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Chapter Text

Every year at Hogwarts, many young wizards and witches would arrive. However, no one had heard of a wizard who appeared right in their fifth year. Certainly not one about whom nobody had heard before.

Although he had only been within the castle walls for less than a month, he was already decidedly the main subject of gossip, the content of which seemed to change from day to day. Starting from simple conversations about the 'mysterious hunk,' which quickly turned into 'mentally unstable aggressor,' and eventually transformed into either disgust, fear, or reluctant admiration, directed and escalated by both events and the seemingly unaware actions of the subject.

There were plenty of rumors circulating about him. It was said that he was a werewolf. A great wizard who rejuvenated his appearance. A Veela born of a phoenix, or even the noblest of dragons in human form. It was said that he served Grindelwald, Voldemort, the Minister, the resistance movement in the great wizzarding war or even the Inquisition

Students said they had seen his hands without gloves. That they were covered in tattoos, scars, burns or scales. That they had a different color than the rest of his body, that they had sharply clawed ends instead of fingers, that they were made of metal or gold, that there was another eye on his palm, and even that they weren't there at all, and the gloves were filled with air and magic.

No one knew where he came from before he was seen in Hogwarts. Why Dumbledore admitted him in his fifth year and why he allowed him to blatantly ignore the school rules. There were rumors that he was a fugitive seeking refuge at Hogwarts or villain seeking asylum. That he was mysterious "hero of quiddich world champions". Or that he had been a traveling duellist until now. That he was a member of an expedition to America, where he explored the Amazon jungle, fought hippogriffs, and tamed dragons. That he was the head of the Muggle mafia, managing an army of a thousand criminals and killing a hundred people every day. It was said that he came to Hogwarts because he was looking for something and that's why he spent all his time in the library.

Students said they saw him fighting the Whomping Willow. Or that he walked out of the shierking shack. That they witnessed how he chased centaurs, tamed giants, and how the kraken bowed to him and how he listened to the mandrake's cry. - of course, if someone asked the students, they would say it was impossible, but none of them were sure then.

They were just as uncertain if the stories were true. Allegedly, he managed to catch and hit Peeves. He attacked a professor, standing against Harry Potter and defending Malfoy out of all people. Supposedly, he made Madame Pomfrey cry and supposedly (but only supposedly) made Snape smile (of course, no one believed the last one, and the rumor supposedly originated when he drove the potions professor to such anger that his mouth couldn't frown anymore, so it twisted upwards).

There were also stories about Elric and the alchemy professor. That alchemy was the only subject Edward Elric avoided. Apparently, he tried to intimidate Professor Mustang, but the latter saw through the teenager's tricks in the first class and proved his knowledge, at the same time showing how uneducated Edward was. Some students whispered that Edward still tried to intimidate the professor.

Roy Mustang smiled slightly, raising the cup to his lips, wondering if the students ignored or were unaware that their voices were perfectly heard at the elevation of the teachers' table. As far as memory served, so for almost five years, Harry Potter and he himself were the main subjects of whispers (except two years ago, when it seemed that he was overshadowed by Lockhart) But he and Harry Potter, the boy who lived, were just one of the topics beyond homework and the daily lives of the students. And since Edward Elric appeared, it was almost impossible to hear children discussing lessons or the latest quidditch events. It was amazing how one person could change the whole atmosphere, even if he apparently wasn't aware of it. Amazing and fascinating.

The whispers died down when the doors of the great hall slammed against the wall, and the subject of the gossips walked in.

Roy had to admit that the rumor about the child of a Veela and a phoenix had a grain of truth. Or maybe he could think so if not for the voice in the back of his head, which suggested thoughts and theories that he shouldn't harbor towards a boy he had almost never met before.

Nonetheless, he watched as the boy with fire in his eyes entered the suddenly very quiet hall. He walked confidently and gracefully, but Roy still couldn't shake that voice and feeling that his steps were uneven, even if nothing indicated it. Perhaps it was the fault of the thick boots with red soles and black leather pants instead of the prescribed school robe. Or maybe something else lurking in the corners of his mind.

Edward either didn't know or, more likely, didn't care about the impression he made, showing an unshakable ignorance to the hundreds of eyes fixed on him. He approached the first table on his way, as usually disregarding "houses" and, ignoring the students, leaned over the bench for a moment, muttered something on it, until he straightened up, holding five sandwiches with some jam in his hands, what was pdobaly ment to be a "light meal".  It seemed that this time he was in the mood to have a meal like civilized being, sitting at the table, because he started looking around the hall for the few people who tolerated him (although Roy suspected more that it was he who tolerated them). Finally, the gaze of burning golden irises settled on the teachers' table, on the empty seat next to Severus. Something in those eyes sparkled, although it could have been the fault of the candles on the ceiling. Roy couldn't be sure because that 'something' disappeared when the boy's gaze shifted slightly to the left to look at him. The young face frowned, and the arms tensed as if a weight had fallen on them, and the boy almost immediately turned around and left the great hall.

Roy Mustang took another sip of warm tea and put down the cup. So Edward Elric didn't enchant them again with his presence. And the dark-eyed man couldn't help but think that somehow it was his fault. There was also quieter voice at the bottom of his mind, claiming that it shouldn't look like this at all.

Chapter Text

"People are beings that easily adapt.

Edward Elric was awakened by a scream. But it wasn't a sudden awakening. This scream wasn't a single desperate cry for help, but rather the roar of hundreds of throats. Not of those terrified or desperate, as people sound a moment before anticipated harm. That was all it took for Edward Elric not to wake up, jumping to his feet and not assuming a defensive position.

He allowed his consciousness to penetrate his mind. It was the roar of a crowd of something stirred. Joyful and filled with positive emotions, as if they wanted to share that positive energy with the surrounding world. They were happy about something. Additional stimuli slowly reached his consciousness. He was sitting on something hard. Well, not something. Since he was sitting on something meant for sitting, it was a chair. So he was sitting on a hard chair, and his limbs were unrestrained.

Edward Elric wasn't afraid. He wasn't afraid for several reasons. Firstly and most importantly, there weren't many things that scared him. Chasing serial murderers, rogue madmens, Saving the entire country, defeating a handful of immortal beings, hitting a god in the face, and facing off against an automail mechanic flinging French keys on daily bases makes that it is quite challenging to find anything shake someone. Secondly, he knew that even without alchemy, he was more dangerous than most people. Thirdly, the fact of waking up in an unfamiliar place wasn't that terrifying. Most people experience a similar disorientation when waking up hungover or every morning on vacation when they're not greeted by a familiar room but by a hotel ceiling. And Edward Elric, just two months ago, was an active Fullmetal Alchemist. He had spent the last four years of his life traveling, sleeping on trains, in inns, and often even under the open sky. He also had a knack for falling asleep in many strange places and getting into trouble that ended up in hospitals, so saying that he had become accustomed to such awakenings was an understatement.

With another joyful cry, he felt a movement of air around him as someone presumably got up from a spot nearby. Only now did Edward Elric open his eyes.

He was in a large stadium. Surrounded by cheering people in various colorful outfits, which he hadn't paid much attention to yet. On one side stood a man in a shirt, and on the other sat a boy about Alphonse's age, but he definitely wasn't Alphonse. Because Alphonse now had his body. Somewhat bony, but his own body, and the boy next to him definitely didn't look like he had spent the last five years in a vacuum next to a white asshole without a face. So when he realized that he didn't have familiar people around him, people he always wanted to wake up next to, and even people he didn't necessarily want to wake up next to but knew (yes, it's about you, Colonel jerk), he allowed the first spark of disorientation to reach his heart. Frowning slightly, he decided to look at the center of the stadium to admire whatever he was supposed to be watching since he came here before falling asleep, and maybe remind himself of which sport was more precious to him than spending time with his beloved brother, Winry, grandma, and sheep in Resembool.

But all he saw was a circle of evenly trimmed green grass. Grass over which a shadow passed.

Edward raised his golden eyes up just to see a shape darting through the air. A shape that wasn't a bird, but a very real person sitting on something that looked like a broomstick, fleeing from differently dressed people flying in the air.

People are beings that easily adapt.

Edward Elric blinked lazily and looked ahead again. People were still flying. Someone in a red robe, it seemed, threw a ball to another person waiting a little further away.

So people were flying. Great.

It was only now that he realized that above the roar of the crowd, he heard a voice that definitely shouldn't be loud enough to resonate over the roar of the crowd.

- Quaffle is taken over by Clara Ivanova, who has an empty path to the goal! Will his opponents be able to stop him before he scores a point?

"So it was a game. A popular game, judging by the number of people in the stadium and their enthusiastic cheers. A popular game for flying people.

People truly had amazing adaptive abilities.

- Everything okay? - The chubby boy next to him suddenly asked. Edward looked at him dully, then smiled.

- Yes, thanks. How long did I sleep?

- At least an hour and a half, but I don't know. When we came, you were already here. - the boy admitted embarrassedly before another roar caught his attention back to the stadium, or rather the air above the stadium.

At that moment, Edward was almost certain that he didn't remember how he got there. 'It's probably a dream,' he thought. Winry mentioned something about wanting to upgrade his automail to a new model. Maybe something went wrong during the procedure, they had to give him painkillers, and now he was hallucinating? Or maybe his nightmares decided to play a trick on him and instead of haunting him with images of dead people, alchemical monsters, and his own mistakes, they decided to break the laws of physics, which, although equally terrifying, were definitely a nicer choice.

Edward Elric allowed himself another moment to mindlessly stare at the flying brooms and listen to the magical voice listing strangely named players and even stranger terms before he focused. He looked around, this time not just mindlessly wanting to see everything, but also analyzing.

He was wearing his usual go-out clothes so he wasn't dragged out of the bed. The stadium they were in wasn't just 'some' stadium. Not only was it enormous, but the roof spread over the stands didn't seem ordinary. Certainly not for an alchemist. It wasn't canvas, but something that suspiciously resembled steel, which in turn didn't seem anchored on massive columns but stood freely in the air, supported only by a thin brace. Another piece of evidence that the laws of physics decided to pack up and go on vacation.

The people he hadn't paid much attention to before now caught his eye. They looked normal. As normal as one could expect from people who were enthusiastically watching a sport involving flying on broomsticks. Many of them were oddly dressed. Some wore ordinary shirts and pants, others donned ordinary clothes in an extraordinary way, because he was convinced he saw a bearded man in a floral dress and a girl who wore a tank top over a short skirt. A fair number wore something even he, with his sense of fashion, could deem strange - simple dresses or coats, ranging from plain black ones resembling monk habits to green and navy ones, to bright orange with silver stars. And on top of that, a fair number wore hats that, in his opinion, looked too much like the hats of evil witches in fairy tale books his mother used to read to him.

But when he saw an old man, who wore a gold-silver dress, a strange hat, and was currently kissing a large toad on his hand, Edward became convinced that even though he had seen many strange things in his life, starting from a drunken havoc and ending with a fucked-up, immortal, pseudo-twin-of-his-father-wanting-to-destroy-the-country, he wasn't yet screwed up enough to come up with all of this.

