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Chapter Text

Rumour has it that Edward Elric wrestled a hippogriff - and won.

Harry couldn’t tell you how the rumour came to be, but he could tell you with certainty that nobody doubted it either.

The story of the stocky seventeen-year-old grappling a moose-sized magical creature has been part of dinner and hallway conversation for a solid week now. Seeing how his classmates lean in towards Seamus Finnigan as he gossips in a hushed voice, the novelty still hasn't worn off.

“I mean, it would make sense”, Saemus explains, almost visibly vibrating out of his seat from excitement, “I overheard two Slytherins say that Elric’s shoulder is all messed up. Like a creature almost tore his arm right off!”

Next to Harry, Hermione rolls her eyes to the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall before turning back towards the leather bound book on her lap. If there is one sure way to ruffle Hermione’s feathers these days, it would be mentioning Elric in any way, shape or form.

Something to do with poor library etiquette or whatever - Harry hadn’t really been listening.

“Woah, no way!” A gaggle of other fourth years from different Houses lean forward in shocked awe, hanging onto every word the Irish Gryffindor whispers. Some of them surreptitiously look around the Great Hall, trying to find the subject of their conversation amongst the droves of students still hanging around for the show.

Throughout the evening, several sixth and seventh year Hogwarts students had taken their chance and put their names into the Goblet of Fire. Harry had seen Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff step forward with a confident grin that grew even wider when the usually timid Hufflepuffs cheered louder than any of the other Houses had done.

Not much later, their own Angelina Johnson had marched up to the Goblet. She had looked elated when the flames ate her scrap of paper. Her friends had carried her up on their shoulders toward the benches on the sideline - only after having done a lap around the Great Hall, of course.

The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students have all had their turn as well. Nearly all of the ones that came along had queued up at the first chance they got.

The nervous excitement is palpable in the air as glory-hungry eyes sweep across the Great Hall to size up their potential co-Champions. So far, however, the hippogriff-wrestler was a no show.

As the evening progresses and even more students trickle in to add their names to the Goblet, Harry’s year mates keep trying to one-up each other with more rumours, the next even more outrageous than the first. “I actually heard that it was two hippogriffs at the same time and that he did it to win a bet!” Justin Finch-Fletchley boasts with an almost manic twinkle in his eye.

“Thompson from Ravenclaw kind of confirmed that Elric is, like, an ex-convict,” another one of them stage-whispers, earning more awed expletives from the others.

Right, Harry remembers, that had been last month’s rumour.

The story that Elric had been released from a juvenile detention centre for troubled wizards over the summer found traction among all the Houses after he had threatened a seventh-year Slytherin to knock all his teeth out for bullying a first-year Hufflepuff. You can say whatever you want about Elric, but you can’t say he does things by halves.

Definitely not since he’s actually punched one of the guy’s teeth loose after catching him giving the same little Hufflepuff a wedgie with an expertly placed levitation charm.

And if the younger Hufflepuffs now tend to hide behind Elric’s fluttering robes whenever they want to avoid any other Slytherins, then that’s nobody else’s business but theirs.

Having been the subject of rumours and the fickleness of public opinion, Harry tries to take all the stories about Elric with a grain of salt. Yet, it is a difficult theory to bust when a few days after the punching incident, Elric had sprinted through the Potions Dungeon, clad completely in black leather and combat boots, and had tackled Peeves to the flagstone with a technique that would make Oliver Wood sing an ode to the gods of Quidditch.

For what it was worth, the poltergeist had been so caught off guard that he went down with a shocked screech, momentary tangible bells jingling all the way down. The students that had been witness to the spectacle still recount the incident whenever there was room in a conversation for a little chaos. According to them, Elric had been trying to choke the spectral jester out while trying to take back a brown leather notebook.

Ignoring the fact that Peeves, in fact, does not need to breathe, the poltergeist turned intangible as soon as the shock wore off. Students saw how Peeves phased through the floor, leaving Elric to slam his both hands on the dungeon floor in rage. All the while, a steady string of colourful expletives were slung around as he picked up his notebook from the floor and marched back where he came from.

The vocab of a sailor was nothing next to Elric’s, it seemed, and the ears of the confused Fourth Year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were still ringing when Snape finally appeared and let them into the Potions classroom.

It seemed like whenever Elric and his potentially criminal background would tumble out of the rumour mill in favour of different sordid stories, he managed an incident that put him right back at the top of Hogwarts’ collective memory.

“The Ravenclaws confirmed that Elric’s been arrested?” Dean asks, skeptically. Even though the entire conversation exists out of whispers and nudges, the ears of multiple bystanders perk up.

The Hufflepuff nods. “Yeah, so apparently Elric told his Potions partner yesterday that he wasn’t even home schooled. Where else would he have gotten classes and stuff if he wasn’t home schooled and he didn’t go to Hogwarts? Didn’t go to Durmstrang’s or Beauxbatons’ either. And he’s top of his year, too!”

A passing Ravenclaw Sixth Year that just put her own name in the Goblet scoffs in disgust, catching their little group’s attention. “It’s only the last week of October, so you better shut your mouth on who’s going to be the top of their year, capisce?”

With those words and a glare that is shaped through pure, unadulterated self-esteem issues, the Ravenclaw girl storms off in a flurry of blue robes and loose Arithmancy notes.

Harry and Ron share a look of raised eyebrows, then look back towards Hermione who is wearing the exact same glare. She violently turns another page in her book.

If Harry isn’t so sure that Hermione would never purposefully destroy a library book, he would be afraid she'd ignite it with her scowl.

Now, if you ask the Ravenclaws, they will tell you that Elric got his wild reputation through a perfectly curated half-assed backstory built out of pure strategic cunning. In their professional opinion, Elric is playing 4D Wizarding Chess when he actively blurs the line between Hogwarts student and Hogwarts cryptid. He does so by reciting age-old restricted knowledge from highly advanced research papers by heart, and then in the next sentence completely blanking on a first-year Transfiguration theory.

It drives them nuts.

Additionally, the Claws have spread the rumour that Elric is actually a till hitherto hidden Hogwarts poltergeist, coming out of the dungeons to wreck their centuries standing House record for highest performing student.

Harry doesn’t know why they think so highly of the blond, but wagers it has something to do with the fact that he’s outperforming all of them in every available subject. It’s no secret that the average Ravenclaw takes pride in their grades and likes to inflate their ego by being the best at what they do at any given point.

It therefore comes to no surprise that they would despise yet worship the ground Elric walks on. Definitely since the guy doesn’t even seem to care about his grades in the first place. Yet, no one would dare to imply that Elric would’ve been the perfect addition to the House of the Wise. No, he lacks too much common sense for that.

Shown, once more, by an incident involving an explosion in the Ancient Runes classroom where Elric had somehow managed to place the runes from a forgotten civilization in such a specific, unhinged order that the blackboard had immediately decided to spontaneously combust.

Professor Babbling had been near catatonic for a week, they say.

According to Hermione however, Elric is no criminal and most definitely not a cryptid. If anything, he is nothing but three feral raccoons stacked on top of each other wearing a Hogwarts uniform and a blond wig. Hermione stands firm in her opinion, which is not at all based on the fact that Elric supposedly hogs ‘literally all the books I need at the exact time that I need them, yes Ron, literally all of them, don’t roll your eyes at me’ and that ‘he just sits in the middle of the corridor with, like, twenty books around him and honest to God hisses when someone tries to take one away’.

Harry would laugh, but then he would get smacked by Hogwarts: A History again.

“I think the guy is really neat, for a Slytherin at least,” Neville pipes up next to them.

Oh yeah, Elric is the most un-Slytherining Slytherin that ever slithered through these halls. Instead of being cunning, political and elitist, Elric is loud, abrasive and unhinged. While Slytherins tend to skulk and scheme, Elric marches through the castle and yells whatever it is he needs to say right in your face, then and there.

Like the time Elric had torn Fred and George a new one after he had caught them trying to prank Malfoy. Apparently, Elric had only caught the tail-end of their altercation when Fred had jinxed Malfoy's robes with fake fire. It had been an action-reaction sort of situation, since Malfoy had made some unsavoury comments about their mother earlier that day.

Elric, however, had only seen how two older students had tried to torch an unsuspecting teen.

A big no-no, even for a twat like Malfoy.

Noticing he had caught flame, Malfoy had started squealing in panic. He had been trying to douse the flames by spinning around in circles while smacking his Potions homework on the lukewarm flames. All the while, Fred, George, and a whole corridor filled with students, had been roaring with laughter.

Elric, however, had taken one look at the smoking robes and had run towards his housemate in record time. After pulling Malfoy over by the scruff of his neck, Elric had ripped the Slytherin’s robe off of him and had hurled the flaming piece of fabric through the window and down the side of the castle.

According to the twins, the fallout had been glorious.

Malfoy: squealing about telling his father.

Bystanders: nearly falling over with laughter.

Elric: a fury of roaring expletives, threats and promises. His hair coming loose from his long ponytail, an enraged blush creeping up from the collar of his dishevelled uniform.

It had been like staring right into the maw of a raging dragon. Fred and George had been starry-eyed for the violent Slytherin ever since. They keep going on about wanting to prod and poke the golden snake again - just to feel that rush of adrenaline once more.

Just to catch a glimpse of pure danger in glorious human form.

Fred and George love to say that they only got away with their lives and limbs intact, is because Elric had been in detention eight nights out of seven that week for his long list of previous infractions. The latest Elric-lore being that he had managed to piss off every single professor in one way or another.

Except for Snape, for obvious reasons.

“I still can’t believe he’s not one of ours,” Ron adds. “You’d think by the rate he’s punching through his own housemates, that he’d be a lion for sure.”

Dean shakes his head. “If anything, he should be in Ravenclaw. The way he’s sweeping the floor with all of them is just glorious to watch. I feel like their pride will never recover if a Slytherin knocks their grades off of this year’s rankings.”

“Or a Hufflepuff!” Justin interjects. “Our first-years love the guy and honestly, he hangs around the kitchens even more than any of us do.”

“Nevermind all that. I honestly just can’t wait to see how he’s going to tank the Slytherin house points through curfew and uniform violations alone,” Seamus dreams out loud.

