, “I haven’t - you’re my best friend.”

It’s not really a secret as much as it is something they’ve just never talked about. Stephen doesn’t mind, at this point, not since he first figured it out in fourth year. Gilbert doesn’t work like that, with those sort of complicated feelings tangling up - not for anyone. At least that always made their friendship utterly devoid from the complications of romantic entanglements with anyone else.

“I know,” Stephen says, and winks. “You’d be an idiot to pass up if you did.”

Gilbert huffs out a short laugh, but then sobers up again. “I can’t believe it’s just going to be over like this.”

Stephen hums.

It’s the end of an era, and he’s not sure how to feel about it either.

~*~

The Donna Academy for Mystic Arts starts its first academic term two years after Morgan’s powers first came to light, and four after Stephen had first considered the concept.

“Is it a little bad,” Tony says, “that I’m glad you can do teleportation?”

“Oh, no,” Stephen laughs, and watches as a handful of students step through Wong’s portals, a few feet away. The weather is mild for August, and the lake ripples as the wind blows. “I’m very glad we managed to settle in the White Mountains, with Wong’s helpful shielding protection, but I can’t imagine driving up to New Hampshire every day.”

“It’s a nice place,” Tony remarks. “What do you think, Morgan?”

“I thought it’d be bigger,” Morgan says, scrunching her nose. She’s ten, now, and she still has a few years before she even needs to make a choice. So far, her powers seem to align more with what Ilvermorny generally teaches than the Mystic Arts, but one does not necessarily preclude the other.

And at least there is a choice now. No more cracks to fall through, but an actual Academy to welcome anyone who goes unnoticed by the Congress and Ilvermorny.

“Well, we’ve only just gotten started,” Stephen says, and ruffles her hair. She grins up at him. “Ilvermorny is about twenty times this size, but we can scale up if need be. So far we’ve only found a hundred students, and we’ve extended our search to far beyond America.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Morgan says. “I think it’s cozy. Like our holiday cabin. Makes me feel at home.”

Stephen would tell her that her holiday cabin would not be considered small by anyone else, but to be fair, not all children grow up in the household of a superhero billionaire and his sorcerer partner. Neither Tony’s nor Stephen’s abodes are small in any meaning of the world, and that’s not actually Morgan’s fault.

“You could go there,” Tony says. “If you want to.”

“Stephen keeps telling me I should consider all my options carefully,” Morgan says, very much mirroring her mother’s voice, and gives her dad a disdainful look. Stephen snickers.

“You can go to any school,” Stephen says. “Just because you have the potential doesn’t mean you need to act on it. If there’s any need for you later in life to learn magic, you have the benefit of having me.”

“Magical stepdad,” Morgan says smugly. “No one else at my school has that.”

“They will, here,” Stephen murmurs. 

If his plan works out, there’ll be whole generations of sorcerers and sorceresses now. Morgan takes Stephen’s hand, and they stand there as a group of three, watching as the Donna Academy first opens its doors.

~*~

He meets Gilbert Michaud again for the first time in decades after he has been Sorcerer Supreme for three years.

“Stephen Strange,” he says, and Stephen can’t say he’s still familiar, but he has spent years translating Gilbert’s various head tilts into moods, and he knows this one to be pleased.

“Gilbert,” he says.

They stand in the middle of a New York street, men and women on their way to work pushing their way past them, and yet Stephen can only stare at his oldest friend.

“It’s good to see you,” Gilbert says, and Stephen remembers him well enough to tell that he’s being sincere. “Honestly, I didn’t even know you were back in New York. Didn’t have any time to visit me?”

The truth is, he’d considered it. But while he was in med school, he had decided not to stay in touch for a few reasons. Gilbert himself had not reached out that often, anyway, and their friendship had ebbed away with the tides of the passing seasons.

“I’ve been here for a few years,” he says awkwardly, and they sort of shift to the side of the curb so they can talk while not being in the way of a dozen other pedestrians. Stephen feels oddly like his moment to run away has come and gone.

(In truth, if Gilbert were to ask why Stephen never contacted him, he’d be hard-pressed to find an answer that was a complete truth. In medical school, he had had Noah to pass the time with, and he’d wanted some distance between him and any reminder of his seven-year-long failure at magic.

Besides, in contrast to Gilbert, Noah had been far more interested in Stephen in a romantical sense, which had been a welcome change of pace, at the time. To be fair, Gilbert’s aromanticism might have very well saved Stephen a far more tumultuous farewell at the end of his run at Ilvermorny.)

“Right,” Gilbert says. “After finishing medical school?”

“I worked at the Metro General for a while,” Stephen offers. “Then I kind of - well, I joined the Sanctum Sanctorum a few years back. It turns out that I’m far better at the Mystic Arts than I ever was at magic.”

Gilbert blinks at him, and then cackles. “I knew you had it in you!” he says gleefully. “The Mystic Arts, that’s that - uh, what d’you call it? It’s that ancient magic, right?”

“In a way,” Stephen says, and doesn’t feel like elaborating. “And you? Alchemy everything you wanted it to be?”