Conclusion?:

This wasn't a dream.

To make sure, he pinched himself on the forearm, feeling pain because his non-feeling automail hand applied too much force.

That conclusion had extremely important consequences. Edward Elric, the people's hero and savior of Amertis, was in an unknown place, surrounded by unknown people in unknown circumstances, watching flying brooms (he knew flying cleaning tools shouldn't be his concern right now, but he couldn't stop thinking about them). He had to find out where exactly he was and how he got here.

- Excuse me. - he turned to the man in the strange, although not unconventional outfit, to his right. - Was I already here when you arrived?

The man with the red scarf looked at him strangely, but after a moment he answered.

- Yes. You were sleeping."

Edward stifled a witty comment that it was obvious that he was asleep, because if he was awake, he would remember when the man sat down next to him and asking that question would have no point. Such a response, however, would be even weirder if he somewhat knew he ended up there against his will and knowledge. He was about to ask another question about where exactly they were, but just in time he realized that for someone from the outside, a person sitting in a stadium, probably having bought tickets, and asking "where am I" would raise suspicion, at best they would take him for a lunatic, and at worst, security or, worse, doctors would take him away.

Edward Elric's Rules When Waking Up in an Unknown Place:

1) Find out where you are - Failure

2) Find out how you got there - Failure

3) What is the last thing you remember?

However, when he tried to remember what happened before he woke up in a place forgotten by truth and physics, a flash of white pain ran through his head, and dizziness set in, intensifying the more he tried to focus. He closed his eyes in vain hope that it would help his concentration or alleviate the headache, but it didn't help much, except that his other senses took over, and the previously ignored roar of the crowd became increasingly clear. He had to get out of here. Not only to gather information without arousing suspicion but also because the people let out another roar, and the disembodied voice announced that Ireland had scored more points, completely dominating the opponent.

He definitely had to get out of here.

He began to discreetly make his way through the rows of people towards the exit, which had no idea where it was. He looked around, but apparently the same crazy architect who designed the stadium roof also designed the passages, stairs, and walkways, creating a real maze, and something told him he didn't want to get lost. Just as he was about to make a decision to stand up and head in what seemed like the way out, the atmosphere of the place changed. The spectators leaned forward, and above the crowd rose murmurs of anticipation, which the disembodied voice commented on:

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Seekers apparently spotted the Snitch" - described how some Victor and Robert were chasing after the "snitch," and with his words, two bodies on brooms zoomed over the field at breakneck speed, chasing after a goal only they could see. Although Edward saw a flash of gold in the air, which was presumably their target because, for truth's sake, the only thing missing here was flying gold fleeing from flying people on flying brooms.

A moment later, loud cheers and centuries of applause rang out from the crowd, followed by a burst of white-green fireworks, which somewhat relaxed him when he noticed the characteristic color of burning barium and magnesium. Or at least it relaxed him until he saw a gnome in green pants and a hat emerge from the lights in the air.

Damn truth. - he muttered under his breath.

Fortunately, this apparently meant the end of the game because people slowly began to rise, and Edward let himself be led by the crowd outside with relief. When his feet touched the ground instead of metal and wood, and the crowd thinned out a bit, Edward allowed himself to take a deep breath, and then look around. He felt a pang of unease when he saw the landscape of mountain peaks, which, however, were unlike those he had seen in Briggs and other regions of Amertis. And although he didn't consider himself a connoisseur of landscapes, he knew his rocks and knew that such steep escarpments were characteristic of shale with a high content of silicon and magnesium, which occur in the north, which was rather farther than closer to Resembool. Another problem was apparently that within sight, he didn't see any other city, only a few very distant houses on the horizon, so far away that it would take him at least a whole day to get there.

"Excuse me," he approached one of the more normally dressed people who had just finished talking to someone strange and apparently said goodbye to go their separate ways. The woman turned towards him with a smile.

"Yes, dear?"

"Excuse me, but I'm not from around here. Could you tell me which city is closest?" he asked hopefully. Ha! Look, Colonel Bastard! He could be subtle and tactical when the situation called for it. The woman didn't seem concerned about his ignorance at all because she smiled understandingly.

"portkey messes with our senses a bit, doesn't it?"

Ed nodded, although he didn't know what he was agreeing with. Fortunately, the woman didn't pay much attention to him, hurrying to answer.

"I think Princestown is the closest, although if you're looking for a bigger city, I would try Playmouch. I am not sure thou, as I only briefly looked up the maps."

"Thank you very much," Edward smiled at her, although the names didn't give him any clue. He had to try a different approach. "And could you also tell me roughly which direction Central City is in?"

"By Central City, do you mean London? It's east from here."

And then, when she saw that he had nothing more to add, she walked away, heading in a direction known only to her, leaving Ed alone. Who in solitude felt his stomach unpleasantly twist as a very unsettling feeling slowly built up in his body with the theory forming in his head.

The woman called Central City "London." And that could only lead to three conclusions. One, the one Ed liked the most, although it was probably too convenient to be true, was that someone was playing a bad joke on him. Another, slightly more disturbing, but also likely, was that he stumbled upon a gathering of lunatics who collectively hallucinate about flying on brooms and call Central City "London." The third option he really didn't like.

He glanced around the crowd of lunatics a few times before turning to the third person who looked relatively normal. Although he tried very hard, there was no way for the question to sound completely normal.

"Excuse me, sir," he said with a thick rural accent. "I'm not from around here, and I would really like to know how to pronounce the name of this country correctly. Could you help me?"

As he feared, it wasn't a question that was considered everyday, but either he was such a good actor, or these people were so accustomed to eccentricities that they didn't pay much attention to it. In any case, the man looked at him and instead of running away, probably to call security, he only raised an eyebrow and replied.

"Great Britain."

People are beings that easily adapt.

Edward Elric smiled and nodded. And then he looked up at the sky.

"fuck."

Chapter Text

“People are beings that easily adapt."

Having finally reached the conclusion that, by some miracle, he woke up in some alternate reality, where flying on broomsticks in a stadium contradicting the laws of physics and architecture was a daily sport, and where everyone wore weird clothes (and didn’t that say something, that he, still wearing his red coat, was the one who said that). Edward Elric took a deep breath and looked around calmly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a feeling arose that he had forgotten something and urgently needed to return home, but he pushed it aside because he didn't know where he was, let alone the way back.

Most people headed in one direction after leaving the stadium, and Edward, not seeing a more attractive route, followed them. Along the way, he once again attempted to remember what he was doing and how he got there, but his headache only intensified. Suddenly, a flash of pain whited out his vision and interrupted his thoughts. That whiteness reminded him too much of the empty void he had seen three times in his life and never wanted to see again.

The crowd thinned out, tearing Edward from his thoughts. They had reached the edge of the tent field, which was surprisingly normal-looking compared to most of the things Edward had been subjected to so far.

He paused, watching as groups of people dispersed to their tents, stopping to exchange greetings and talk. Somewhere, the laughter of children could be heard through the hubbub. Elsewhere, he caught a glimpse of a strangely dressed clown juggling something he couldn't see from this distance. In the distance, a bird chirped, and the wind rustled through the trees.

For a moment, he could almost convince himself it was just a normal fair. Then he saw nine people emerge from one small tent, each carrying a chair that definitely shouldn't have fit in their tent.

The only logical explanation was that these people dug a tunnel big enough under the tent. Probably some ridiculous kind of alchemy, because normal people would just take a bigger tent instead of digging.

He watched as one of those people with chairs pulled from his pocket a strangely long lighter and fired from it some kind of flammable liquid, which immediately caught fire as it fell on the firewood. Or at least that's how it must have been, because a beam of flame shot out of the lighter that not even colonel Wet-Match Bastard, who was now a general, could resist. But Mustang was one of the only people who knew the secret of flame alchemy and the only living person capable of controlling it, so the explanation with the lighter shooting flammable liquid was fully accepted.

He took another deep breath and once again closed his eyes, trying to remember... anything. But there was only pain and for the third time, a flash of white.

"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action."

He didn't know if Truth was an enemy. But It certainly wasn't a friend, and was powerful and malicious enough to be blamed for all this. Because indeed, the moment when you find yourself in what seems to be a different world with different laws, it probably has something to do with supernatural forces rather than with the fact that while taking a nap in the fields among the sheep, someone could get swept away by a whirlwind, transported hundreds of kilometers away, and no one hears about their disappearance, and in the meantime, they end up on one of the seats in an industrial stadium.

... alright, Edward had to admit that he might’ve been a bit overly paranoid.

Fortunately, he knew a way to calm down easily.

He had to eat something.

And Edward wouldn't be himself if he didn't smell the delicious smell of food being cooked over the fire.

Even if these people came out of suspiciously small tents, wore damn disturbing clothes, and watched the industrial sport of flying on broomsticks with peaceful calmness, they had food, so they couldn't be that dangerous, right?

He completely ignored the cautious voice at the back of his head, which sounded suspiciously like Colonel Bastard during one of his many lectures on "self-awareness," "self-preservation," and "personal and state alchemist dignity." Edward, of course, didn't listen because: 1) he didn't take dignity advice from someone who fell asleep during paperwork and played on his phone while at work, and 2) food was food.

The sun had begun to set while the daytime match was ongoing, so the sky, still bright, was slowly darkening. Fortunately, there still were enough people sitting outside, enjoying the beautiful weather and the warmth of the fire.

Edward walked slowly along the well-trodden path between the tents, feeling a bit uncertain. Campfires with lots of people had plenty of food, but more people meant more questions and also a more irritating unease in his stomach as he looked at the small tents where most of them lived. Conversely, fewer people meant less food and less willingness to share it. They couldn't be blamed.

In fact, it was a coincidence that he stumbled upon it. Lost in his thoughts, Edward looked around until his gaze landed on a face, and recognition flashed in his mind.

"Hey!" He greeted the slightly chubby boy next to whom he woke up in the arena. He sat alone in front of a medium-sized, expensive-looking green tent.

"Eh? Oh! Hi." The boy initially frowned, but it seemed like he recognized Edward too.

"How’d you like the game?" Or at least, Edward assumed it was a game. He didn't have anything better to ask the stranger, and certainly nothing less suspicious.

Apparently, he’d hit the mark, because the boy's face lit up. "It was awesome! I'm so glad Ireland won. My great-grandmother is Frederick Giverla's mother's cousin, so I'm partially related to this year's Quidditch champions!"

So, it seemed the game was called Quidditch, and the boy was strangely fascinated with his own family tree. Nevertheless, Edward smiled.

"Yeah! I was rooting for Ireland too. Hey, can I sit?" he asked and, without waiting for an answer, sat down on the grass next to the fire. Experience had taught him the perfect way to weasel into someone's meal, and it was time to put those lessons to good use

"S-sure," the boy muttered, too late to object. Edward, not wanting to lose the impact of his strike, continued.