Harry agrees. Nothing beats the look on the poor Slytherin’s faces when they realise, horrified, how more and more emeralds disappear from their hourglass with each passing night.

“Man, I just can’t wait to-”

A thunderous BANG resounds through the Great Hall and jolts all its inhabitants. The great wooden doors have been kicked open, bouncing slightly back from their crash against the castle walls.

In the opening stands the subject of all their rumours, the electric blue light of the Goblet’s flames casting an ominous glow on his golden features. Elric sure was a sight to behold. The seventeen-year old was built like a Beater: compact and broad-shouldered, with a muscle tone that made Lavender and Parvati swoon when they had seen the teen on one of his runs along the Black Lake.

He was quite short for his age, but makes up for his height with confidence and combat boots alone. His dirty blond hair is always pulled back in a ponytail, bangs framing his face. When he walks around the castle, his golden eyes are perpetually frowning or glaring, depending on his mood. He broods, he scowls, he yells. He unwittingly makes the Ravenclaws pack up their stuff from the library desks when he slams his own tomes in their vicinity. 

He makes Slytherin bullies scurry away with one piercing look.

Right now, he is burning holes in the Goblet of Fire standing in the middle of the room.

His black boots echo through the Hall as he steps in a straight line through the droves of students hanging around the Goblet. As usual in his spare time, he’s wearing his black leather trousers with an equally black loose T-shirt tucked in its waistband. His red, unzipped hoodie flutters behind him as he walks. The atypical Slytherin ignores the stares and whispers that become louder with each step towards the cup.

Harry watches, intrigued, how Elric crosses the bright golden circle of Dumbledore’s Age Line and stops in front of the roaring flames. The flickering light illuminates Elric’s ironclad stare as his hand dives into his pockets to grab the slip of parchment with his name on it.

After he drops it into the Goblet, the flames incinerate his nomination in a flash of curling blue flames. The Slytherins, who have been nudging each other to look at their newly acquired housemate, suddenly start to cheer uproariously. Their voices echo loudly against the polite applause of the other Houses.

Elric, however, doesn’t pump his fist in acknowledgement like Krum had done. He doesn’t even glance at his celebrating housemates. Instead, he simply turns around and in a swish of a ponytail he walks out the way he came. He doesn’t strut or swagger; there’s no air of pride or cockiness or even excitement. Elric had come here with his piece of parchment and threw it in the flames like he would have smacked his Transfiguration paper on McGonagall’s desk.

No-nonsense, done, on to the next thing.

When Elric disappears from sight with another slam of the heavy wooden doors, the whispers in the Hall turn into excited chatter.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Angelina Johnson yells in frustration as she pops up right next to Harry. “That Juvie-Slytherin is not going to steal this away from us! This is supposed to be Gryffindor’s year!”

Harry smirks. “Fought any hippogriffs lately, Angelina?”

Angelina presses the palms of her hands to her forehead. “I’m going to have to wrestle a manticore before they pick the Champions if I want to have even the slightest chance to be chosen, don’t I?” she commiserates.

Harry gently pats her shoulder. “Or a troll. I’m sure the Goblet’s not that picky.”

She crumples in her seat with a lengthy groan. Her friends try to cheer her up by saying they can’t possibly know who the Goblet is going to choose. Who knows what it values? What it sees? Or hey, maybe it’s even completely randomised! But it was clear that nobody really believed any of what they were saying.

Edward Elric had entered the Triwizard Tournament, and Harry was relieved that for the first time in four years, all eyes were not focused on him.

Honestly, he should have known it was too good to be true.

Chapter Text

When Ed’s leg kicks out, it hits the chair in front of him so hard it scrapes a few inches sideways and nearly knocks its occupant off. The jostled Ravenclaw looks back at him, affronted and slack-jawed.  

Ed meets his eyes with a self-conscious glare and grits through his teeth, “what are you looking at?” 

The other teen pales when he sees who’s sitting behind him and quickly looks away, righting his chair with a loud scrape on the stone floor. 

A twinge of embarrassment runs through his chest when a few other Ravenclaws nervously glance back towards him, then start to whisper softly amongst each other. 

All the while, Professor Binns looks straight through the entire classroom of sixth years and keeps on talking about some sort of Goblin treaty he’s sure is very important to the local governments. The ghost continues on as if his whole schtick is pre-recorded and he’s just projecting himself next to a blackboard he doesn’t touch. It would be eerie, if it wasn’t so utterly mind-numbing. 

He really doesn’t need this right now.

Ed sighs and buries his head in the arms he has folded on his desk. He clenches his jaw when another painful cramp twitches through his leg. This time, however, he locks his automail behind his good leg to prevent it from causing any more accidents. 

Subtly, Ed glides his hand over his thigh where his port burns against his flesh. When he gently prods the swollen edge against the metal, he softly hissed. His fingertips feel the warmth radiating through his trousers. 

Ed curses mentally as yet another jolt spasms through his automail and he nearly knees his own desk. 

The guy next to him, one of his dorm mates, looks at him through the corner of his eye and Ed is fighting the urge to snap at the other Slytherin as well.  

Ever since he entered this damned castle, his asshole leg has been having these fits . Everything seems fine most of the time, but there are these random surges where his automail either completely locks up or spasms out of his control. 

Today has been the worst day by far. It’s the last period of the day, which means that he’s had four and a half periods where the pain in his leg has been growing steadily worse. It has been influencing his mood too, worsening his already short patience considerably. 

Just the week before, Headmaster Dumbledore had announced that the Triwizard Tournament was going to take place at Hogwarts. Today, after the last class, the representatives from the other two schools should be arriving. 

The entire student body was abuzz with excitement. Everyone had their own theories on who was going to enter the tournament and for some reason, people thought Ed would be the first one to add his name to the list.

Why they would think that is a mystery to him. All he knows is that for the entire week all sorts of Slytherins had been trying to strike up a conversation with him. Slytherins who, before, had looked down on him for some unknown reason.

But he wasn’t planning to waste his time with secondary school politics. He couldn’t care less if they thought he was weird or cool or wherever he scored on their carefully procured popularity axis. Honestly, he preferred it when they all deigned him too ‘lowly’ to talk to. Now that he could be ‘their next Champion’ they were trying to lay the groundwork, as he had overheard them say. Get in there early so they could ride his potential coattails up the social ladder. 

Ed was used to brown-nosing vultures,  though. Being the youngest State Alchemist ever made for loads of unwanted attention. He’d shoot himself before admitting this to anyone, but having Mustang in his corner had prevented a lot of potential harm. Twelve-year-old him did have an impeccable stranger-danger radar. However, some people did sometimes slip through the cracks. Being a literal child in the military, a prodigy, Ed was the shiny new toy with astronomical potential. Power-hungry officers had salivated about making him their subordinate, their ward. 

The way they had tried to gain favour of a literal child parallelled how someone would try to get said child to follow them to their dingy white van with promises of puppies and sweets. Again, pre-teen Ed had enough common sense not to follow the creepy men to the back alley, but damned if some close calls weren’t made. 

At the time he hadn’t known, but now it was clear that Mustang had kept him firmly out of reach from certain politicians and officers. Ones that could have done some serious harm. 

Now, at seventeen, Ed had wizened up significantly. The few dregs of childlike innocence that he had managed to keep after losing his limbs to the Gate, had been firmly flushed out of his system after his time in the military, after Truth, after Father, after-

The worst part is that Ed doesn’t remember doing something wrong with his automail. Usually when his leg malfunctions, Ed can trace the issue back to some severe misuse of it - the misuse usually it being damaged during a fight or a particularly risky bout of urban gymnastics.  

Now, this wouldn’t be much of a problem, if he had a mechanic, if he had-  

Again Ed abruptly cuts off his own train of thought. He stands up, chair shoved back as he swipes his half-hearted History of Magic notes from his desk and into his shoulder bag. 

He’s barely managed to pay attention to any of his classes anyway. Sitting here zoning out and gritting his teeth isn’t productive in the slightest. Additionally, skipping classes isn’t the end of the world, definitely since Ed’s academic pursuits lie somewhere else entirely. Wasting his time like this makes him antsy. 

There’s not a stutter in Binn’s monologue as Ed hightails it out of the classroom. He tries to ignore the stares of the other students, but somehow catches the eye of the Slytherin Head Girl - Zora… Something. She looks about ready to get off her seat as well to clobber him with the three signet rings she’s got on her fingers. The idea of it sours his mood even more as his mind wanders to another blonde with a tendency to cause blunt force trauma. 

He pushes through the door, not caring if his actions yet again cost his House any house points. They are complete bullshit anyway. 

He cuts Zora’s venomous ‘Elric!’ off by slamming the door harder than he has to. 

Fuck this. 

The castle is near deserted when he makes his way to the dungeons. There’s a twitchy, nervous energy building in his chest. The pain in his leg gets sharper with each step to the point where each time his foot comes down, the fist around his heart grips tighter and tighter. 

“Basilisk Fangs.” The wall retracts stone by stone until Ed can enter the Slytherin common room. It’s taking too long. 

There’s a cluster of seventh years hanging around the fireplace, who glance up disinterestedly. They perk up when they realise it’s him, but before one of them can utter a sound, Ed runs down the stairs and into his dorm. 

Ed shares his dorm with two other boys he hasn’t bothered to remember the names of. He’s quite sure they’re called Wallace and Greengrass, but he’s not sure who’s who exactly. One is an aristocratic platinum blond guy, the other’s rather gangly with perpetually slicked back black hair. Both are still stuck in Binn’s class. 

Dropping his bag at the bottom of his bed, Ed gets rid of the stupid uniform he’s wearing. The scratchy fabric makes him itchy and uncomfortable. He throws his robes on the floor, grey jumper and crisp white shirt following suit. The trousers go last. 

When Ed looks at his throbbing leg, he swears under his breath. The skin around his port is inflamed and shiny. Infected, by the feeling of his heartbeat in his veins. 

He really doesn’t need this.

Ed feels like punching something. A wall, a tree, a person. God, he wishes he could find someone for a proper spar. He needs to get rid of this pent up frustration growing within him.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, willing the itching under his skin to go away. 

There’s something dark building inside of him and he does not like it. 