“It never is,” Gilbert sighs, but he seems amused. “It’s good enough, though. I’ve got a little flat down in Brooklyn, and I’ve got two dogs and a very rebellious owl, but it’s nice. I’m actually up for promotion, so it’s not all bad. I might even upgrade to a medium-sized flat. How’s the Mystic Arts life, though? Does that come with a nice bachelor pad?”

Stephen hums. “I’m sort of seeing someone, actually.”

Gilbert raises his eyebrows suggestively. “All of that, and still managed to snag yourself a boyfriend?”

Stephen’s not sure if Tony would be mortally offended at a juvenile term like ‘boyfriend’, but he does feel a little bit awkward on Tony’s behalf nonetheless. On the other hand, Tony would probably laugh it off and sling an arm around Stephen’s shoulders, tiptoeing as he went. 

“He’s equally busy,” Stephen says. “That makes it easier. Mostly, anyway.”

“I’m glad,” Gilbert says sincerely. “Look, not that it’s not great to finally catch up with you for a bit, but if I do want a shot at that promotion and my dogs really want that upgrade in living situation -”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Stephen says, and steps aside so Gilbert can walk right past him. 

“I’ll see you around,” Gilbert hurries to say, and for a second, Stephen just remembers the boy that dipped bread in orange juice and smirked while doing it. “This time for real, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Watching Gilbert move past the street, just as tall but a bit broader than he was at eighteen, makes Stephen a little bit better.

There’s a place for everyone. It might not be the same place you expected to be, but the road to get there is just as valuable.

~*~

Christine’s features are clearly visible in the LED-lighted areas of the Metro General, but Stephen feels that shadows might have suited her better, today. The cafeteria has the pleasant buzz of chatting personnel, but she had come to Stephen’s small office with her coffee, instead.

Stephen’s potted echeveria is dying, its leaves browning and fragile to the touch. There’s a spell he knows that would revive it, but he’d probably only succeed in overhydrating it if he tried. He distantly wonders if it needs more sun.

“I can’t believe he died,” Christine murmurs, twirling her coffee in her hands.

“There’s nothing more we could do,” Stephen says, although he’d rather not think about the surgery. For a single, shining moment, he’d thought - 

But in hindsight, the chance had been very small. Juan Hernández had died on his table, five hours into intensive surgery, and nothing could have been done to get him back. The boy was eleven years old.

Stephen struggles to remember if Donna had been twelve or thirteen, when she’d died. It seems like the sort of thing that should be engraved in his memory. He doesn’t even know if she’d made it to surgery in the first place. He knows his father was the last to go.

(Sometimes he doesn’t know if he’s here for himself or for them.)

Christine sighs, and takes a small sip.

“I always wonder if I’m the right person for this job,” she says bitterly. “If I’d been a little smarter, or faster, or -”

“Hey,” Stephen says, and by virtue of not having to hold a cup of coffee, he can take her shoulders. “Stop thinking like that. You’ll drive yourself insane.”

“I should’ve backed down the moment you got involved,” she mutters. “You only ever take desperate cases. I just thought -”

“You helped,” Stephen insists. “He wouldn’t even have made it to the surgery table if not for you. You gave him a fighting chance. It’s a battle, and you did everything you could. We just can’t always win.”

Christine tilts back her head, and he lets her go. “I love this job. I do. But days like these, they remind me what it’s for. I want to save him every day of my life, if I can.”

“There you go,” Stephen says. “You can’t save them if you quit.”

That’s enough to earn him a tiny smile, at least.

“Not quitting,” she says pointedly. “How about you? You haven’t said a word about it since you left the E.R.”

Stephen leans back on his desk. The echeveria seems a pointed sign that today, nothing is thriving around him. It’s not the first time he’s lost someone - it’s not even the same time he lost a child. It never gets any easier, though.

And it doesn’t give him the same fighting spirit that it does Christine.

“That surgery wasn’t my usual scene,” Stephen says, and that’s actually true. He only does take the tough cases, the interesting ones, the desperate cases, as Christine calls them. There’s something challenging in it, something to overcome. He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for, in all honesty, but he’s never found it in the emergency department.

Christine huffs. “Getting back to the roots, Dr Strange?”

“Never that,” he says. “Only ever forward.”

(Two months later, he’s in a hospital room of his own, and reflects the bitter reality that non-magical medicine won’t save him, and that he doesn’t have a knut to his name.)

~*~

Mrs Gildry sits, uncomfortably, at the edge of Tony’s couch. Stephen can’t blame her; all of Tony’s furniture is unnecessarily expensive. Even by Ilvermorny’s standards, the luxury in Tony’s mansions is unrivalled.

Tony just smiles at the woman, Morgan by his side. Stephen stands off behind them.

“Since your situation is somewhat unparallelled,” Mrs Gildry says, and everything about her is older; her hair is an ashen grey, her hands tremble intermittently, and her voice is more frail, “Ilvermorny thought it best I came along to explain everything to you.”

“I already know,” Morgan says, and shares a look with Stephen. “Most of it, anyway.”