"It was amazing when Krum caught the snitch in the last moments of the match," he repeated one of many comments of the disembodied voice. The chubby boy beamed.

"Yeah! Victor Krum is amazing! And the best part is, he's almost our age! He's only 17!"

Edward flinched upon hearing that he looked that young, but 16 was less than 17, so he had no reason to worry. Still, he glared at his interlocutor menacingly because of the perceived reference to his height.

"That's certainly quite an achievement for such a young age," he admitted. "He must be very talented."

"Yeah! It's incredible. Especially since he's still in school."

It sounded too much like the conversation was heading into places where knowledge was needed to answer, so Edward quickly changed the subject.

"It smells delicious," he remarked, nodding to the sizzling pieces of meat over the fire. "You must be a great cook."

"They're our house-elves," the boy replied, not reacting to the compliment as well as Edward hoped, but it wasn't surprising, considering that the cook was not he himself, but some house-keeper.

“Still smells good.” He let his gaze linger on the meat. " You think it is ready yet? You know, I haven't eaten anything since morning, and I don't have any food with me. Didn't expect to stay the night." Ed wasn't sure if he’d even eaten that morning, and certainly didn't plan to stay here for any amount of time, so the ‘lie’ came surprisingly easily. Suck on that, Colonel Bastard. He could absolutely be subtle when times actually called for it There you go. He already knew he was in some strange place, and he’d just sorted out dinner without arousing any suspicion. The Bastard talked big, but he’d probably immediately alert everyone, asking questions left and right, causing a commotion and maybe even alarming the local military. Or at least the police. Edward knew that some countries weren’t ruled by dictatorship, but monarchies still have police services.

"Th-theoretically it’s already done” the boy muttered uncertainty “Y-you can have a taste if you want," - he offered with a little bit of hesitation. And Ed really hoped that his proud smirk was well hidden.

"Oh! How nice of you!” - he exclaimed, sounding surprised “Let me check," Edward offered politely and, sacrificing himself, reached for one of the pieces of meat skewered on a stick, immediately taking a bite.

The taste exploded in his mouth, delighting him with how incredibly delicious the food was. Or maybe he was just hungry. Probably both.

"Excellent," he said, swallowing. "Try some."

The boy must have been just as hungry from sitting in that smell, as he reached for his own piece without hesitation.

"Thanks for sharing with me," Ed mumbled as he reached for another piece, completely ignoring the fact that he wasn't actually treated to either piece. "You know, I really didn't expect to stay this long. I was supposed to go back home for the night, but things just turned out this way, so here I am."

"Yeah..." The boy agreed, still chewing his first piece. "Goyle, I mean, my friend also went back home. But Father insisted on staying. He said moments like these on camping trips teach you."

Edward didn't know what they taught when someone had a comfortable tent and prepared food, but he didn't comment.

"Sucks that your friend couldn't stay. It’d’ve been nice to bunk together. Least he saw the match, right?"

A nod.

"So, which part’d you enjoy the most?"

The boy launched into a tale, during which Ed cunningly reached for a third piece of meat. Fortunately, it sufficed to occasionally nod and emit an interested hum, which were perfect responses even though he had no idea what was happening during the game or who was who. Edward was just reaching for the fourth piece of meat when a serious-looking man emerged from the tent in a uniquely styled dress. Not the worst outfit he'd seen, due to the deeper green than glowing orange, but still a dress.

"Vincent? Who's your little friend?"

So, Edward quickly decided he didn't like him.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL THAT HE WOULDN'T EVEN MAKE FRIENDS WITH ANTS BECAUSE HE'D JUST IRRITATE THEM BY STUMBLING UNDER THEIR FEET?"

Two pairs of eyes blinked before the asshole in the dress looked back at his son, completely ignoring the blond. The chubby boy—Vincent—straightened up, as if the cold gaze had dragged him back to reality.

"He... He's the guy who sat next to me at Quidditch!"

Completely ignoring Edward, the man glared angrily at his son. "You invited him?" he asked harshly. Edward added three more points to his mental list of reasons why he didn't like this guy.

Firstly, he didn't like being ignored.

Secondly, if someone had a problem with him, they should address him, not the people around.

And thirdly, this man behaved like a total asshole towards his son, and Edward hated assholic fathers.

"I invited myself," Edward interjected, trying to sound calm. Apparently not as calm as he hoped, judging by Vincent's slight flinch. Or it could have been from surprise. The boy didn't seem accustomed to "talking back" to his father.

"You have a very nice son," he added, trying to somewhat defuse the situation. But he was never the best at easing tensions, and his earlier successes in social manipulation evidently hadn’t changed that, as the man angrily rounded on him. When their gazes met, the older man's eyes widened with recognition before his entire face contorted into an expression of disdain that even that bastard Mustang would be proud of.

"Silence, you cursed creature. Vincent, I thought you knew better than to consort with freaks with yellow eyes. Especially ones dressed in the color of the house of blood traitors!"

"Hey! Mind your own damn business!" Edward snapped before he could stop himself. "Nearly half the stadium was in red attire, in case you didn't notice. Also, picking on eye color is low, even for regular assholes. Can't you be more creative?"

The man’s darkening glare suggested to Edward that that wasn't the most diplomatic response he could have given.

"W-what are you talking about, father?" the boy squeaked, earning even more ire from his father.

"Don't they teach you anything at Hogwarts?! Yellow eyes are a sign of cursed blood!"

"Hey! Don't insult your son!" Edward rose from the bench and straightened his back to face the man with his full, completely normal height, but the effect was dampened by how ridiculously tall the bastard was. Vincent flinched slightly, but gazed at Edward with a strange mixture of fear, admiration, and gratitude, which only boiled Edward's blood even more because it suggested he was afraid of his father.

"Can't come up with a better insult than eye color and blood insults? If you’ve got a problem with me, at least have the balls to actually confront me instead of being an asshole to your own kid."

Finally, that elicited a greater reaction. The adult turned slowly himself fully towards him, then pulled a long stick from the dress pocket, pointing it at him with a menacing gesture.

"Leave, you accursed blood traitor."

He waved the stick towards Ed as if it would impress him. It didn't. He could easily beat him. Even if the stick had a lighter mechanism for shooting fuel and sparking a fire (and what kind of idiot would make a lighter out of wood?), he wasn't worried. Instead, Edward's blood boiled even more than before. That man treated him like a rabid mutt. He may have been used to being called a dog from his time in the military, but that didn't mean he liked it.

"You know what?" He snarled, abandoning any pretense of holding back his anger this time. "Maybe I have golden eyes, but for fuck's sake, at least I have a sense of fashion, you asshole in… whatever the hell that is!"

The man apparently was such an asshole that he was already accustomed to being called one, and instead of answering, he just dismissively turned away to look at his son. It made Edward's metal arm itch despite its lack of nerves, wanting to slam into the man’s jaw.

"Moreover, a mudblood too! Vincent!, you are truly a disgrace to our blood."

"I said not to insult your son, you asshole!" Ed roared, this time his voice rising too much to be just a snarl. "And if anyone is humiliating your blood here, it’d be you!"

"How dare you speak like that?"

"I dare, damn it!" Edward turned away sharply, though after a moment's thought, he stepped back and grabbed two more pieces of roasted meat. "And you know what? What really humiliates your family is how you have to rely on the achievements of your great-grandmother's cousin's son because you're not that special yourself! Except maybe for being a world champion at shoving thick sticks up your ass!"

The man's face, already a little reddish, transformed into a fascinating shade of purple. However, Edward didn't want to wait for it to reach the final color, because although it was funny, the man's face was pissing him off too much, so he just turned to Vincent, whose face was completely pale.

"Don't mind him. Fathers are usually shitty. Luckily, unlike him, you're actually cool. Have a good night!" He waved as he turned to leave, then added, with a hint of sympathy, "And maybe make sure your old man doesn't burst a vein."

Edward pretended not to hear the angry stream of words as he strode off away from their tent. People stared at him with a mix of surprise, defiance, and unwanted amusement. Edward couldn't care less, especially when he was happily chewing on the gifted meat.

He headed towards the outskirts of the campsite, subconsciously choosing to sit under one of the trees. It was a good spot; a solid tree behind his back and a quiet forest beyond where he could hear if someone approached, and a view of the still-suspicious figures in front. He'd been called paranoid several times, but hey! He made it to sixteen, so his method couldn't be that bad.

Ed allowed himself to wrap his cloak tighter around himself and sink deeper into the forest floor, between the roots of the tree. Now that his stomach was warm with heavy food and the sky was almost fully dark, Edward concluded that he could sleep. The night was warm, the moss was soft, and the distant, increasingly fading whispers of conversations and the emerging stars were soothing. For a moment, he could even forget where he was. All this idyll needed was Al. Exactly! Alphonse.

People are beings that surely adapt easily.

…Maybe too easily.

Where the hell was he? How could he even think of the possibility of taking a peaceful nap?

This time he didn't make the mistake of trying to recall what he remembered last.

Contrary to all the mocking comments from Colonel Bastard, Edward could think and deduce outside of fights.

He looked at himself again. Not just looked, but really looked.

He was wearing his usual traveling clothes. Leather pants, thick-soled boots, a jacket, and a red cloak, which, when he thought about it now, had been called the color of some house or clan of traitors. A pity, but he didn't intend to change anything just because the man seemed to have some hate-boner against red.

But his attire suggested he was away from home. Longer than a stroll in Resembool. Which was troubling, because he hadn’t planned to leave, especially when his brother was still too weak to walk on his own. It had been less than two months since he regained his body. He’d had to spend two weeks in the hospital before being reluctantly discharged by the doctors, claiming that fresh air would do him good. And then Alphonse had had to persuade Ed to agree to him discharging too. Ed wouldn't call it overprotectiveness. Just... prudence. Exactly. He was prudent. And that's why he didn't want to believe he'd willingly left home.

He checked his pockets for further clues. In the left pocket of his cloak, he found two pieces of paper. One was for September 31st on the "Hogwarts express" from "Kings Cross", and although Edward had never heard of those names, he’d traveled by train long enough to know he was holding a train ticket.

The second paper quelled his panic before it could grow, being a ticket for the Quidditch World Cup on August 18th.

The panic stemmed from the fact that Edward had no idea what today's date was. Because it certainly didn't look like April. So either he didn't remember the last three months, or somehow had traveled in time along with the change of space. He’d put money on the latter. Because, really! What would annoy him more than traveling through space and dimensions? Traveling through space-time dimensions! It seems the world(s?) really liked to piss him off.

So he had almost two weeks to find out where he was and what had happened. And to get to wherever the hell "Kings Cross" was.

The next item he found was in his right pocket. Because of course it was for fucks sake . He didn't have feeling in his metal hand, so to check that pocket, he had to twist his body to reach with his left hand before he could get the hold of the object.

And it was a stick.

A fucking stick.

Or maybe it was something more; it looked very similar to the one which Vincent’s father wanted to stab him with, or the one used as a weird lighter.