Ed is aware that he’s known to have an explosive temper. He knows , alright. But ever since it happened, he’s just not right . Ever since that fucker -

With a guttural shout and a vicious kick, Edward turns his four poster bed into a three poster one. The dark wood gives away with a loud CRACK! and rains chips and splinters over his emerald bedding. The force of the impact presses the faulty port into his angry thigh with a burst of agony in its wake. 

When the leg comes down, it folds beneath him. His knees hit the floor with a bruising, hollow knock and he groans in pain through clenched teeth. 

The heavy weight in his chest twists and clenches. The jittery energy reaches outwards through his limbs and he needs scream or punch or-

Ed digs his fingers into his screaming skin, his nails scratch the edge where flesh becomes metal. 

He pushes. 

It hurts.

He breathes. 

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

He counts.

In. 

And out. 

Another shuddering breath. His fingers cramp. The nervous energy recedes inch by inch. 

Okay. He’s fine. He’s okay. 

His hands tremble when he loosens his grip. His breath stutters as the tips of his fingers come back red. 

A voice in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like his little brother tells him he’s not okay - not okay at all . The thought is white hot iron through his heart. It is shame burying itself in his lungs. 

Ed stares in disgust at the splotches of black and purple on his skin, shaped like his fingers and looking ugly on his inflamed leg. He swallows at the way the skin around his port has peeled back and is bleeding softly, slowly down his automail. 

Shit. Shit. What did he do? 

Ed is not sure how long he sits staring at his wrecked thigh, conflicted. His leg muscles keep on twitching in irregular intervals. 

He can’t keep ignoring this - he knows that. If his leg gets worse, he might actually mess up his port - mess up his nerves. He would be fucked. And where would he be then? 

His port hasn’t been this bad since his first operation and he knows it won’t go away on its own. On the other hand, he hasn’t told anyone about his prosthesis. Hadn’t really had to if he was being honest. Now, however, it is clear he doesn't have a choice. 

Still breathing heavily, Ed starts to put his clothes on. First his shirt, then his hoodie. He contemplates his leather trousers. 

Dragging a first aid kit from under his bed, Ed tightly wraps his leg. He suppresses a wince when the bandage roughs against the exposed wounds. Worming himself in his trousers and boots, he makes his way back towards the common room and through the secret entrance out in the dungeons. 

He limps. His… moment earlier had worsened his already shaky mobility. 

Ed refuses to call it a breakdown. 

While he makes his way towards the Hospital Wing, Ed mentally prepares for the questions he might get. He desperately tries to ignore the thoughts of ‘what if’s’, but fails spectacularly. What if he waited too long to get help? What if his port is messed up beyond repair? What if their magic won’t work on his automail? What if they realise he just does not belong . 

Suddenly, Edward’s world tilts forward when his good foot disappears into a step that has vanished into thin air. Ed lets out a cry of pain as his fall twists up his bad leg, the sharp edge of a stair digging into his weeping wounds. His forearms and chin smack painfully into the stairs.

Ed curses as he tries to gather himself. His chin stings, his leg throbs. The fuck is up with him today?!

“Oh, shit! Are you okay?” Sudden hands grip his right arm and try to lift him up from his inelegant sprawl on the staircase. 

Ed groans as he leans into the pull and crawls upright with its help. At first, he gets footing, but when he puts some pressure on his leg, it folds under his weight. 

The hands on his arm grab him more firmly and prevent him from going down. “Woah, there!” 

“Shit,” Ed swears, grabbing the yellow-lined robes next to him. He looks up towards his helper and is met with the worried grey eyes of a familiar Hufflepuff prefect. If memory serves him right, he is a sixth year student as well and in one or two of his classes.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “That seemed like it hurt.”

“I’m fine,” Ed lies through his clenched teeth. His pride smarts when he’s unable to put any more weight on his leg and instead is forced to keep holding onto the other teen. He’s not sure if his laboured breathing is from the pain, the infection, or his steadily slipping patience. 

The dark-haired prefect frowns. “It seems like you really hurt yourself there. Can I take you to the Hospital Wing?”

“I don’t need-” another try, another wince. Ed feels like screaming again.

The Hufflepuff gives him another once over, eyes lingering over his painful chin, the foot he can’t put down. His gaze stops at the blood-stained fingers clutched in his robes. The other teen opens his mouth to say something, but Ed won’t let him. 

“Just leave me alone!” Ed spits through his teeth, pushing half-heartedly at the arms that are holding him upright. The way the other teen looks at him in concern, barely moving, grates on his already raw and unstable emotions. “I’ll manage just fine by myself!” He’ll crawl if he has to. He’ll fucking drag himself through it just like he always has. 

The prefect shakes his head resolutely. “Yeah, I don’t think so. C’mere.” 

“Hey, what-!”

Without waiting for permission, the Hufflepuff takes Ed’s arm and pulls it over his broad shoulders where he holds his wrist with a vice-like grip. Another arm snakes around Ed’s middle and with a firm, seemingly effortless, hoist the other teen manages to pull him properly upright. 

The other guy is a good few inches taller than him and Ed can’t stop a sigh of relief when the weight completely lifts off of his ruined leg. His pride takes another hit, not at all caused by their difference in height, but it has been knocked to shambles on the staircase anyway. 

The Hufflepuff carefully but purposefully leads him up the stairs, skillfully pulling him over the vanished step as if he weighed nothing. 

Ed is left reeling as he’s being dragged along. The Hufflepuff holds him tightly, leaving no room for any possible argument. The surprisingly gentle manhandling manages to ease Ed’s fight out of him. Like a thrashing, feral cat being picked up by its scruff. 

As he’s being led through the corridor, the prefect looks at him with an easy smile. “It’s Elric, right?” 

Hackles still raised, if half-heartedly, Ed grumbles affirmatively. He actively leans on him now, still limping, but in considerably less pain. 

The smile on his face broadens. The tense coil in Ed’s chest loosens bit by bit. “How are the kitchens treating you?” 

Ed shouldn’t be surprised that the prefect knows that he’s been given the password - tickling the pear on a certain portrait not too far from their common room. A few weeks ago, a few first year Hufflepuffs had whispered the instructions to him. A thank you, they’d said, for punching Fawcett, a seventh year Slytherin, into the infirmary. 

Admittedly, Ed didn’t need to be thanked. The satisfaction of the asshole’s tears had been enough. Ed has always hated bullies - the adult ones the most. 

Still, the eleven-year-old Hufflepuffs he’d been terrorising had somehow noticed that Ed tended to fill his pockets during mealtimes so he could snack throughout the day. Limp sandwiches or bruised bananas hadn’t really been doing it for him, though. 

Luckily, they had noticed and had pointed him towards the very place in Hogwarts that might as well be heaven. The house elves manning the kitchens are the most selflessly loving creatures Ed had ever met. And don’t even get him started on the food they would make just for him, no matter how hard Ed tried to tell them he only wanted to grab an orange, or leftover chicken leg. 

“The kitchens are good,” Ed answers half-heartedly. “Best thing about this school if you ask me. Next to the library of course.”

“Oh, really?” the teen sounded surprised. “You sure you’re not a Ravenclaw then?”

Ed rolls his eyes with a longsuffering groan. “What is it with you people and your school Houses? What does it even matter? If liking the library makes me a Ravenclaw then sure, call me a Ravenclaw or whatever.”

The Hufflepuff laughs gently. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. It’s just tradition. Makes for some healthy competition too. It’s all in good fun,” he explains with a shrug Ed feels through his arm around him.

“Whatever,” Ed grumbles. 

Another flight of stairs, another corridor. 

“Ignoring the whole House-thing,” the Hufflepuff starts again, kindly side-stepping Ed’s barbs. “How are you liking Hogwarts? Must be hard to change schools so late in the game.”

The way the other teen is holding and hoisting him through the chilly hallways while trying to make friendly smalltalk, makes Ed feel like a right asshole. It’s not this guy’s fault Ed was feeling unsteady, unstable. 

Still, he’s unable to completely smooth out the sharp edges protruding from his skin. They are getting smaller, though. Ed doesn’t feel like screaming anymore. The aggressively kind Hufflepuff somehow manages to unruffle Ed’s feathers one polite nudge at a time. 

“It’s not too bad. The food is good. The library is great. So… yeah,” Ed finishes lamely. And Hogwarts really wasn’t that bad. Ignoring the childish politics and antics he’s just not used to after, frankly, never really having been through proper schooling after he turned eight, the castle provides him with all he needs. Room and board, free healthcare, and Britain’s most sought after magical library. 

It was the only place he could think of that could point him in the right direction. If he had to endure pointless classes of subjects he would never need later in life, then so be it. 

“In other words, a glowing recommendation,” the Hufflepuff jokes. 

Ed shrugs. “It’s school.”

The dark-haired prefect nods. “That it is. Though, for a lot of us it’s also a home. I hope you will find it could be the same for you.”

Ed grimaces. “I don’t think I will ever feel that way.” Not in a universe he’s been spit out in for the sake of a cosmic bargain.

The hand on his side pokes him. “Hey, it’s still early. Don’t reject us just yet,” the kind Hufflepuff asks him with another easy smile. 

Ed can’t find it in himself to be hopeful.   

When they reach the Hospital Wing, the Hufflepuff helps him sit down on one of the many empty hospital beds. The entire infirmary is deserted, save from Madam Pomfrey, who rushes towards them when she sees them limping into the ward. 

Finally sat down, the Hufflepuff relinquishes his hold, taking his warmth with him.  “Well, I’ll see you around soon, Elric,” he says, though it sounds more like a promise.

“Yeah, you too, and wait uh-” 

The dark-haired teen turns back around, curious. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name,” Ed admits, reluctantly.

“Cedric, Diggory,” he says with an amused glint in his eye.

“Thanks for dragging me up here, Diggory.”

Diggory’s broad smile dimples his cheeks. “My pleasure.”

When Cedric Diggory leaves the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey closes the curtains around Ed’s hospital bed. “What can I help you with today, Mr Elric, is it?”

Ed nods, his mouth suddenly dry. He’s not sure how to actually breach this particular topic. With showing his problem, there will be questions. Questions he doesn’t feel like answering, because that means he has to think back on what happened. Ed knows that it’s been years now, but time has not managed to dull the pain and terror he has to swallow each time something makes him relive his mistake. 