Mrs Gildry nods in acknowledgement. “I thought you might,” she confesses, “but Mr Strange never signed an official license for sharing his information with your father -”

“That’s Dr Strange,” Tony says icily. “And I don’t think he’s affiliated with your people anymore, anyway.”

Stephen rests a hand on his shoulder. “It’s really very good to see you, Mrs Gildry,” he says. For all of Ilvermorny’s faults, she has only ever stood by him. “But, as Tony says, I explicitly renounced any status I might’ve had in the magical world.”

She smiles quietly. “I heard you set up some competition.”

“Hardly,” Stephen says. “The Mystical Arts and your magic overlap in many ways, but there’s some important deviations. I’m only filling in the gaps in the world.”

“The Donna Academy,” Mrs Gildry says. “I always knew you were very talented, Stephen. I’m glad to see everyone knows it now.”

Stephen just offers her a wry smile. 

“If I can’t make it work,” Morgan says, and she bites her lower lip the same way that Tony does when he’s thinking too much, “can I still decide to leave? If I’m not good at it -”

Mrs Gildry hesitates. “Upon entering Ilvermorny, you will be registered as a witch with the Magical Congress of the United States of America. You can leave, but you will not be allowed to use your magic anymore. If you choose not to come to Ilvermorny, there is a little more leeway, but you will still be - under observation.”

“Unless I have her fall in my domain,” Stephen says.

“Yes, but most of your students are not on our radar,” Mrs Gildry reminds him gently. “Morgan is.”

“Dad?” Morgan asks, turning to Tony. His silence is a little uncharacteristic, but Stephen knows why. They’ve been talking about this day for four years, and Tony’s not planning on interfering with what Morgan wants. 

Tony crosses his arms. “It’s your choice,” he says, and quickly presses a kiss to her forehead. 

Morgan sits still for a few moments. “I think I know what I want,” she says.

~*~

At the end of the day, there’s a place for everyone.

(“I can’t believe you’re leaving the magical world,” Gilbert Michaud says, incredulous.)

The Sanctum is the same as it’s ever been, except that the hallways are a little more crowded. The general smell of the Mystic Arts and a fresh cup of tea still linger in every nook and cranny, the way it was when Stephen first came here.

(“What are your secrets, Stephen Strange?” Noah murmurs into his neck, as Stephen is writing his essay for Disease and Therapy. Stephen smiles tightly.)

Tony is sitting in the garden. Two sorcerers, college-aged, hang onto his lips. They graduated from Donna Academy two or three years ago, if Stephen’s remembers correctly, although they had not continued in the Mystic Arts afterwards. Stephen always encourages his students to look beyond the obvious options, when it comes to a career.

(“You need to unlearn everything you know,” the Ancient One tells him gravely, “and then you might find your way to the Mystic Arts, if it lies in your future.”)

Stephen smiles, and sits down next to Tony.

“Good afternoon,” he greets his old students, and turns to his partner. “What nonsense are you putting in their heads today?”

(“Tell me everything,” Tony Stark says, and Stephen does. He tells him of every second he spent in Ilvermorny, and his family’s death, and his decision to leave the magical world. He tells him of not belonging, and finding something like comfort in medical school. He tells him of his accident, and finding a home in the Sanctum. 

“And here,” Tony adds, then. “You’ve got a home, here.”

“Maybe I do,” Stephen says, and Tony kisses his knuckles.)

“How dare you insinuate,” Tony starts, “that anything I ever have said, at all, is nonsense. I resent that implication, Dr Strange.”

“It’s just about every other word out of your mouth,” Stephen says easily, and presses a kiss to his hair. “Now, come on. I didn’t tell you to harass the other sorcerers. You’ll be late to your own daughter's graduation, at this rate.”

“You’re the man with the portals,” Tony complains, but he does get up with Stephen.

Stephen smiles. “I suppose I am, at that. Well, then, your ride awaits.”

Tony grumbles and waves to his company. “You okay?” he asks Stephen, when they’re alone.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

Tony considers him. Even now, over a decade after Stephen first met him, he doesn’t fail to take his breath away. He still waltzes his way through life, and he’s chosen to bring Stephen along for the ride, and there’s few things more exhilarating than knowing that he’s been chosen. This time around, Stephen has been chosen to be someone’s home.

“Just wanted to make sure,” Tony says easily. “You seemed like you were reminiscing.”

Stephen hums. “Maybe I was.”

“One of these days, I’ll get a straight answer out of you,” Tony complains, but his touch is light as a feather as straightens the Cloak. “Don’t reminisce too much. You’ll remember me when I was younger and prettier, and could still pick up Morgan with one arm.”

“I think you’re the only one who misses that,” Stephen laughs. “Remember, Tony, she’s eighteen. Treat her like an adult.”

“Never,” Tony vows, and smiles. “So, really, just making sure. You are okay, right? Everything’s fine?”

Stephen exhales. Around them, the Sanctum’s air vibrates with spells and magic. In the garden, he can hear numerous sorcerers practising portals and incantations. Tony’s hand is warm on his arm, his dark eyes never even leaving Stephen’s face.

“I couldn’t be better,” Stephen says.

(There’s a place for everyone, and Stephen has found his.)