But it was still visibly just a fucking stick.

A stick that Edward wouldn't have put there on his own without a reason. So it was a clue.

He examined it more closely, noticing the distinct grains curling and merging together. He took off the glove from his flesh hand to feel the texture of the pores, the softness, and even the smell. In the twilight darkness, he couldn't determine the color, though he was pretty sure it was dark, so he narrowed his suspicions to seven species assuming this world did not have different flora, the most common being dark beech, walnut, and oak. Though, after a moment's thought, it was a bit too flexible for oak. When he looked at the tip, it seemed to him that the wood structure was slightly compromised, which he confirmed by gently tapping the stick. It was hollow inside.

He wondered whether to break the stick and see if there was a hidden clue inside, but after a moment's thought, he abandoned the idea. Evidence suggested there was likely at least some sort of lighter mechanism inside it, and he had no idea what the consequences of breaking it could be. He could always check it later.

Or , a small portion of his brain commented, it could be something else inexplicable. Of course Edward didn't like the path of thought relating to what this stick might suggest, so he stuck it back in place (this time in the left pocket) and started searching again. He could keep having his scientific explanations about what he saw as long as he remained partially ignorant of what was inside.

Unfortunately, he found nothing else.

Well, except for the silver pocket watch attached to his belt.

The watch he was supposed to return.

Suddenly the dull ache in his head, which he hadn’t realized was still there, disappeared halfway.

He’d left to resign.

Mustang had called him, informing him that he’d been promoted and was to report to Central City within a week, where Fuhrer Grumman would announce his promotion to colonel. And Edward got on the train to stand before his commander as fullmetal one last time and resign, being honorably discharged into retirement. Because even if he was promoted he would lose his title as state alchemist.

Except...

The memories came slowly.

When he arrived at the station, he met Falman, who told him that Mustang had collapsed and was lying in the hospital. Something in his tone told Edward that it was serious, so he didn't joke about him avoiding paperwork again. For which he was grateful, because immediately after, Falman said it happened three days ago, he still did not wake up, and the doctors didn't know what had happened.

Of course, they visited him in the hospital, but as expected, it didn't yield anything. Mustang still looked the same, as annoying as ever. Maybe a little less, because he didn't have that assholic smile on his face. Edward... the memories were foggy again... visited Gracia and Elicia, who insisted he stay with them for two more days before going to the Fuhrer to officially receive his promotion. Or rather, ask him to hold off until Mustang woke up, because Edward didn't want to be promoted, let alone resign from the military and allow “Fullmetal” to disappear, without Mustang as a witness. Eventually. - as he explained to himself. - he had to laugh in the man's face that he had already used him enough for his promotions. Well, even Edward had to admit he owed him that. To wait for him. After years of cooperation, help, acquaintance, and secrets between them.

Equivalent exchange.

Exactly. Mustang devoted four years to him, so Edward could wait a few days.

Except that... He didn't remember meeting the Fuhrer.

Where there should have been a meeting, there was only emptiness.

White emptiness.

The pain in his head exploded again, but not strongly enough to drown out the damned voice, which sounded both characteristic and bland at the same time. Human and inhuman.

"I did not anticipate how weak the human mind is."

"Support the flame alchemist."

"You have received the necessary resources."

"A proper reward."

Or at least that's how his memories were revealed, prosecuted with that terrifying empty smile. Too wide for a person, though the white figure was never human.

And then there was a scream.

Edward woke up suddenly, covered in cold sweat, as almost always when he dreamed of the past. He didn't know when he had fallen asleep, although perhaps the word "passed out" would be more appropriate.

It took him too long to realize that the scream wasn't part of the dream.

He jerked his head so violently that his hood fell over his eyes, leaned back, revealing a view of the tent field. The field, which definitely didn't look as it should in the middle of the night.

Before Edward could fully register what was happening, his body was already leaping to its feet and rushing forward.

Some of the tents were on fire. People ran in all directions, screaming in fear and despair, their sounds merging into an unhappy cacophony. Bangs rang out as loud as gunshots, but too muffled and offbeat to come from a pistol. And at the epicenter of it all were figures in black cloaks and faces too pale to be real.

Masks - Edward realized as he bumped into two of the black figures during his run. They were lighting tents on fire with their strange lighters and aiming that shit at people.

Only the flames weren't yellow anymore; they were red and blue, entirely as if someone had added boron or an indium to them. But that was impossible. Just like it was impossible for a blue circle resembling a shield to suddenly shoot out of the defenders' lighters.

"People are beings that easily adapt.”

The adaptation process is easier and faster when your life's on the line.

And Edward's life was definitely at risk.

So he did what he always did best.

"The best defense is offense."

With a powerful swing, he delivered a blow to the jaw of the nearest attacker. Or rather, to where the jaw should be under the mask. There was, as he discovered when the poor imitation of a human skull cracked in half, its shards embedding into the man's face at the same time Edward's fist overcame the resistance of the mask and plunged unpleasantly deep into his jaw, two centimeters deeper than physiologically should be possible.

The freak in the hood and without a mask didn't even have a chance to groan as he fell unconscious to the ground.

Without waiting for the unconscious body to stop falling, Edward moved on, wasting no time to attack the second assailant. This time, he no longer had the element of surprise.

Or he thought so, before he covered half the long distance between the other man before that aggressive lunatic shooting colored fire from his non-lighter even realized his companion was inactive.

It took him another painfully long half-second to turn around and face the Edward who, those seconds earlier, had reduced the distance between them by almost four steps.

He sent a flame toward Edward. Ed easily dodged it, not even needing to move but merely bending down. Because who aims at the head instead of the navel area, where the center of gravity lies?

The next shot was slightly better, but Edward had spent too much time fighting, skirmishing, and sparring with Alphonse, and even with the Bastard, to not escape. So he kicked his automail leg a bit to the right and kept running. Five steps, two seconds later, his fist extended toward the attacker's face, and his whole body was ready to turn in mid-air and attack when the blow was blocked or repelled. Except the block never came. The second mask shattered under his fist, and this time, the crunch came from a broken nose.

The second man fell to the ground like the first, and unprepared for the lack of a counterattack, Edward staggered half a step before regaining his balance. He looked around, astonished that it was over. After all, the people spreading such terror and panic among the hundreds of campers couldn't be so weak... could they?

His pondering was interrupted by another scream, reminding him that he had only defeated two scouts, probably the weakest ones. The real threat still awaited him.

He looked around widely, and his gaze met the wide-eyed, frightened eyes of a red-haired man.

"Tie them up and take their weapons," he ordered, not waiting for a response. He continued, facing forward, pushing through the crowd of fleeing people, straight to the epicenter.

Chapter Text

In summary: Edward Elric, theoretically still employed as a state alchemist with the rank of colonel, woke up today in a stadium, having no clue how he got there, except for the fact that Truth was probably involved in it. And ironically, being controlled by a fucked up "god" wasn't his biggest problem. His biggest problem (at least for the moment, because he would probably come back to it) wasn't even the fact that people apparently could fly (or use brooms, he wasn't very picky about the details).

Edward jumped over a pot lying on the ground.

But... his biggest problem now was the whole bunch of weirdly dressed lunatics, for whom it was normal for people and brooms to fly, screaming their lungs out and circling around like headless chickens, fleeing from someone in a black cloak and (very  stylish) skeleton masks.

He avoided a falling pole from one of the burning tents, which almost lit up his hair, and nearly collided with another fleeing, screaming fat guy.

"Watch where you're running!" he shouted into the space in front of him, knowing full well that even if it weren't for the distance, the crowd's screams, and the crackles of fire, the man still wouldn't hear him. He was too panicked. Edward let out a few more curses, which were cut off when he almost tripped over a blanket.

Suddenly, another guy in a cool mask appeared out of nowhere. Edward had just lifted his foot from the ground with his automail, ready to jump a meter or two, when a black shadow emerged from behind the tent. Edward instinctively reacted by twisting his body to avoid the collision, at the same time pushing the other guy off balance – which was quite easy, considering how surprised the second one sounded, when falling.

That only confirmed Edward's theory that these attackers were amateurs.

When his feet touched the ground again, Edward quickly turned around and attacked the man sitting on the ground.

This time, he was ready.

"What?" the man exclaimed when Edward's fist struck his forearm, which he used to shield his head. His movements were too high and too sloppy – just like someone who had no idea about fighting. Edward immediately punched him in the stomach, and when the man lost his breath, he struck him again in the head, sending him into dreamland.

It was ridiculously easy.

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch,"

he thought when he suddenly caught a glimpse of a shadow from the corner of his eye. His stomach twisted, and Edward, with years of experience, trusted his instinct and without looking around on the surroundings, he leaped to the side.

He did the right thing. A second later, where his head had just been, there was a flash of green light. It wasn't fire, and he didn't smell oxidized boron in the air. But he didn't have time to think about it. Not now, when his arms hit the ground, and he ignored the shock spreading through his body, focusing only on using the restoring force to bounce back and this time facing the attacker.

Another masked man. But this time, something was different. He could feel that in gis hest. Not just because of the decreased oxygen concentration in the blood and temperature, which could affect airway resistance. This guy, unlike the previous three, wasn't an amateur. And he was definitely not unprepared.

"Avoid-a-crab-dabra!"

“dick prick salt fart!!" Edward shouted as an answer well aware that his words would also be grabled by the omnipresent noise and blood rushing in his ears. he again dodged the laser aimed at him. he then broke into a run towards the man who wasn't just standing still. he dodged the green light once more, cursing inwardly as the distance slowly closed between them.

Another two laser beams were red and the man started shouting at Edward "stupify"

- You're a stupid asshole! - he shouted. and when the eyes under the mask widened in surprise, Edward took advantage of the distraction.

- And what do you want anyway? huh? why do you attack campers?

- shut up, muggle!

“I am not a muggle” Edward shouted violently, although he didn't know what a "muggle" was. But he was intelligent enough to understand that it wasn't said in a friendly manner.

Perhaps the man would deny it and explain why he considered Edward a "muggle," but the distance between them was decreasing with each passing moment.

"Everte Statum!"

The only thing that saved Edward was his careful observation of every movement of the opponent. So when the man's hand rose towards him with the weapon, Edward drove his automail foot harder into the ground, pushing off to the right.

Suddenly, there was a flash of light, bright as lightning. And just like lightning, there was a bang, and pieces of earth under Edward's feet lifted up and flew far back.

Edward was sure he didn't want to end up like those pieces of dirt.

Fortunately for him, the distance between them finally closed. He made one last leap, this time propelling himself with his left leg, which, although not as strong automail, was still trained. He reached out his hand and, using the momentum of his flying body, he struck.

His opponent apparently had enough sense to anticipate the trajectory of his flight and dodged in advance. However, Edward overestimated his abilities because he moved painfully slowly.

His fist brushed against the mask, which cracked in one third and sagged, revealing the man's cheek.