“I think it’s best if I just show you. Just don’t… don’t freak out?” he asks hesitantly. 

The school nurse gives him a look. “I’ve been working at this ward for longer than you have been alive, young man. I can assure you I have seen everything there is to see.”

Ed sure hopes she has, but doubts it in his case. With great reluctance, Ed peels his trousers off, pulling his automail out of the leather and onto the hospital bed with a pained grimace. The bandage around his thigh was bled through. The red blotches stark against the white material. 

He takes the bandages off and doesn’t look up at Madam Pomfrey when he hears her gasp. 

Just like before, the skin around his port is inflamed and warm to the touch. The throbbing pain had doubled, tripled, since he put the bandages on. In the harsh light of the Hospital Wing, the dark bruises on his skin look condemning next to the deep scratches licking at the edge of his port. Ed’s fingertips are still stained red; dark brown dried blood sticks under his fingernails. 

“Oh my word, is that-?”

“It’s a mechanical prosthesis,” Ed explains, still not looking at the nurse. His steel automail looks futuristic in the medieval setting of the castle. The sleek plating that used to be polished to near perfection has dulled. He hasn’t been maintaining it well and it shows. Couldn’t bring himself to for some reason. 

Madam Pomfrey swears colourfully under her breath, then begins to wave her wand around. She examines his leg, his port, his thigh. She’s near silent when she does so, except for the hisses of sympathy she utters when she gently prods and moves his leg, testing mobility.  

After a while, she starts asking questions. When did it start hurting? Which problems is he experiencing? Has he been taking any medication, any potions? Has this happened before? 

Ed answers the questions, detached.  

“Why wasn’t this in your medical file?” she asks finally. 

Ed shrugs. “I’ve had it for six years now and it was fine. It’s only since coming to Hogwarts that I’ve been having issues. The muscles around my port ache and my leg just sometimes stops working. Or kicks out or… I don't know,” he sighs.

The nurse regards him with an unreadable look. “I have never seen this kind of prosthesis. Is it Muggle-made?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”  

Pomfrey nods. “Electronics don’t work well within Hogwarts’ walls. That might be the cause of all your troubles. Here, drink this.”

Madam Pomfrey pushes a potion phial into his hand. The reddish-brown concoction swirls ominously, but still Ed downs it in one go. An icy feeling spreads from his stomach to the tips of his fingers. The clammy, feverish feeling sticking to his skin disappears with a rush of relief. All the while, the nurse moves her wand over his port, casting spells he doesn’t know the words of. But to be fair, he hasn’t really been reading up on any medical magic. 

“You’re not the first student I've had with a prosthesis,” Madam Pomfrey tells him when she’s carefully applying a pungent smelling cream around his port. The cool mixture instantly numbs the pain. “I’ve seen the harm dark magic can cause… and the damage and scars it leaves.”  

Ed stares at the hands gently rubbing his calming skin. He doesn’t know about dark magic, but he’s not going to correct her. 

“Now, I won’t ask you questions you don’t want to answer, but I am afraid I can’t speak for your Head of House. I’ll have to notify him of this.” 

His earlier relief is short-lived as his stomach immediately falls. “What? Why?”

“Because your file states that you don’t have a guardian. Unless you can update me about that, I have to follow protocol and inform your Head of House.”

“It’s none of his business!”

Madam Pomfrey fixes him with a sharp glare that makes Ed close his mouth with a click. Hands on her hip, she firmly puts him in his place: “I won’t tolerate this kind of attitude in my ward, Mr Elric! You will listen to my advice, use the cream I’ve made and accept that Professor Snape will be up to date about your situation. Am I understood? ”

Ed swallows the sour lump in his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Her glare not diminishing in the slightest, she pushes the jar of cream into his hands and points her attention back on his automail. With a grimace, she waves her wand and with another muttered spell, fresh bandages wrap themselves snugly around his thigh. 

“Now. As I’ve said. Your prosthesis is nothing like I’ve ever seen before. I’ve done my best to flush out the infection with the potion I gave you earlier. The numbing cream will ease the pain and cramping. However, we’ll have to monitor your situation at least for the next couple of days - if not weeks. I’ll talk to Professor Flitwick about the influences magic can have on electronics- don’t start with me, young man!”

Ed had been on the verge of protesting, but shut his mouth again. His jaw starts to hurt with how much he’s been clenching it today.

“I won’t mention your name, for now.” Her eyes soften slightly. “I will do my best to help you, Mr Elric. Let me figure it out for you. I’m sure you have enough on your plate as is.”

Ed looks away, suddenly more interested in the piece of lint on his shirt. 

“Use the cream. If you’re still in pain or your leg gets worse, don’t hesitate to drop by. There’s no need to suffer just for the sake of it. No need to wait for as long as you have, alright?” 

Ed takes a deep breath that burns down his throat. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Now, if I’m correct, dinner time has already started. I’ll see you tomorrow after dinner.”

With a last nod and thanks, Ed quickly shimmies back into his trousers and basically flees the infirmary. The strongly smelling numbing cream he crams in the pocket of his hoodie. 

Properly numbed, Ed rushes down the stairs. He’s kicking himself for waiting this long to get help, but simultaneously he’s cursing the fact he did ask for it in the end. Maybe he could have found a solution himself if only he had looked harder or taken care of his automail better. Now, Madam Pomfrey knows - and she would tell Snape. That’s two people too many mucking around in his business. 

Despite feeling ravenous from weathering his own turmoil all day, Ed decides to skip dinner in favour of going to the library. His leg had procrastinated him enough today and the ants under his skin writhe with each passing moment he’s not focusing on his research. 

Madam Pince greets him with an icy glare when he enters the library. “Mr Elric-”

He waves her off, not pausing to do so. “I know, I know, I’ll behave !” 

“I’m keeping an eye on you!” she whispers venomously after him from behind her desk. 

Properly hidden from Pince’s wrath behind the shelves of the Ancient Runes section, Ed takes his notebook out of his back pocket. His eyes glide over the titles he had written down, then settle on the next few on his list: Forgotten Runes of the 14th Century , Atlantean Relics of Days Passed,  and Hogwarts: a History .  

So far, none of the books on his list have pointed him in the right direction, but he refuses to let that stop him. Ed has found more information about hidden knowledge with less. 

His research, however, grinds to a halt after only ten minutes of note taking. 

A drawled, “Mr Elric, a word,” cuts through his concentration.

Ed looks up from one of his tomes and is greeted by his long-nosed, greasy-haired Head of House. He looks down at his meagre notes, then up again. “Now?” he asks in vain.

“Now,” Snape confirms in a bored voice. 

With a sigh, Ed puts his notebook in his pocket and gets up to put his books away. He follows his Head of House’s fluttering robes down to the dungeons and into the office at the back of the Potions classroom. Just like the rest of the dungeons, it’s cold and damp, but illuminated by the soft glow of several torches. A cauldron is bubbling in the corner of the room, filling the room with a cloyingly sweet odour that sticks to Ed’s nostrils. 

Ed sits down in front of Snape’s large mahogany desk. On it lie several Potion textbooks and a few loose papers. The rest of the room is remarkably bare save from some shelves filled with what Ed assumes are potion ingredients. 

Professor Snape regards him over his folded hands and for a second Ed is seeing an overlay of Mustang preparing to scold him over some property damage he’s caused. 

This day couldn’t end fast enough. 

“Madam Pomfrey just brought to my attention that you’ve failed to properly fill in your medical history on the paperwork required to enrol at Hogwarts. Can you explain to me why that is?”

Ed folds his arms defensively. “It’s nobody’s business but mine.”

“The school regulations beg to differ, Mr Elric. What is your current living situation?”

Ed’s jaw clicks shut. Snape doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and waits. The only sound in the room is the continuous bubbling from the cauldron in the corner. 

“I would have thought you were one of the few Slytherins who would want to enter the Triwizard Tournament.”

Ed’s mind reels at the sudden change of subject. “Why would I want to participate in a meaningless competition of who’s got the biggest? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Eternal glory and thousands of galleons not enough for you? And here I thought I was the head of the house of the ambitious,” the potion master drawls.

Ugh . “My so-called ‘Slytherin ambitions’ lie elsewhere,” Ed air-quotes. If one more person tells him how he should or should not act based on his sorting, he is going to hurl. 

“In knowledge?” Snape guesses - correctly. 

Ed stays silent. 

“Madam Pince has quite the things to say about your library habits,” Snape continues, dark eyes sharp. “She’s been nagging my ears off for a temporary ban, you know.”

Ed visibly pales. “A ban?” 

No, no, no. He can’t afford that. The whole fucking reason he’s here is because of the access to Britain’s most sought after book collection. Researchers and professionals come knocking on Dumbledore’s door for another glimpse at its content, access to its restricted section. The knowledge hiding in those shelves is near limitless. He simply cannot be banned . 

“Yes, a ban. She’s not happy with the way you’re handling her precious… babies .” The man’s lip curls, disgust clear on his face. 

“I- I already apologised for that!” It’s true that Ed had been a bit reckless with the books he’s been using for his research. It’s not his fault that other students can’t watch their step and wreck them when he’s laid them on the floor. He even fixed them after, too!

Already, Ed’s thinking of ways to break the ban. How would they enforce it? Which magical ways are there to keep track? Could he find counter curses for that without entering the library? 

“Madam Pince wants… consequences. However-” 

Ed swallows down the lump in his throat. 

“I’m sure we can work something out - we can help each other out.”

Dread fills him as the true meaning of this farce of a conversation becomes clear. Ed grits his teeth. 

Snape dips a quill in emerald green ink and hovers over the papers on his desk - his file. “I’ll ask again: what is your current living situation?”

“I live alone,” Ed forces out. He gives in quickly, not willing to risk it.

“Your file states that your parents are deceased. Who are your guardians?”

The question burns. “I’m seventeen - I’m of age. I don’t need any guardians.”

“Where did you get your education before coming to Hogwarts?”

Ed leans forward over the desk in front of him and points at the parchment. “I already told the Deputy Headmistress that I travelled a lot as a kid. I got homeschooled on the road. It’s all in there!”