"Stupefy!" he shouted, once again aiming at Edward. The teenager was unfortunately too close to dodge. Not that he needed to. He shielded his chest from the barrel of that strange, slender weapon with his Automail hand, realizing fractionally too late that he didn't really know what he was defending against or whether the metal could withstand it. It did. Edward didn't even feel the impact, but he didn't have time to dwell on it as he reached for the weapon with his other hand and, grabbing his assailant's wrist, snapped the device aimed at him in half.

Much to his surprise, instead of the resistance of bending metal, he heard the crack of splintering wood. Just as surprising was the sight of the assailant, with a desperate roar of rage, trying to break free from his grip to escape. Not to fight. Not to try to take advantage of the proximity to punch him in the stomach. No. He wanted to flee. And even then, he lacked conviction, as if he knew he had lost and didn't delude himself that he could really escape.

Well, he was right about that. There was no way Edward would let him go on and continue wreaking havoc.

This time the blow was aimed at the exposed cheekbone undert the broken mask. The man staggered as if struck by lightning, collapsing onto Edward, who wasted no time and, grabbing the edge of his cloak, flipped the fabric to tie the unconscious man's hands behind his back. Without turning around, he also headed towards the other, whom he hadn't tackled during the run, only to see the wide-eyed gaze of another man in a purple shirt and green pants. Edward was inclined to say that he wasn't with the attackers who at least had a good sense of fashion. The sculls were cool.

"Help me tie him up..." he began, but when the man realized that Edward saw him, he immediately disappeared behind the tents that weren't on fire. "Thanks for the help," Edward muttered sourly, and with a sigh, he turned to the one lying on the ground, who was slowly starting to wake up, if the wretched moans he emitted were any indication.

Leaving such a package for the military or any other authorities that would show up later to clean up this mess, Edward moved on to where the firelights were brightest. And to where a desperate, agonized scream suddenly rang out.

Fullmetal Alchemist knew many kinds of screams. The scream of joy, which he heard today upon waking up. The scream of anger, which he experienced every time he was late submitting a report and when Mustang received repair estimates after his fights. And There was the scream of fear that now echoed over the entire field, fortunately much quieter now that most had successfully evacuated. Heartbreaking screams of despair and shock at the cruelty of the world.

But the worst scream was the scream of a child. A scream that combined fear, helplessness, and despair at everything that was happening and over which the young person had no control over.

That scream had just pierced the night sky full of smoke and violence.

That scream made a new energy and power well up in Edward's leg and thigh, already familiar to him but rarely appearing.

“Alchemist be for people”

Even when he gave up his gate, even when he admitted to God that he had always been just a simple man, he remained himself. Edward Elric, who was not indifferent to the suffering of others. Especially not when that suffering was inflicted on children.

As he ran, he heard footsteps ahead of him. But when he stretched his neck to see the enemy, all he saw was a woman running in the same direction in a red dress and green hair. She must have heard him too, as she turned slightly behind her. Maybe in the darkness of the dancing flames, she didn't realize he was young. Or maybe she didn't care. But when their eyes met, they nodded to each other. They were on the same side.

Together with the woman, they entered a wider path, which allowed them to see what froze Edward's blood in his veins.

Laser beams darting between groups of people. Not as numerous as an army. More like small squads. Those in masks clearly had an advantage?

And perhaps that's why they allowed themselves to be scattered. Because while some fought with beams or shielded themselves with glowing barriers, some dared to stick their heads in the air. And in the air, three people were floating, screaming, crying, and shaking clearly terrified.

The man kicked his legs in the air, trying to somehow move towards his family. The woman hung upside down in such a way that her nightshirt fell over her face, uncovering her pale legs and white panties. thereewas also their daughter. At least Edward guessed she was their daughter because she extended her arms to her father, crying and screaming for help, which wasn't coming when invisible forces kept turning her body.

His hands automatically came together, but at the last moment, he refrained from clasping them and invoking a pang of emptiness in his heart. Instead, he drew a knife from between the plates. Just the blade, which if held in an ordinary hand would cut the skin, but thankfully he didn't have to deal with that problem when he gripped the weapon in his metal fingers.mHe had put them there on a whim when he was leaving, mocking Al's insistence that he should carry a weapon, because 'trouble has a way of finding him.'". Oh Alphonse, he could imagine him rolling his eyes in a gesture of "I told you so."

In his living hand, he grabbed a suitcase he spotted with the corner of his eye, which he opened, emptying its contents, then moved forward.

Unlike the woman with green hair, Edward didn't head towards the colorful people who, positioned in a completely unstrategic manner, tried chaotically to shoot light at the enemies.

Instead, he headed straight for the center of the self-masked oppressors

If you were to stop time and ask Edward what were the sticks held by Huddie guys for, he would say they were strange lighters shooting flammable liquid enriched with metals atoms, that give the flame these color. Perhaps he would have thought better of it and called them laser flashlights or even small plasma generators since some of the lights looked like lightning.

But time didn't stop and Edward didn't have the luxury of pretending he did understand what was happening. At least not on a conscious level.

The subconscious, experience and heart knew that these simple black sticks were nothing more than weapons. Dangerous and incomprehensible, and therefore potentially deadly.

So Edtwad, learned by experience to listen not to his mind but to his heart, allowed his body to throw itself into the whirlwind of the masked figures, heading inside, beyond their defense line, hoping that the panicked people would refrain from attacking with the lights out of fear of harming each other. And judging by the level of fights with the previous ones he came across, hand-to-hand combat was not only one of ways of dealing with them, but the path to victory.

They didn't even notice when he ran up from behind until it was too late. He ducked before the red light of the "stupidity" and cut the stick with a quick cut of the metal. Not entirely, because masked guy who did not expect that kind of attack loosened his grip and the stick fell from his hand not fully destroyed, but Edward hoped that the cut had damaged the mechanism enough to take away the weapon's deadliness. He didn't have time to find out about it, however, because in the same movement as he cut one attacker's stick, he swung at the head of the other masked villain with his left hand, which was holding the open suitcase.

The commotion and shouting obviously attracted the attention of several people, so Edrwad ducked in case they fired lights. That's what happened. Best of all, the lights that were shot at him when they missed their target turned into Friendly fire, eliminating two other attackers, knocking the stick out of one's hand and sending the other flying. Yeah, he definitely didn't want to get hit by that. Therefore, still bent halfway, he moved forward, towards the next person. He hit him in the shin, and when the man roared and bend, he hit him on the head with his elbow.

Someone must have realized that he was crouching, because edrwad heard the "rictusempra" - before which he shielded himself with the suitcase and bent his body just in case the light (which he subconsciously knew was not an ordinary light) was about to penetrate the suitcase and hit him.

Luckily, that didn't happen.

He shielded himself from three more llifgts, taking down another mask-guy in the process and moving deeper. And even though he didn't bother to look around, out of the corner of his eye he saw a whitish streak of light running from one of the people's stick to the people floating in the air.

The girl let out another scream.

Edward didn't even think twice. He swung, spinning around, knocking the stick out of the hands of another person, and then released the suitcase so that it flew until one of its corners hit the levitating torturer in the temple.

He fell, unconscious even before he felt the pain in his head.

And then the consequences of not thinking dawned on Edward all over again.

Of course, it wasn't entirely his fault that he hadn't predicted exactly how this strange world worked.

The family levitating in the air suddenly began to fall. Ed rushed towards the girl, hoping to catch her before she fell to the ground. Fortunately, he didn't have to, as the forces of the colored people sent their own pale light to encompass the fallers, once again placing them in the air and in the process dragging them away to where Edward hoped they were safe.

And the second consequence of not thinking: he no longer had the suitcase with which he blocked the light sent at him.

“expelliramus!” he heard from his left. He couldn't block that with automail, so te have turned his body so that the punch was in the shoulder- where the smallest damage to his vitals could be made.

A tingle ran through his body, but nothing happened.

However, Edward had no illusions that all the blows would be so harmless. As a soldier, he was well aware that no used only one type of weapon in war. and even if he was so naive, only an idiot would not make a connection from different words and different colors of lights. He didn't have to be a genius to know that they also had other effects.

His next task was to stun the one shooting with harmless light to make sure he didn't jump to the same conclusions and attack him with something more effective, or share his empiric experience with his friends.

he had halfway realized his intention. Halfway, because in the blink of an eye he reached his target and reached for the other man's wrist, pulling his hand up as he would with a gun, pointing the tip of the stick upwards. With his clenched fist, still holding the knife, he struck the man's jaw in such a way that the blade did not touch the skin, but his knuckles did. he shut down like his other co-oppressors.

The second half, however, did not go as well as he had hoped. because maybe someone had enough insight to draw conclusions from someone elses experience. or maybe Edward was just unlucky.

“everte statum”

For whatever reason, Edward suddenly changed his position.From a very comfortable position on two legs he found himself in the air, first with his head, then with his legs, and finally with his back up, making a full turn almost two meters above the ground. Two meters is quite a lot, especially when you fall off them.

He tried to cushion the fall by twisting his body to perform a shoulder roll. It worked, unfortunately, from the place where he was thrown, stones protruded from the ground, hitting his shoulder and hip. And with the force of the impact they tore his thighs and dug into his body, sending a wave of pain, which he knew when adrenaline would drop, it will turn into an annoying burning sensation that would prevent him from sleeping.

Well. he couldn't complain, he had been fighting in the middle of a unit of enemy troo... amateurs for over 30 seconds and only now he was injured.

He jumped up to his feet before his whirling mind could fully realize where exactly he had landed, quickly enough that his opponents didn't have time to get a grip on the situation either.

he managed to attack the mask-guy closest to him until the gray lights started flying towards him again. when he fell, he dropped the blade, so briefly thinking, he pulled the stick out of his pocket and, this time, putting it in his left hand, attacked again. The hard wood was aimed at certain points of the wrist and hand, which deprived the fingers of feeling, which made him easily tear the weapon out of the men's hands and with a quiet crack he broke it in half, throwing useless parts aside. He took down two more before the light hit him again and he couldn't dodge it. A painful spasm went through his body as all his muscles tensed and refused to move no matter how hard he forced himself to do so. That agony [2] ended a long few seconds later when another light shot into his chest and sent him flying meters back again. This time his stiffened muscles did not amortize the fall and his shoulder sank into the ground, fortunately without any stones. the worst thing that could have happened to him was a profusely bleeding, although shallow wound made of torn skin.

Fortunately the hit into the ground unlocked his control over his body, allowing him to quickly rise and lunge at the nearest person threatening him with a stick. Just as before, he waved his hand upwards, causing the shooting red light to shoot into the air..

Suddenly, shots rang out. A sudden volley from a familiar firearm triggered a deeply ingrained reaction in him, leaving him no time to thinkt until he crouched on the ground, shielding his head with his hands. This position not only reduced his accuracy as a target but also allowed him an immediate response to physical attacks.

"It’s aurors!" someone shouted from beside Edward, among the masked individuals.