Snape doesn’t write it down, instead he looks right through him as he flicks his hand off his desk. “By whom. Your parents?”

“What does it matter to you? I’m getting good grades, aren’t I? I fail to see the problem you’re making here.”  

“Answer the question, Mr Elric, or enjoy your time out of the library.”

Ed has to take a deep breath to keep him from screaming. “I had an independent teacher, who was also my guardian. She also died. So here I am. Happy?”

“Tremendously,” Snape monotones with a flat look. The scratch of a quill on parchment fills the room. “Now there’s the matter of your medical history. It seems like you forgot to mention your leg, or lack thereof.”

“Look, my leg was completely fine before I got here. I didn’t think it was relevant, alright? It’s nobody’s business but mine. I’m here to get my NEWTS and get out. That’s all there is to it.”

Again, Snape seems to see right through his lie. “I don’t care why you’ve decided to finish your education here at Hogwarts, Mr Elric. I do, however, take my job as Head of House seriously. You’re a student under my care, whether you like it or not. You may be seventeen, but as long as you’re a Slytherin, you’re my responsibility.”

“So let me get this straight. You say you want to help me and keep an eye on my health or whatever, but you’re blackmailing me to do it?” 

The man’s lip twitches. “A very astute observation.”

“I’m fine, Professor. I had a flare up and I went to see the nurse about it. There’s nothing more to it. If she needs more information about my leg, she can ask me about it herself. Not you. Now, I gave you the information you needed and I promise I will behave myself both in the library and in the infirmary, alright? Can I go now?”

“Almost. I wanted to talk to you about the upcoming Triwizard Tournament.”

“Why?” Ed eyes the potion master suspiciously. “This is the second time you’re bringing this up.”

“I already told you. I would have thought you would jump at the chance to become one of the Champions. Seeing as you won’t have to do exams, you can spend your time in the library, in the restricted section even, and you can-”

Ed perks up. “I could get access to the restricted section?!”

Snape raises an eyebrow at Ed’s sudden interest. “If it pertains to your preparation for the upcoming tasks and if you can argue its use, I can make that happen.”

The cogs in Ed’s brain whirr and crackle. 

“However,” his head of house continues, “keeping in mind your… condition-”

“There’s nothing wrong with my leg,” Ed cuts in sharply. “It’s healed now.”

“For now.”

“Exactly. And if I enter, I don’t have to waste my time with exams?”

“Those are the rules.”

A plan starts to form in Ed’s mind.

Snape puts his quill down and leans back in his chair. “If you are chosen by the Goblet of Fire, you will become the Hogwarts Champion for the coming year. There are three tasks you will have to accomplish and the winner will bring glory and… bragging rights to you and to Slytherin. As such, I, as your head of house, will try to help you through the tournament to the best of my abilities.”

“I thought the Champions were supposed to stand alone. That no help was permitted.”

The man quirks an eyebrow. “Do you really believe the world works that way or are you actually a Slytherin?”

Ed suppresses the urge to roll his eyes - again with the weirdly specific House-characteristics. “So, let me get this straight. As a Champion there are only three tasks throughout the entire year, you don’t have to do any of the exams, you can skip classes and you can get access to the restricted section?”

“Correct.”

The plan in Ed’s mind begins to take proper form. There’s only one problem. “Why are you so invested in this? You don’t even know me. I’ve been here for two months.”

Snape regards him with an unreadable look. It’s as if his dark, bottomless eyes are looking straight through his soul. “Contrary to popular belief, I do care about my Slytherins. You seem to have a certain goal and I feel like it’s my duty to help you achieve it.”

Help, right. 

“And Slytherin gets bragging rights, right?”

“And Slytherin gets bragging rights,” Snape echoes with another lip twitch. 

Ed huffs a surprised laugh. “Cool. Are we done here?”

“Madam Pomfrey let me know you’re expected back at the Hospital Wing after dinner every day next week. Make sure to go to your appointments. I don’t care much about dragging my students across the castle if I can help it.”

“Noted,” Ed nods. 

“Then you’re dismissed.”

Ed’s right hand jerks up in an aborted salute. He uses the awkward movement to reach forward and take Snape’s quill and rip a piece of parchment from his updated personal file. Under the calculating gaze of his Head of House, Ed writes down his name before jumping up and rushing out of his office. 

Ed marches through the castle hallways. The torches on the walls illuminate his way towards the Great Hall. By now, dinner must have ended and the Goblet must be ready to accept potential candidates. 

With a burst of resolve Ed kicks the doors of the Great Hall open. The numbing cream Pomfrey had given him is working wonders, as only a subtle zap of static runs up his thigh. 

There. The Goblet. 

With big strides Ed nears the Goblet of Fire and walks through the glowing white line surrounding it. He is only vaguely aware of the countless eyes following his movements from the sidelines. He looks at the white-blue flames reaching up to the enchanted ceiling of the night sky and rummages through his pocket for the piece of parchment with ‘Edward Elric - Hogwarts’ on it. 

When the fire burns it to cinders, roaring cheers come from the sidelines. Ed feels both determination and trepidation swirling through him. He doesn’t wait to see which emotion would get the upper hand. Instead, he turns around and heads out of the Hall, shoulders relaxing slightly when the joyous clamours die down behind him. 

There. Done. 

Depending on the outcome, Ed is now one step closer to finding what he is looking for. 

One step closer to going back home. 

—

Later that night when he lies in bed, Ed stares up at the ceiling of his three poster bed. The soft green glow of the Black Lake had disappeared by now, leaving the room in a pitch black darkness. Still, Ed’s eyes are wide open. 

He listens to the gentle breathing of his two roommates, focuses on it and pictures two different people in their place. If Ed tries hard enough, he manages to suspend reality for just a few seconds. 

In that moment, he’s lying on his old bedroom floor in Resembool, tucked in the comforter that smells like his mother’s cherry soap. Al and Winry lie next to him, deep asleep. If Ed reaches out, his fingers would brush against Al’s. If he rolls over, he would get a face-full of Winry’s hair. They’re within reach, safe and warm. Human and alive. 

When reality crashes down on him again, it punches the air out of his lungs. 

His eyes burn as he curls in on himself and clutches his pillow to his chest. He shudders as he clenches it tightly, willing it to keep him from falling apart. 

During the night, the thing inside his chest gapes instead of roars. 

At night, he can’t escape his memories. 

Ed curls tighter and counts his breaths. He presses his cleaned nails into his upper arms to distract him from the rising anxiety and fear writhing under his skin and making itself at home in his lungs. 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, counting, spiraling, but when the sun comes up through the water of the lake, Ed is aware of it. When his roommates shuffle through the dorm doing their morning ritual, Ed listens. And when they leave, Ed stays. 

He stays as his anxiety slowly racks up together with the rising sun. 

He stays up until he feels like he is going to burst if he doesn’t move forward. 

So that is what he does. 

Today they will announce the Champions of the Triwizard Tournament and Ed is ready. 

Ready to keep moving forward. 

Chapter Text

The whole Saturday leading up to the Hallowe'en Feast, Ed has to drag himself through the castle. His sleepless night made for heavy limbs and an even heavier mind. The hours pass him by like the tar dripping down the inside of his skull and along his leaden muscles.

On days like these, Ed usually forces himself to run until his lungs hurt. 

Running, it turns out, is the only type of physical outlet he could get these days. The school doesn’t offer any physical education, outside of first year flying classes he’s not ever going to take. He has heard and read a bit about a sport called Quidditch, but because of the Triwizard Tournament even that got cancelled. Not that he has been thinking of joining the team. 

Ed is accident and disaster prone enough as it is. He isn’t going to add the potential risk of free falling to the equation. 

Not to mention that Ed isn’t going to invest time in a school sports club while he could be putting his time into something more productive. 

So, since there is no other way to get rid of all the pent up feelings inside of him, Ed has to run. He has to get out of the colossal, confining castle. He has to feel the cold wind bite his skin and the rhythmic thumping of his feet hitting dirt. He has to redirect the adrenaline in his chest and the ants under his skin towards his straining muscles and heaving lungs. 

He has to run away from everything for just a few hours until he is breathing pins and needles and until his leg turns boneless. Until his port starts crying and his mind can’t think about anything but the exhaustion in his veins. 

When he starts running, along the greenhouses, past the Forbidden Forest and around the Black Lake, Edward can pretend he is still moving forward, despite being stuck in a boarding school a world away. 

Today, however, Ed can’t even do that. 

Despite his tendency to ignore his problems until they become too big and he has to actually deal with them (yikes), Ed has decided to not fuck up his automail and, more importantly, his port more than it already is. 

The numbing salve Madam Pomfrey gave him is working wonders, but he is still very well aware that one potion and two layers of salve aren't going to completely heal two months of abuse.

So he is stuck inside and he has no one else to blame but himself. 

If he listens carefully enough, he can hear his brother’s tinny voice scolding him from a distance. The thought adds another stone to his stomach.  

Almost choking, Ed forces himself to swallow the last piece of his dry toast. Some crumbs find their way into his windpipe, making him cough roughly into his elbow. 

A group of Ravenclaws next to him that have been watching the Goblet of Fire give him a weird look.

The Goblet had been placed in the centre of the Entrance Hall that morning, atop an ordinary wooden stool. The contrast of the intricate goblet against the worn wood is rather fitting, seeing as the new generation of students look upon it just as the ones from centuries ago had done - if Hogwarts: A History was anything to go by. 

Little groups of friends and rivals from all houses were milling around the vast Hall, hyping each other up. The Goblet was still open for business until the Hallowe’en Feast in the evening, inviting other candidates like moths toward its flame. 

So far, Ed has seen quite the line-up of Gryffindors add their names. Bravery was supposed to be their whole schtick - so them adding their names is to be expected. The other houses also had their candidates, but it was obvious most of them were just happy to observe the spectacle and chaos of it all. 

Ed's eyes start to water through his coughing fit.

Three strong hands clapping him on the back with a simultaneous SMACK! do nothing but make him choke even harder. Ed wheezes. 

“Scoping out the competition, are you?” 

”Sizing up potential rivals, huh?” 

Through his watery eyes, Ed recognises a notorious Gryffindor trio. Two thirds of the group are identical, freckle-faced, red-haired twins: Fred and George Weasley. The third one is a dark-skinned teen who might as well be their adopted triplet, seeing as he usually matches the same mischievous twinkle in their eyes: Lee Jordan.

While mostly harmless, Ed has caught them pulling slightly more… vicious pranks on his Slytherin housemates. 

To be completely fair - they do prank everyone. Both student and teacher, both Gryffindor or otherwise. They don’t necessarily discriminate, which Ed respects. 

Although, the type and severity of the prank oscillates tremendously depending on the target - the bigger the asshole, the rougher the fallout. 

Turns out, a lot of the Slytherins are massive douchebags. 

Oh yeah, despite trying to steer clear from all the typical boarding school politics, Ed has noticed. 

While they have been trying to get in his good graces for a week now since the Tournament got announced, the months before, the Slytherins had not been the same.

For some reason, his house was a hive of legacies and leftover nepotism. Most Slytherins have parents in high places: ministry officials, CEO’s, surgeons, investors and whatnot. They have been prepped to follow in their parents’ footsteps and will let everybody know where they come from and where they are going. 

Not necessarily a bad thing, but sadly a lot of them come with an unhealthy dose of arrogance, self-importance and narcissism. 

There are several in-groups and the blatant disregard and plain disgust they show toward anyone not part of their social bubble is clear as day. 

Not to say that all Slytherins are that way, but Ed can certainly see a trend. 

A trend the three pranking Gryffindors have also definitely picked up on and are certainly using to choose their next targets.

And, frankly, Ed does not want to get caught up in any of it. Because Ed is aware that he isn’t the most popular of students. 

He continuously tries to keep his distance from his peers, both from Slytherins and from the other houses. He just does not have the time nor the energy to build relationships he’s never planning on keeping anyway. 

Doing so would not fit in his plan in the slightest. 

Ed is also aware that he had publicly chewed them up and spit them back out for setting fire to a lower year Slytherin. 

What he hadn’t known at the time, is that the fire had not been a real will-burn-your-face-off fire, but a magical it-tickles-and-is-kinda-warm one.

Fuck if he knows the difference.

And shit, if that didn’t put him on their radar, Ed doesn’t know what would. He has enough shit to shovel in his life without adding potential pranks to his list. He has been trying to steer clear of the trio ever since. 

Quite a difficult thing to manage, because they have Defence Against the Dark Arts together. And, for some reason, they keep on trying to partner up with him.

So far, they have left him out of their devilish little plans, but Ed has learnt to sleep with one eye open and his wand holstered on his forearm. Just because they have been perfectly pleasant towards him so far, if a little bit annoying, does not mean they are not going for the long con. 

Ed knows the type. 

Dislodging the last few crumbs from his oesophagus, Ed subtly steps away from their grabby, mischievous hands. 

“What are you three up to this time?” Ed chokes out breathlessly. 

“Up to?” Lee Jordan says, laying a hand on his heart as if in pain. “You wound us, Elric. Why are you always so suspicious?”

“Because you three are always up to no good - even I know that.” 

One of the identical ones grins brightly. “Don´t you worry your pretty blond head about it. We aren’t going to play with fire again. ” 

“Oh, wait, yes we are!” the other redhead jumps in with an equally broad smile. All three of them are brimming with extreme excitement. 

It unsettles him. 

“So you came to bother me, why exactly?” Ed asks, inching away. He looks around the room, noticing how several eyes are on him and the three Gryffindors - watching, waiting. For what, Ed has no idea.

“Can't we just save you from choking on air out of the goodness of our own hearts?” Fred or George said innocently.

“I was choking on food like a normal person.” Ed’s eyes narrow. “And no. As a matter of fact, I don´t trust you. At all.”

“Fair, our dear little Slytherin.”

Ed’s eye twitches, teeth on edge. “I’m not-”

“However, we came to bother you - as you so lovingly put it - because we thought you off all people ought to know.”

Before Ed can ask what in the hell they are talking about, Ed watches how they all present him a slip of parchment with their names on it. 

“Behold!” Lee Jordan announces with a flourish. “You’re in the presence of the next Hogwarts champion!” Jordan pauses, then quickly tags on, “Goblet’s choice still pending.”

Freorge rubs their hands together. “Can't let Slytherin get all the glory now can we?”

“We each took one drop of an Ageing Potion,” they explain. “We just needed a couple of months, and now we can enter Dumbledore's Age Line.” 

Ed blinks slowly. “You don't really think the Headmaster wouldn't have thought of that, right? I thought you were supposed to be smart?”

They beam. “You think we're smart?”

“Well now I don´t,” Ed frowns. The trio is smart - how else can they make all the concoctions for their pranks, how else can they make an Ageing Potion, which is known to be a right pain in the arse. But they are also so dumb. “That's the most idiotic idea you could´ve come up with.” 

“Exactly. It's so dumb it´s smart!” one of the twins says, throwing an arm around Ed’s shoulder and waving the other around excitedly.

Ed shrugs him off. “No, it’s just dumb!”

“You’ll see, Elric. A genius like Dumbledore would have completely skipped this little trick and gone straight to, let's say, transfigurations, Animagi, Polyjuice Potions.” Jordan counts the many options on his fingers, then shrugs. “You know, the real deal.”

“It won’t work.” Albus Dumbledore is supposed to be the most powerful wizard of this time - part of the reason Ed chose this place. He won’t be fooled by the shenanigans of a bunch of overly excited teenagers.

“You’re just scared you won’t be chosen by the Goblet. You see, Lions eat Snakes,” one of the twins goads airily. 

Ed’s frown deepens. “No, they don’t.”

“Well, these ones do!” Jordan proclaims, then gets up in his face and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “One Galleon says we will get through the Age Line. Three Galleons in total.” 

With one finger, Ed pushes the Gryffindor backwards until he can’t smell the coffee he just had for breakfast. “I don’t bet,” Ed lies through his teeth. 

Oh, if only they knew how much money Al and him had managed to swindle off of asshole soldiers during their travels around Amestris. He bets, alright. He just isn’t going to indulge himself. He’s got nothing to prove.

The trio share a fake-baffled look, then shake their heads sadly. “Wow, to think our little Slytherin friend here is too afraid for an equally widdle bet.”

Ed’s mind sputters- then revs up, steaming. “The fuck you just call me?! Say that again, I dare you!”

Instead of doing just that, they ignore him and turn away, making their way toward the Age Line.

Ed swirls around toward their retreating backs. “Okay, fuck it. I’ll take that bet! You better fucking pay up! You Gryffindor bastards! I’ll make sure to cram those Galleons right up your-”

One of the Weasleys looks over his shoulder with a cocky smirk. “Oh, we’ll see about that! Watch this!”

“Famous last words, fuckface!” Ed yells, unaware of the many stares and whispers around the room. “I hope the Age Line explodes in your face!”

The Ravenclaws that looked at him weirdly before, take a few steps away from him. 

The trio approaches the Age Line with their heads held high. The other students milling around the Goblet look between the raging Slytherin and the cool and confident Gryffindors. If they succeed, it would be the biggest loophole of the Tournament. 

On the count of three, one of the twins takes a deep, bracing breath, then steps through the Age Line and into the circle. By the look of shock on his face it is clear that they were not as confident in their plan as they had pretended. 

The other one lets out a yell of triumph and leaps in after his brother.

Ed’s jaw drops in disbelief. No way did that actually- 

A burst of light. Two startled yelps. 

Ed winces in sympathy as the Weasley twins hit the cold stone floor with a painful force. The circle has expelled them, just as it is meant to do. 

They both groan in misery through the raging laughter rising up around the Hall, but their laments quickly turn into giggles at their own misfortune. Two loud pops echo through the laughter and two long, white beards start to grow from the teens’ faces. 

When Fred and George look at each other, they crack up even harder, pointing at each other's faces. Lee Jordan is folded in half from laughing too hard. “I - I can’t - breathe!”

When Dumbledore herds them away to the Hospital Wing - apparently, they aren't the only ones with the same bright idea - one of the twins turns around. “Elric, that´s three galleons you owe us!”

“The fuck I do - it didn’t work!”

“We got through the Age Line, didn't we?!” 

“You-!"

“Through. The. Line!”

“You won through a technicality!”

“The best kind of winning if you ask me!”

Ed chokes out a laugh, surprising himself. Through his smile, Ed flips them off with both hands, earning six middle fingers in return before they all disappear around the corner. 

The whole debacle leaves Ed shaking his head in disbelief. Those three really are something else. Ed can’t remember the last time he had some stupid banter like this. It reminds him of his verbal spars he used to have with Greedling back when they were on the run. It was the only kind of entertainment they really had - and damned if the fuckers didn’t enjoy making his bloodpressure rise.  

The thought quickly sours his mood and the smile on his face melts away.

Shit. What is he even doing right now? Hanging around the Hall and joking around as if he is a real fucking student? 

What a joke.

Ignoring the whispers that follow him, Ed leaves the Entrance Hall behind. He finds his way to the library. His feet carry him through the hallways on autopilot. He has walked, run, and marched the same path since the first of September when he had asked the Head Girl, Zora, where the library was right after the Welcoming Feast.  

She had looked at him weird, but had led him to it all the same. 

He shares another glare with Madam Pince as he passes by her desk. She narrows her beady eyes over her thick, half moon glasses and hisses under her breath, “keeping my eye on you, Elric.” 

Ed fights the urge to flip her off, but it’s a near thing. The threat of her ban made him like her even less than he already did - which he didn’t think was even possible. Tattling to his head of house, honestly. What is she, five? She should at least have the guts to tell him off herself. 

He rolls his eyes and bites his tongue. 

The rest of the day, Ed loses himself in his research. He ploughs through tomes, cross-references terms that sound promising, and takes notes on anything even vaguely alluding to what he might need. His small notebook is almost full - and yet he’s not one step closer to what he’s searching for. 

The knowledge he needs, he won’t find in these books - Ed is sure of it. What he needs is locked away in the restricted collection. 

Ed looks toward the gated section with a weary sigh. If he weren’t so sure Pince had put some kind of ward on it, he would have snuck in weeks ago. The whole reason he hasn’t messed with it yet, is the off chance that he would set off some kind of alert - and blow his cover. 