More shots, both near and far. Edward realized with unease that adrenaline had clouded his judgment, and he had mistaken them with the sounds of gunshots.

A gunshot wouldn't sound louder or softer at a distance of ten or twenty meters. It would resonate in the night, piercing bodies, not just fade into silence after the shot, being so hollow and deaf. It took Edward another half second to remember that I had heard a similar sound at the very beginning of this whole situation, when he woke up after strange dream

He didn't need to waste time wondering about the source of these sounds because right next to him, the same crack sounded, and one of the attackers simply vanished.

Fucking disappeared

like... "puf"

or more like "BANG"

And in case Edward did not believe what he had just witnessed, another "bangs" resonated around him and more people vanished into thin air. 

As the number of Mask-Guys thinning out, who were creating airborne light shields and securing a live barrier between Edward and the Good-Guys forces, the streams of light shooting in their direction grew denser.

Through the mist, Edward thought it would be ironic if, after using the opponents' fear of hitting themselves against them, he ended up caught in a "Friendly Fire" himself.

He slumped to the ground even lower, with disappointment noticing that those he had defeated, whether by ripping out their sticks or landing a precise blow to their jaws or abdomen, had mostly disappeared, evidently taken away by their comrades.

All his work had gone to waste. At least, the additional work had. Because what mattered most - the safety of his family - had been effectively achieved.

"Don't let them escape!" shouted the old voice. Edward glanced around, still crouched on the ground, but when he saw no one who could pose a threat anymore, he allowed himself to relax.

"You're a little late with that command," he said loudly, slowly rising to his feet to avoid alarming his allies. "Those two are out cold, so I doubt they are going anywhere, but hell knows. Their mates just literally teleported out of this fucking mess."

"Expelliramus!" A beam hit Edward square in the chest before he could even finish speaking.

"Hey!" he yelled.

"Stay there and keep your hands where I can see them," shouted the same old voice that had called out the words triggering that exe-something light-beams just moments ago. (Edward's mind stubbornly debated calling it a "spell").

"Mr. Couch," another, younger voice spoke up. "He's an ally."

"Exactly!" Edward agreed.

"Silence!" the voice barked at him, then turned back to the red-haired one who had spoken up in his defense. "How can you know he's an ally when he was on the other side? Don't be fooled by his change of clothes! Everyone knows snakes shed their skin!"

“When exactly would I have had the chance to change clothes?" Edward retorted, his hands lightly raised as he attempted to approach the allies who turned out to be a bit less friendly than he had assumed.

“Silence! And don't move even a little step!" the voice rang out.

“WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL THAT HE WOULDN’T NOTICEABLY MOVE FOR AN INCH EVEN IF HE WOULD START RUNNING WITH ALL HIS MIGHT ON HIS TINY-MICRO-PICO SHORT LEGS???” - Edward shouted, interrupting the silence for a moment.

For a moment, there was silence.

“He's trying to run! Get him!” - someone yelled.

And hell broke loose. Streams of light flew in his direction again, but this time, they weren't just individual beams; they were quite massive streams. Edward had nothing to shield himself from them (since the people who had previously obscured him had simply fucking disappeared).

No hit him, but only for one reason. The first stream, which brought his mind back into the state of fight, was singular and missed, Later followed by subsequent ones that pursued that one first. They came late enough for him to throw himself to the ground and roll a few times towards where the tents stood. Instead of still burning in fire, they emitted smoke, enveloping everything in a gray mist.

This mist was perfect cover for Edward, especially as his sudden dodge didn't trigger the screams and panic he had expected. Apparently, one of those lights was supposed to knock him unconscious or at least knock him off balance.

- Let's go to get him! - shouted the older man who had accused him of siding with the masked men.

As they approached about halfway, Edward took one last, deep breath, then, rising to his feet, he lunged sideways. He knew the chances of escape were slim, but it was no expactly escape he was planning right now.

they yelled a few strange words, and three streams of light - one yellow and two red - flew in his direction. The red ones missed, and he hid behind the suitcase lying on the ground, which was his goal, and item crucial for future escape

"Expelliramus!" someone shouted.

Again, nothing happened.

"His Protego is stronger than we thought!" yelled the young voice.

"It's not a spell, you idiot!" retorted the old man. "He's using a material barrier!"

"A Muggle?"

"Or a Deatheater experienced in duels!"

Edward took advantage of the confusion to retreat. Surprisingly, it went well. I mean, they didn't realize he was escaping for almost two seconds, which meant a good five meters. Unfortunately, their conversation seemed to prompt them to reflect, because the next spell wasn't a streak of light, but a flash and a bang, which, even though Edward shielded himself from it, wasn't as harmless as most things so far.

Once again, he found himself mid air and he flew few meters before once again uniting with ground in quite painful and little bloody manner.

He couldn't help but smile when he realized that these people, trying to catch him, unwittingly facilitated his escape. Flying of a few meters meant an immediate shift of a few meters. And it so happened beyond the line of first tents.

He used the momentum of the fall to roll behind one of the tents. Again, he got up, this time more clearly feeling the pain of all the bruises and wounds burning because of clothes, dirt and stones that stuck in raw flesh of wounds. He needed to tend to them.

 Suddenly, the night sky lit up, and above him appeared a firework in the shape of a skull and a snake.

Edward really wanted to believe it was just a hologram displayed on the smoke of the burnt field, not an inexplicable image in the air. 

"It's the Dark Mark!" one of those chasing him exclaimed.

"Hurry!" shouted the old voice. "Where did it come from?"

"Mr. Couch," a female voice spoke up, which did not make sense as Edward was sure there were only four men chasing after him. [3] "The Dark Mark was cast just two hundred meters from your position. I'm sending a map with the location marked."

"It's Auror Wellys Goat."

"Let's hurry! We'll catch him!"

Four muffled bangs rang out, followed by silence.

Edward was alone.

And he changed his mind. These people weren't half-amateurs. They were total amateurs and greenhorns. How could they completely forget about him and "BANG" themselves somewhere else?

 Not that he was complaining. He no longer had to run, and his chances of successfully leaving the place had risenfrom 60% to 99%. Still, Edward Elric felt a bit... underappreciated.

A/N –
[1] The Death Eater Edward fought initially used a killing curse. However, when he realized Edward wasn’t "ordinary," he tried to stun him—likely intending to take him away to either toy with him, present him to others, or sacrifice him to the Dark Lord. The final spell was a desperate attempt to push Edward away.

[2] – Crucio wasn’t used, but another dueling curse that causes all muscles to contract. I assumed this would be painful, because imagine tensing every muscle in your body and holding it for a few seconds (a cramp is also a muscle contraction, and it’s painful).

[3] Patronus

BONUS: 

i made Graphic !

I have decided to use color linart as I kinda... got used to this from drawing for my story about comparing Edward to shrimp? (check this out, btw) I hope my drawing style does not disturb you – as it is not really FMA-style.

Chapter Text

„All roads lead to Central City”

The proverb painfully reminded him that there was no Central City here.

Nevertheless, the idea was the same. The roads lead to where it all began. So, to the point where they started. In this case, the entrance to the campsite.

It took him a moment to find the place, especially since he tried to sneak around the edge of the forest, in case those incompetent weirdos remembered they were chasing him earlier, before someone set off another strange fireworks.

So, when he saw the gleaming rectangular lights in the darkness, unmistakably of a haouse, Edward breathed a sigh of relief. Just a few meters ahead was a large asphalt parking lot, from which a road led.

And at that moment, Edward knew something was seriously wrong. The cars he saw didn't resemble those he knew from home. Of course, he shouldn't be too surprised, considering the world had different fashion and physics, why not different cars? Nevertheless... something told him that the different appearance of the cars was a much more important observation than all of things what he had seen so far.

"We'll fix the damages, and then cleanse the Muggle's memory," a sudden voice reached him as the doors opened.

Edward could laugh that they didn't make sure there was no one there who could overhear them, but what absorbed him more was the wording used.

"Cleansing memory."

These words resonatingin his mind sounded similar to "human transmutation."

What's more, they used the word "Muggle," the same as what he was called. This ultimately convinced Edward that he shouldn't even consider engaging in peaceful cooperation with the weirdos.

And under no circumstances should he allow himself to be caught. The longer he stayed here, the more likely someone would eventually locate him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted bicycles leaning against the house railing.

He hesitated.

He couldn't do it.

But the campsites were usually far from the cities. He couldn't walk.

"And what about the red DeathEater?" asked the gruff voice of an older man.

"Mr. Couch. We don't know if he's really a Death Eater."

"Who else?"

"Ally. He helped us save a family."

"Then why did he run away?"

"I don't know, Mr. Couch."

Edward exerted all his strength not to shout and point the men out, that he ran because they attacked him.

Instead, he clenched his lips in a grim determination.

"Exactly. We'll find out everything when we catch him and force him to talk. I've already summoned the tracers to find out where he have apartated to."

Edward didn't know what "Apportation” was, but he had an unpleasant feeling that it was the name for BANG-teleportation. If someone was going to come to find who and where have teleported,  they'd certainly find out that someone DIDN'T teleport. So they'll look around. And by that time, he had to disappear.

When the men left, Edward clenched his fists and bit his lip in grim determination.

That man claimed that he did "save that family", didn’t he?

So, they could pay him by lending him a bike?

And he was going to give it back anyway. And since they plan to erase people's memories, who knows if they won't forget how to ride a bike too?

Equivalent exchange.

Favor for favor.

He grabbed the bike and disappeared behind the tree line again. After a moment, if someone was listening, they would hear a quiet rustle of leaves, the creaking of an unoiled chain, and muttered curses under his breath.

Edward Elric rode off into the night.

___________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________

In the Ministry of Magic, there were many rooms that existed only through magic. When space was needed: offices or storage rooms, the appropriate spell was cast, and doors to a new room magically appeared in the corridor.

The room to which the massive mahogany doors led did not belong to this category. It was not created out of nowhere, to please some politicans. It had existed from the beginning, just like the grand hall, the main courtroom, and the minister's office. In other words, it was a room that spoke of the prestige of the people within it. And of the importance of the matters discussed therein.

Because that was the problem that was troubling everyone.

The Quidditch tournament. And what happened afterward.

"We managed to capture three Death Eaters," concluded Theseus Scamander - the current leader of the Aurors, though he didn't look pleased.

"But they still managed to escape," grunted Alastor Moody, his magical eye spinning around in its socket, giving the impression that the man was rolling his eyes.

"They were apprehended and taken to the place from which we were supposed to escort them to custody," Skamander replied calmly, though a slight tremor in his voice betrayed his agitation. "One of their allies appeared unexpectedly and apparated them to safety."

"You could have cast the Fidelius Charm," retorted Mad-Eye.

"The Fidelius is a very complex spell, Alastor," Lucius Malfoy interjected with a serene smile. "Additionally, it's highly energy-consuming and difficult to reverse. Applying it in a Muggle area could cause problems in the future."

"But we wouldn't have these problems now," growled the old Auror, tossing a newspaper onto the table. Rita Skeeter's article was already known to all of them.

"Ministry blunders... culprits not apprehended... lax security... Dark wizards unchecked... Muggle help... national disgrace..."

"We are currently trying to ensure that the image of the Ministry of Magic does not suffer too much," reassured the man with long, white hair.

"Thank you, Lucius," Minister Cornelius Knot smiled sincerely.

"I am always at your service, dear Cornelius."

"However, we managed to find several wands that they couldn't retrieve," Skamander announced, trying to pretend that the strict words didn't affect him.

"Only one, broken," Bartimeus Crouch from the Department of International Magical Cooperation commented sourly. [4]

"Barbarian," someone muttered from the back of the room.

"One, broken wand, lying next to a bound and unconscious Death Eater," came a smooth voice from the direction of the door. Everyone turned to greet the entering man.

"Roy! I didn't expect to see you here!" the Minister exclaimed, rising from his seat next to Lucius Malfoy, delighted.

"Hello, Minister," the younger man modestly bowed his head.

"Nonsense. I've told you so many times to drop the formalities!"

"That would be offensive, dear Cornelius," he replied, using the minister's name despite the denial. Then he turned his stormy eyes to the others in the room.

"I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Of course not," Lucius assured, also rising, but instead of approaching Roy like the Minister, he merely nodded slightly in a silent invitation, indicating a vacant seat nearby. Apart from Lucius and a few oblivious individuals, most faces in the room stiffened.

And the man who was the cause of the thick atmosphere smiled.

Roy Mustang was an enigma.

He appeared out of nowhere. Five years ago, he simply showed up at Hogwart, claiming to remember nothing since waking up on a train, and a Hogwart express ticket and a job application as a Alchemy teacher were his only clues.

No spells or memory-enhancing potions worked, not even the legitimation.

And that should have been the end of the story.

Except it wasn't. Later that same summer, before the start of the academic year, Roy Mustang appeared at the Ministry of Magic, charming many people with his political smile, silver tongue, and charisma.

A handsome face, youthful vigor, and a gleam in his eye drew others to him, and once they leaned toward him, they never backed away.

Lucius Malfoy had to admit that there weren't many who realized in time what was happening. Actually, there weren't many people who even after five years saw what he himself saw.

Roy Mustang got entangled in politics like a spider in its web. But not like a fly that flew into the trap and couldn't get out. No... Roy Mustang was the spider himself, constantly weaving his threads, and before others realized it, they themselves were dancing on his web.

He was the embodiment and personification of Slytherin. Perhaps even more ideal than Lucius himself. He represented ambition, ingenuity, determination, and cunning. And he also had deceitfulness ingrained in him so perfectly, rooted in his blood, that even Malfoy couldn't see the moment when Roy Mustang - from a harmless victim of a mind trap - became a significant figure in politics. And perhaps even... a threat.

"You found one broken wand lying next to a bound Death Eater. Bound not with a magical chain, but with a rope torn from his cloak. With a broken mask, bruises, and a wand in two parts," Roy Mustang, seemingly unaware of the angry and distrustful glances of a large part of the room, especially those who were in Gryffindor, began his story, gracing them with his smile. One of those smiles that brought a shiver of both anxiety and excitement to Lucius. "You all know, gentlemen and ladies," here his smile became even more serpent-like as he leaned towards the table, making eye contact with Dolores Umbridge. One of the few women who didn't succumb to his charm right away. "that this is not the preferred way of fighting for us, the ones gifterd with power of creation."

"Ones gigted with the power of creation" - another term for wizards that Mustang created and used. Yet another example of how perfectly silver his tongue was. Even Lucius, hearing those words, couldn't contain the feeling of pride spreading in his chest, knowing that he possessed a power available only to a few.

"We still don't know who the man who did this was," Theseus Scamander admitted.

"Because you let him escape!" Moody thundered. "A warrior of his caliber capable of fighting not only with magic is dangerous."

"A dark mark appeared! We had to find out who summoned it!" Bartimaeus Crouch replied, also raising his voice.

"A warrior fighting not only with magic is not only dangerous, but above all unpredictable," Roy smoothly intervened, once again drawing everyone's attention to himself. "We don't know what would have happened if we had continued to pursue him. Perhaps he would have attacked us as well." The smooth extinguishing of the growing flame of argument calmed emotions. Alastor Moody, the man who trusted no one and was one of the few who didn't fall under Mustang's spell, even he obeyed, falling silent and allowing the "letting  escape" to be presented in a positive and responsible light.

"Meanwhile..." Roy kept smiling all the while, and Lucius, in a flash of horror and excitement, began to wonder how old Mustang was. Once he would have guessed 30, but now, after five long years, the man didn't look like he aged a day.

"...Allow me, ladies and gentlemen, to share with you what happened to me today. When I was hurrying this morning to make it to this meeting, I stumbled upon a group of heroes who rushed to help during the riots at the match. And it so happens that one of those heroes, this bright morning, honored othters with a story firsthand of his experiences and those he witnessed. I also took the liberty of inviting him."

 With his hand clad in a white glove, he took a white, bone-like wand, wood that Lucius couldn't name, and aimed it at the door, almost in an inviting gesture. The non-verbal spell opened the entrance, revealing a slightly nervous red-haired man.

"Mr. Weasley, would you honor us with your presence?"

And before anyone could realize it, it was Mustang who took Theseus's place, conducting the interrogation, summing up, leading the debate, and reaching a conclusion. At times, he voiced criticism, reprimanded for oversights and mistakes, and then chased them with a polite compliment, not allowing the petrified person to feel attacked. At one point, he even gave orders, which, although Malfoy knew were suggestions, were phrased in such a way that he himself felt like carrying them out.

At one point, Theseus sat on the side of the table to make room for Roy and the person he brought in. that was all made as if unconsciously, perhaps even Mustang himself wasn't fully aware of what was happening and what he had done. Malfoy had the pleasure of witnessing when the realization dawned on Alastor Moody's face - considered the most skilled Auror, which was the only reason he was invited on such an important meeting. His real eye widened slightly, his jaws clenched, and his glass eye swiveled wildly several times before also focusing on the man speaking with a relaxed smile. Roy Mustang was a born leader.

Roy didn't expect his day to turn out like this when he read the newspaper headlines in the morning. And he also didn't expect his heart to be equally moved by that the news of the appearance of the dark mark, the incompetence of the military... mean Aurors as well as only marginally mentioned information about the mysterious warrior who apparently was as hostile to Death Eaters as he was to the Ministry,.

He also didn't expect that on his way to the meeting, to which he theoretically wasn't invited, but which he knew he could join, he would hear excited whispers telling how someone witnessed the masked warrior single-handedly confronting a pair of Death Eaters. He didn't know why exactly, but he stopped to eavesdrop a little more. And then he revealed himself and with a smile invited the telling man to join him.

"Now, Mr. Weasley, would you like to repeat what you witnessed?" he asked, resting his chin on his hands and smiling lazily.

The red-haired man shuddered slightly. It was clear that he didn't have any fondness for Mustang. Roy also knew why. Not only did he ally himself with Malfoy and other members of the Wizengamot, but quickly learning at Hogwarts, Roy noticed the deep-rooted antipathy between the houses. And Arthur Weasley, like all his children, was full of Gryffindor traits, blindly following the path laid out for him. It was one of the first things he would deal with once he became Minister. But he put those plans aside and focused on the present.

At his urging, Arthur Weasley, though not necessarily with joy, recounted everything he witnessed the night before. About how he, along with his oldest sons, set out to fight the Death Eaters, about how he stumbled upon a couple wreaking havoc among the fleeing. And about how one of them suddenly fell to the ground, revealing a short figure.

"I thought he was from Bulgaria," the man admitted. "He was wearing a red cloak and black clothes, so I assumed he flew here to support the country during the match.

 “All our Aurors have already been introduced to Mr. Crouch," announced Jan Tagarev, the director of the Bulgarian Department of International Wizard Cooperation.

-"Exactly! I examined that bastrad closely, and I'm sure he wasn't one of them."

 "The work you have done was very helpful," Roy assured with a slight nod of his head, redirecting attention to himself. "However, I would like to present all known facts before we ask Mr. Crouch and other witnesses for their statements."

He glanced again at Arthur to continue.

- "So..." the man hesitated. "He then started running towards the other side too quickly for me to react in time. And when deatheater spotted him and cast a spell, he simply dodged it. He didn't cast Protego, but he dodged. As if he moved out of the path of light. As if he used speed-enhancing potions."

Roy refrained from commenting that spells could easily be avoided by simply stepping off the trajectory the wand was aimed at before the spell was cast.

- "Ha!" snorted Auror Moody. "Didn't I say he was dangerous? He reads wand movements to dodge attacks instead of deflecting them! Not only dangerous but experienced!"

- "Alastor," Roy interrupted him. Mad-Eye Moody grunted slightly, his voice sounding reluctant, presumably out of dislike - as Roy guessed. Another example of Gryffindor-Slytherin prejudice. "Shouldn't we allow Mr. Weasley to finish?"

Wesley finished his story when the mentioned warrior dodged another spell, which was accompanied by Moody's snort.

"And then he yelled at us to bind them and ran off," Wesley concluded. "So I cast a binding spell and continued, but I chose a different path."

"It's impossible for someone to defeat two Death Eaters and not to cast a single spell!" Crouch thundered.

"Mr. Crouch, if you'll allow, let's not create chaos; let's hear from other people who saw this warrior first," Roy intervened smoothly

“he is a criminal and a barbarian”

“ I see, Mr. Crouch that you have volunteered to testify” Roy didn't let his voice rise, but there was a hint of threat in the air. Old Crouch caught it too, as some of his bravado deflated.

And that is how it was told what the aurors have witnessed. Both ones at the Quidditch match and those who arrived later - About how suddenly chaos erupted among the Death Eaters, then the Roberts family began to fall, and when support arrived and most of the Death Eaters Apparated, there remained a man dressed in a red cloak in the middle of the clearing.

- "And then he started to flee!" announced Crouch, holding his head high. "It's obvious he was one of them and simply changed the color of his cloak."

- "So why would he fight against Death Eaters?" Roy asked resolutely.

- "Perhaps Mr. Arthur Weasley could have been mistaken? There were many people dressed in red. Moreover, it was dark and chaotic?" Mr. Goyle suggested, smiling and sending a condescending look to the redhead, as if proud that he managed to undermine the credibility of his testimony. Roy didn't comment that this suggestion could imply that old Goyle was present at the scene during the riots, even though he officially stayed home. Pointing out such a mistake wouldn't do him any good.

- "Perhaps it was also an attack from within to get rid of rivals within the inner circle of you know who," Dumbledore spoke for the first time since he entered. Throughout, his eyes were sad and worried, and Roy could only guess what was going on in the old wizard's mind.

- "You know who isn't alive. Why would someone fight for his circles?" Knot asked no one in particular. In response, he received many thoughtful looks.