Maybe he will try in a few months, after he gets more familiar with the magics and systems of this place. When he’s not a fresh new foreign student sorted in a House historically known to bring forth Dark Wizards or whatever. 

Ed had tried to talk to some of the other library goers about the restricted section, but after one look at the snake embroidered on his chest, they stuttered out a vague excuse and told him they couldn't help him. 

Pince had overheard and has been sticking her nose into his business ever since. 

Stupid Hat.

Stupid Houses.

If all goes well, though, he won’t have to break in at all. Becoming the Hogwarts champion is the cleanest way of getting in there without raising even a tiny sliver of suspicion. 

He’ll see soon enough whether he can scrap his great heist schematics. 

When darkness falls and the many torches and candles cast flickering lights on his ink stained pages, Ed puts his notes away and heads for the Hallowe’en Feast. 

As usual, the ceiling of the Great Hall is a perfect reflection of the night sky, this time being lit up by countless floating candles and carved pumpkins. 

Some Slytherins try to get his attention, waving him over to get him to sit with them. Honest to Truth, he would rather eat his own boot again before joining Fawcett and his gang of merry idiots for dinner. 

In the end, he decides to sit at the very edge of the table, next to a couple of Durmstrang teens. They share a polite nod and each mind their business. 

Ed watches how everyone throws glances at the Goblet, now standing proudly next to the Headmaster at the teacher table. Just as before, there are a few ministry officials in attendance. Among them are a certain Ludo Bagman, Barty Crouch, and a ginger guy he can't for the life of him remember the name of. 

When Ed has thoroughly stuffed his face with the many choices of stew, none of them getting close to the one he is craving, the dishes disappear with a soft pop.  

The chatter dies down as Dumbledore stands up from his seat, addressing Hall.

“Well, the Goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them to please come to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table and go into the next chamber, where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

Dumbledore waves his wand in a grand manner, dimming the countless lights floating around the hall. The Goblet’s flames turn red with a burst of scattering cinders. 

The Hall is completely silent, save from the gentle crackles of the fire.

With a sudden flash and roar, the Goblet spits out a piece of parchment. Dumbledore’s waiting hand snatches it out of the air and announces the first chosen champion. 

“The champion for Durmstrang will be Viktor Krum.”

The fur-coated teens at the Slytherin table clap the back of the student sitting right next to Ed. Even the Hogwarts and Beauxbatons students seem overjoyed that this particular Durmstrang student got chosen. “Didn’t expect anything else!” He hears people cheer. 

The student, Krum, stands up from his spot and makes his way to the backroom. He pumps his fist in the air, emitting another wave of cheers from the students. 

Another burst of flames, another piece of parchment. “The champion for Beauxbatons is Fleur Delacour.”

Both excited and anguished cries come from the Ravenclaw table. Ed turns around in his seat to see a beautiful girl make her way towards the back of the Hall. 

Ed doesn’t remember seeing her before and asks himself how he could have possibly missed her. Her golden blond hair flows behind her ethereally, her delicate features glowing from happiness. Her smile is infectious and Ed wonders if he should talk to her, just so he could feel a glimmer of what she is feeling.

Just so he can feel his heart beat again.  

The weirdly intense urge to follow her pops out of his mind when Delacour disappears from the Hall. 

What in the everloving hell just came over him? 

He’s not here to pine after some girl. How is he even pining after a girl he hasn’t even spoken to? Is he pining? What? 

Huh?

Ed’s frantic thoughts get interrupted when the last burst of fire spits a singed slip of parchment in the air. With another flair, Dumbledore plucks it out of the air with ease. His eyes twinkle when he reads its words.

“The Hogwarts champion is Edward Elric!”

The entire Slytherin table explodes in roaring cheers. 

Ed blinks in momentary shock. He actually got chosen by that damned fiery cup. How in the-

His housemates stand up, whistling and shouting, and push him from his seat and towards the room with his two fellow champions.

When Ed walks through the sea of students, he notices how Professor Snape holds his hand out towards Professor McGonagall, the Gryffindor head of house. 

He has to suppress a snort when she then rifles through her maroon suede robes and drops a small bag of what Ed thinks are galleons in his hand. Her face looks pinched, her mouth sour. 

Snape, on the other hand, looks like the most satisfied overgrown bat he’s ever seen.  

Bragging rights for Slytherin - right .

When Ed enters the backroom, he is greeted by the sight of the other two champions standing in front of the fireplace.

He can barely see their expressions, but their body language tells him they are tense - from excitement or trepidation - possibly both. They don’t say anything as he joins them by the fire. 

He can’t help himself and steals a glance at Delacour from the corner of his eye. He feels himself blush when she turns her sky blue eyes towards him. 

Why is he even reacting this way? 

He doesn’t know her, but she seems so very familiar to him. Is it the way she holds herself with pride and confidence? The long hair she brushes aside so softly? There is something missing too. Something he can’t place his finger on and the uncanny feeling grows the longer he looks at her. 

He hates the way he is suddenly feeling something other than complete dread and anxiety. 

He hates how this completely random girl stirs something within him he hasn’t felt since he last saw-

Only a tiny part of him wants to turn away and break the spell, so Ed goes ahead with what he does best and instead leans into it fully and recklessly. He faces her. 

“Have we met?” The words tumble over his lips too quickly. The three words each drip with such emotion that the girl must think him mental.

He feels a type of desperation when she tilts her head minutely in curiosity. Her eyes are calculating, however, as they glide over him from head to toe and back up again. He feels naked under her sharp gaze. 

“I don’t zink so, non ,” she replies in a heavy French accent. She smiles like she knows a secret he doesn’t. 

“It’s just…” A sudden realisation hits him, turning his insides to ice. “You remind me of someone I- Shit.” 

The longer he looks at her, the more sense seems to seep back into Ed’s brain. 

The longer he thinks, the more she looks like herself and less like his automail mechanic.

Delacour gives him a look of obvious interest. “I am familiar to you?”

He drags a hand through his bangs and halfway up his tied hair - and tugs sharply. The pain stimulus that shoots through his scalp wakes him up even more. “You really look like a friend of mine, you know? Just… wrong. Shit, that’s not what I meant-”

The girl purses her lips, eyes glinting with mirth. 

Ed finally manages to blink the trance from his eyes. The uncanny overlap fades and Winry’s likeness evaporates with it. 

“I’m sorry. That was… weird. Do you do that on purpose?”

“Only sometimes. Not now. I am vairy impressed, you should know.”

“For making a fool out of myself?”

The Beauxbatons champion throws her curtain of hair over her shoulder, looking faintly sly. “A fool? Bah, non ! Believe me, I ‘ave seen des imbeciles , you are not one of zem.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“You are welcome. Non, for snapping out of it so quickly. It is vairy, err, annoying ozerwise.”

Ed apologises again, but Delacour waves it away. “I am used to it. I am ‘appy zat I compete with two boys zat don’t drool when zey talk to me.”

Ed looks at the Bulgarian who in his turn has been looking at the fire, arms crossed and in thoughtful silence. 

Krum looks up. “Our mascots this year for Quidditch World Cup were Veela. I’ve become - how you say - desensitised.” His voice is low and rough, thoughtful.

“Right. Veela,” Ed echoes. He definitely has to look up what that is, if he doesn’t want any more hypnotic surprises from her during the competition. He hates to think what she can do when she actually turns her charms on. Definitely if this is what it’s like when it’s decidedly off .

“Fleur Delacour,” the French champion introduces herself officially, holding out her hand towards him. 

Ed grabs her hand in a firm handshake, but loosens up when she winces. Oops. “Edward Elric. Call me Ed.”

She grimaces ever so slightly. “Enchantée .”

Krum, on the other hand, turns away from the fire and bows slightly. He gently holds Fleur’s hand and kisses the back. Afterwards, he tries his best to crush the bones in Ed’s hand with a handshake that could rival Armstrong’s. “Viktor Krum. May the best champion win.”

Suddenly, the door towards the Great Hall opens, letting in a scrawny lower year student that shuffles into the room.

“What is it?” Fleur asks. “Do zey want us back in ze Hall?”

The kid looks at them, but doesn’t say anything. He looks frozen on the threshold.

A few awkward seconds later, the room gets filled by a loud and big presence. One of the ministry officials, Ludo Bagman, comes in and grabs the boy by the arm, squeezing it painfully by the looks of it.

The kid seems too numb to react as he’s hauled through the room like a petulant child.

“Extraordinary! Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen… lady. May I introduce - incredible though it may seem - the fourth Triwizard champion!”

The kid had a mop of unruly black hair, hanging wildly over a set of round glasses. His vivid green eyes are round in shock, stark against the sheer pallor of his skin. His robes are lined with red, a Gryffindor. 

A Gryffindor who is nowhere near seventeen and looks like his body hasn’t decided yet whether it wants to go into fight or flight mode. 

The man has a steel grip around the kid’s arm, digging his fingers into the skinny bicep.

With a burst of self-righteous anger, Ed steps forward and grabs Bagman’s wrist. He digs his fingers into a pressure point and pulls him off of the kid. “Keep your hands to yourself! The fuck are you talking about?”

Rubbing his wrist, Bagman’s enthusiasm doesn’t seem to dim. “Mr Potter has been chosen by the Goblet as the fourth champion! What a momentous day!” 

Confused, Ed looks at the Potter kid, who’s standing in the middle of the room, completely frozen, hand on his no doubt painful arm. His face looks faintly green in the low light of the room. 

He recognizes that name - Potter. Ed sees books upon books in his mind’s eye mentioning that name in the same breath as the downfall of the last Dark Lord of the United Kingdom. He sees the painful looking lightning scar peeking through his hair. 

“You’re a fourth champion?” Ed asks the kid in confusion. 

“I don’t-” Potter startles when the door slams open, letting in a whole queue of shouting officials and professors. Almost the whole teacher table seems to be pouring in: Professor Dumbledore, Mr Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Snape pile in. 

Snape strides past Potter, sneering darkly, and stands next to Ed by the fire. The dark-robed man crosses his arms, waiting.

Before the door closes, the sound of the hundreds of buzzing students fill the room. Something went seriously sideways.

“Madame Maxime,” Fleur immediately strides over to her Headmistress. “Zey are saying zat zis little boy is to compete also!”

A harsh emotion flashes through Potter’s eyes as he looks up from his shoes towards the arguing adults.

Madame Maxime heaves a giant breath, standing straight with an offended stiffness. Her luscious brown hair brushes the top of the ceiling. “What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?”

The Bulgarian Headmaster also joins his own student. “I’d rather like to know myself. Two Hogwarts champions? I don’t remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions. Or have I not read the rules carefully enough?”

The teachers argue back and forth - going over the rules of the Tournament, the binding contract of the Goblet, how there is simply no way back and the kid has to compete. Even Professor Moody, his DADA Professor, joins the conversation. The battered ex-Auror warns of foul play and assassination attempts. 

They all keep talking and sneering and pointing fingers. All the while, Potter stands in the centre of the room. He doesn’t seem aware of his surroundings and instead stares blankly in front of him. It is so very obvious the kid does not want to be here. 

This is not the face of a teen that proudly outsmarted his teachers. There’s not a glimpse of mischief in those eyes, not like Professor Snape claims with his cutting remarks throughout the mayhem. 

He sees the scar on the kid’s forehead and is reminded of a boy being swept away by forces outside of his control. 

Bullshit. All of this is fucking bullshit. 

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” Dumbledore asks at some point, calmly. 

When Harry tells them all no, Professor Snape makes a soft noise of impatient disbelief. 

“Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?” says Dumbledore, ignoring Snape.

“No,” repeats Harry vehemently.

“Nothing that can be done, I’m afraid. All the names that come out of the Goblet are bound to compete,” Bagman shrugs. 

Everyone looks at Ed when he spits out a curse. “Surely that’s a load of bullshit.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Bagman questions.

“A magically binding contract, really? Surely there are ways to make an exception! You’re really going to make him do this when he clearly has nothing to do with this? You’re the goddamn Ministry of Magic! Change the rules! You want a dead kid’s blood on your hands?! You should be fucking ashamed of yourselves! Arguing like children because your ego can't take it!”

Madame Maxime clutches her pearls. “Mon Dieu!” Fleur, who had been stomping her foot earlier, covers her mouth with her hand, looking properly chastised. 

Potter looks at him in surprised shock.

Bagman’s jolly facade crumbles slightly. “Young man, you better watch your tongue,” he warns with a chuckle. “You know nothing about these matters. A contract like this is like an Unbreakable Vow - there are no loopholes. Be quiet and let the adults talk.”

Ire spreads from the pit of his stomach out his throat. “Adults?! I ought to-!”

A hand grabs his shoulder with an iron grip. Ed turns to shake it off, but Snape holds on firm, shooting him a warning glare. “Not. Now,” he hisses in his ear. “Remember what we talked about.”

Clenching his jaw, Ed swallows the rage that threatens to pour out of his mouth. A mantra of restirctedsectionrestrictedsection plays on repeat in his head, reining him in - barely. 

It’s always the same. Government bullshit and innocents being the victim of their shortcomings. And for what? A game? 

Through the red haze, Ed looks around the room - nobody meets his eyes but Dumbledore. His icy blue eyes twinkle despite his solemn exterior. 

“Fine,” he hisses back. This time when he jerks his shoulder, Snape relinquishes his hold. 

“How this situation arose, we do not know,” Dumbledore breaks the silence. “It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Edward and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do…”

“Ah, but Dumbly-dorr-”

“My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it.”

Dumbledore waits, but Madame Maxine doesn’t offer a solution. Instead, she glares. She’s not the only one, either. Snape looks only one step removed from murder, Karkaroff a willing accomplice. Only the ministry official, Bagman, still manages to look excited by the turn of things.

“Well, shall we crack on then?” Bagman says, rubbing his hands together and smiling broadly. The previous cracks in his demeanour smoothed out. “Got to give our champions their instructions, haven’t we? Barty, want to do the honours?”

The other ministry official, Mr Crouch, seems to come out of a deep reverie. “Oh, yes, of course. The first task…” 

“The first task is designed to test your daring,” he tells them.  “So we are not telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard… very important… The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and a panel of judges. The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the task in the Tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the Tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests. I think that’s all, Albus?”

Ed still seethes when everyone wraps up. He tries to ignore his equally seething head of house, but accidentally makes eye contact. 

“My office, tomorrow, ten o’clock,” Snape grinds out. 

Ed jerkily nods.

With a final huff at Dumbledore’s invitation for a nightcap, Madame Maxime puts her arm around Fleur’s shoulders and leads her out of the room with giant strides. Karkaroff and Krum follow behind them in complete silence. 

Fleur looks over her shoulder towards Ed. “Good luck, Ed,” she tells him, softly. “We will talk later.”

Ed tries to smooth out his frown, but knows he fails spectacularly. “You too. See you around. You too, Viktor.”

The Durmstrang star grunts in vague agreement.

“Harry, Edward, I suggest you go up to bed,” says Dumbledore at last, smiling at both of them. “I am sure Gryffindor and Slytherin are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.”

Harry glances up at Ed for just a split second, then turns away and heads for the Great Hall. Ed follows. Their footsteps echo through the deserted Great Hall when he tries to catch up to the Gryffindor. “Potter, wait up.”

The kid stops in his tracks and whirls around. “I didn’t do it,” he says vehemently. “Slytherin can win this whole damn thing, I don’t care for it!”

Ed’s scowl deepens. “Hey, I know, slow down. I didn’t say you did it. You look like you’re about to jump from the Astronomy tower.”

His bright green eyes flash. “I’m not a coward!”

“Didn’t say you were. I just believe you when you say you didn’t put your name in the Goblet. Didn’t you hear me in there? I’m on your side.” 

The kid deflates, barely. “This was supposed to be a quiet year,” he says desperately. “A normal year- Why aren’t you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry with you?” Ed questions in confusion. “I’m angry for you! You’re not seventeen, you’re not supposed to be wrapped up in this whole thing. What I don’t understand, is that your head of house, shit, that Dumbledore, isn’t putting a stop to this. They’re not even trying to find a loophole and it pisses me the fuck off! Unbreakable Vow my ass. Listen here, kid-”

Potter turns around with a frustrated growl, storming out of the Great Hall and towards the marble staircase. “I’m not a kid or a little boy, okay? I can take care of myself!”

Ed slightly jogs to keep up with him. “Shit, slow your roll. Fine, listen here, dude, this whole Tournament is a load of bullshit-”

Potter glares over his shoulder. “If it’s such bullshit, why did you put your name in the Goblet then?”

“I have my own reasons and it sure as hell isn’t ‘eternal glory’ or the other shit that this school is so horned up about. So you have to join this parade like a grade A showpony, big whoop. Doesn’t mean there’s not going to be any loopholes. Try and get disqualified, ask everyone and everything for help, get a note from Madam Pomfrey - figure something out to cheat the system and cover your ass. You owe these bozo’s nothing and this whole game doesn’t mean shit in the grand scheme of things. People have supposedly died for this thing in the past and it sure as hell is not worth dying over.”

Potter shakes his head slowly in disbelief. “You just want me to make a fool out of myself. You´re a Slytherin, why am I even talking to you?”

Ed throws his arms in the air. “What does it matter that I'm a Slytherin?! Is it that hard to believe that I just don't want you to die?”

“It is hard to believe that you would care if I lived !”

Ed deflates. “Kid-”

Potter suddenly turns around again, wand pointed straight at his chest. “Stop following me!”

Ed stops in his tracks and raises his hands in surrender. “Okay! Okay.”

“And stop pretending that you care. I don't need your fake sympathy. I know what you and the other Slytherins think about me. What Snape thinks. Just leave me alone ! I’ll figure it out myself!”

Ed clenches his jaw. It’s like talking to a brick wall and shit if this isn’t some form of cosmic karma coming in to bite his ass. He won't convince this kid of anything, not right now. Not when he´s a defensive mess of shock and fear. 

He knows, because he's been there too.

Hurt and bleeding and crippled. Biting the very hand that tries to feed him. 

“Just…” the kid takes a shaky breath. “Leave me alone.” 

Ed nods and watches how Potter flees up the staircase towards the Gryffindor common room. 

With a sigh, Ed instead takes the stairs down to the dungeons.   

He’ll try to talk to the kid later, when everything has settled down somewhat. A fourth champion, huh? What a joke. Someone really wanted to mess with this kid - a thoughtless prank, maybe? Although, thinking of Professor Moody’s intense wild-eyed conviction, someone might actually be trying to off the guy. 

Scar had been trying to kill him when he was only fifteen, too. Being a famous figure rarely did him any favours. 

When Ed walks into the Slytherin common room, lost in his thoughts, he almost punches someone.

“SLYTHERI- WHAT THE FUCK!” some Slytherin prefect swears as he barely dodges Ed’s flying fist. “The fuck is wrong with you?!”

“The fuck is wrong with me?! What is wrong with you?! Do you want your nose rearranged for shits and giggles?! What are you trying to do here, man?!”

“Turn around, Elric, for the love of Salazar’s balls.”

When Ed turns around toward the ever so deadpan voice of his Head Girl, Ed’s ire settles down in favour of pure confusion. 

“What in the-”

“Okay, from the top this time,” Zora tells the entire fucking Slytherin student body spread around the common room and holding emerald plastic cups. The room is decked out, the vaulted ceiling filled with green and silver balloons and garlands. The Slytherin banners are rolled out, and the many tables are filled with all sorts of drinks and snacks - no doubt gotten from the House Elves. 

“SLYTHERIN FOR GREATNESS!” they all chant, then they start cheering and whistling until his ears almost pop.

What in the actual-

“Welcome to your celebration party, Elric,” Zora hands him a plastic cup with a strong smelling drink. 

“Don’t do this to me,” Ed tells her faintly. His housemates start to crowd around him, clapping him on the back and shoving a second cup in his hand. Ed fumbles the cups in his peers’ over-excitement, spilling some of the brown concoction on his white shirt.

Zora shoots him a shit-eating smirk before downing her drink. “Tough shit.” 

A foreign arm around his neck and grabbing fists in his robes pull him further into the common room and into the centre of the party. 

Fuck .