- "Mr. Cornelius," Roy spoke again, "mind paths are unfathomable. However, what we can be certain of is that we cannot assume a person's motives, as they may be both an enemy and a friend."

- "But I told you he was fleeing!" Crouch thundered.

- "But we also heard that he fought against the Death Eaters. So he is an enemy of our enemy."

- "An enemy of the enemy is not necessarily our ally," Alastor Moody growled, his magical eye swirling around his head.

- "You're mistaken, Alastor," Roy sent him another one of his smiles. "With the right amount of attention devoted to him, anyone can be our ally."

For a moment, there was silence as the words and their implications sank in. Roy allowed it to linger only as long as necessary and not a second more.

- "Meanwhile, there are other facts, equally important, that Mr. Crouch has already mentioned. Perhaps they will also help us resolve this issue?"

This time it was Theseus Scamander who spoke up.

"He didn't run like the other Death Eaters."

"Exactly," Roy agreed with a smile, nodding his head for the head of the aurors to continue.

"He did run alone. And much later.  The Death Eaters evacuated their unconscious and immobilized. So he probably didn't belong to them."

"And he couldn't apparate on his own either."

"Maybe he lost his wand?" someone from the back of the room suggested. Roy didn't get a chance to see who spoke as a dispute erupted right after the words were spoken.

"That's impossible," Skamander's sharp voice cut through the noise. "We heard that he attacked without a wand from the beginning. Nobody would be stupid enough to take on Death Eaters without a weapon."

"Maybe for a coward!" Alastor Moody snorted something that might have been a disdainful laugh, sparking another wave of opposition.

- "Maybe for cowards!" Alastor Moody snorted something that might have been a disdainful laugh. "A true warrior won't yield to the fight! Even if he were to die!" He emphasized the words with a stomping, and the sound of wood echoed through the room. Many grimaced slightly. Not Roy. He couldn't explain it, but ever since he saw the missing leg just above the ankle, his first thought was that losing such a piece of the leg was a small loss, even if the prosthetic was rudimentary. Of course, he couldn't explain where such a thought came from. He had never met anyone with a different prosthetic. He even wondered if it was a fleeting memory before the memory loss, but if it were, how monstrous man must Roy have been that losing a foot didn't make an impression on him.

 And did nightmares of raging fire and the screams of agony of hundreds of people have anything to do with it?

 He shook himself and made sure his thoughts didn't erase the relaxed smile from his face. However, his momentary distraction went unnoticed, and the discussion continued.

- "He looked young," Percy Weasley, who had been standing silently behind his boss, spoke up. "Maybe he hadn't learned it yet?"

- "Apparition is taught upon reaching adulthood. Are you suggesting that a group of Death Eaters was attacked by a minor?" the Minister of Defense bristled.

- "The children I watched the match with had the misfortune of encountering Death Eaters. I don't think that if such brilliant wizards as Harry and Hermione Granger had trouble dealing with them, anyone else could have done what we're talking about here," Mr. Weasley interjected.

- "Harry Potter?" someone confirmed, and upon receiving approval, let out a soft sigh.

- "Well, if he was underage, that would explain why he didn't use spells," Alastor Moody snorted a skeptical laugh, eliciting another wave of opposition.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Age doesn't matter," Roy interrupted. "Many of you probably remember the times of the previous war. It's hard to call many of the fighters adults."

"And how would you know that?" one of the aurors standing in the corner, another Gryffindor, called out.

"I believe, Mrs. Nymphadora, that you can't be so sure of that either. And although I didn't fight during the previous war, I don't need to, to know the history and heroism of many young wizards and witches."

The room fell silent again. Roy felt Lucius Malfoy's gaze on him, who nod him in approval.

The memory of the previous war was dangerous, especially when he himself hadn't participated in it. Yet, even though he made a mistake mentioning it, he managed to get out of it with class and dignity.

It was another thing that Mustang couldn't fully understand. He wasn't mentioned in any records of the war, yet something deep inside him told him that he had fought. That he fought and committed terrible deeds that haunted his dreams. And sometimes - when he woke up screaming with sweat on his brow - he wondered in fear of himself whether he had once been on Voldemort's side.

"It seems that it's time for the part we've all been waiting for. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Crouch, and Mr. Rivers, would you honor us by trying to describe this mysterious warrior, who, judging by our stories, should pose as big a threat as a group of Death Eaters."

"that’s little generous," Moody interjected again, tapping gently with his wooden peg on the floor. "Even if I wasn't there, the familiar tactics are obvious at first glance. He plunged into the heart of their group and spread more disorientation than devastation among them," he pointed out, and looking around at the assembled with his glass eye, he made sure they were paying attention. "Maybe it would even be overestimating to call it a strategy. Maybe it was just some idiot who wanted to play hero and threw himself into the very center of the enemy?"

"Alastor," Roy smiled at the man, with a slight satisfaction, noticing how he grimaced and looked at him suspiciously. He, too, had once been in Gryffindor. "I sincerely thank you on behalf of those gathered here, for your valuable insights as the most talented of the aurors," even though he complimented him, Roy was sure the man understood when he ordered him to be silent. Several other people also noticed this, as they looked at him with reluctant admiration. Even old Malfoy, who, as it was widely known, was waging a cold war with Alastor. Well. Like every former Death Eater. Roy also realized that the only reason Alastor and many other aurors didn't treat him with hostility was the fact that there was almost no mention of him before or after the reign of Lord Voldemort and the wizarding war. So they had no grounds for suspicion.

When the room fell silent, he nodded to Mr. Crouch to speak, and he, along with two other men who were close witnesses of that mysterious person, formed a chaotic, surprisingly short, and yet... fascinating narrative.

"He was wearing shing pants "

“they were black”

 "Leather! Probably animal skin! Maybe even dragon!"

 "He was young!"

 "He couldn't have been young!"

 "So probably a youth-restoring spell!"

 "No, you probably just didn't see well in the dark!"

 "He was short!" (with this, nobody argued, which caused an inexplicable amusement for Roy)

His hair looked like it was on fire."

 "I'm afraid, Mr. Weasley, they were blond,"

"I told, Mr. Rivers, that they just Looked like they were on fire " "but I'm almost sure he had them in a braid!" he added quickly,

 "Were they long? So maybe it was a girl?"

(at this point, Lucius Malfoy politely informed them that long hair is not a gender indicator)

 "He was aggressive and unpredictable," Crouch announced emphatically. "As soon as he realized we surrounded him, he started to flee!"

 "Not entirely," Assistant Bartimaeus Crouch, Percy Weasley, spoke up quietly. "He only started running after a while. At first, he seemed to want to cooperate."

 "He only said that to deceive our vigilance!"

 "He was wearing a Gryffindor cloak."

 "Certainly not! There was a snake on it!"

 "So he was a Slytherin."

 "It was a different snake!"

 "Well, but the cloak was red."

 "He was a Werewolf," suddenly announced a voice that hadn't spoken until now.

All eyes in the room suddenly turned to Victor Crabble, and Roy noticed a fleeting expression disappointment over speaker foolishness on Lucius Malfoy's face. And on Skamander's and several other aurors' faces, a joy emerged from suddenly finding evidence of the man's involvement in the ranks of Death Eaters.

"And how can you be so sure, Mr. Crabble?" Auror Kingsley was the first to speak. "If I recall correctly, you weren't among those fighting on the field."

As expected by Roy, a flicker of fear appeared in the man's eyes when he realized that his words had inadvertently admitted to being among the Death Eaters. Contrary to his expectations, however, this fear disappeared as quickly as it appeared.

"When I heard how he looked, I realized that I had met him yesterday evening. He joined my son, begging for food. When you mentioned the blond hair and red cloak, I couldn't overlook the resemblance."

The information was certainly unexpected. Whispers erupted again, and even the most seasoned aurors looked at Victor Crabble with disorientation. Meanwhile, Roy Mustang once again found himself unable to be surprised for reasons unknown to him.

"Could you tell us a bit more?" Dumbledore spoke up, capturing the room's attention. Roy reluctantly allowed him to take the lead.

Victor then recounted a short and equally improbable story as everything they had heard about this mysterious warrior so far.

He was first encountered when he slept in the stands of the stadium. He slept through almost the entire match and then left as if nothing had happened. "He talked a bit with my son when he woke up, but I didn't pay attention to it."

Then he appeared again, eating Crabbley's food and then hurling mad words and insults.

"He not only dared to insult me in front of my son, but also had the audacity to insult our entire family!" Vincent thundered at one point.

- "This is unacceptable!" someone shouted from the depths of the room.

- "What did that barbarian dare to say?" Another wizard from the Malfoy faction was interested.

- "He dared to call us pathetic when he couldn't reconcile his envy upon hearing that my cousin's nephew's son is representing Ireland, Frederick Griverl."

The remark was very enlightening. Crabble's unwillingness toward him, along with the fact that he insulted the almost sanctified concept of kinship among pure-bloods, meant that the man being talked about essentially didn't belong to the Death Eaters.

But all Roy could focus on was not bursting out laughing.

He failed miserably. Several poorly suppressed giggles spread throughout the room. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who, deep down, felt that boasting about the achievements of such a distant relative only indicated a desire to be something more than one actually is.

But again, he didn't let anything other than his usual relaxed half-smile grace his face, which he used to disarm everyone.

"Indeed, it was a comment out of place, indicating a lack of any social tact. Apparently, this person was not brought up in a pure-blood family," he said, looking at Alastor Moody's glass eye, making sure he understood the implications. Unnecessery, the Senior Auror had deduced it earlier: no one who insulted the Crabbleys or pure-bloods would be working among the Death Eaters.

"No wonder he was such a boor," Vincent muttered, tilting his head slightly to look at all the people who still had smiles on their faces. "After all, he had cursed blood in him."

"How do you know he suffered from lycanthropy?" Dumbledore asked.

"He had yellow eyes," Crabble declared.

"Are you sure it wasn't just an oversight or a reflection in the firelight?" Skamander asked.

- "Of course not! I've never seen such yellow eyes before! Besides, he didn't deny it when I accused him. He also didn't deny being a mudblood, which I inferred when he resorted to insulting my robes."

It was valuable information. People unaccustomed to the magical world could certainly be shocked by the prevailing norms in this community. Even Roy himself, who of course was already a wizard since he possessed a wand and could cast spells, couldn't deny how strange some people's attire seemed to him.

Instead of expressing his thoughts, he just smiled and thanked the speaker, ready to end the meeting.

- "Well, if the boy is a werewolf, then even if he was once non-magical, there should be no problem finding him in the registry of magical creatures, right?" Skamander decided, and the others enthusiastically agreed.

Everyone except Roy. Because that voice in the back of his head, which vaguely remembered from five years ago and which came back to life just yesterday, whispered him, that they were wrong

And that's why he wasn't surprised when, just an hour later, they found out that the werewolf registry had no information about the person they were looking for with golden hair in a red cloak.

A/N –

[4] No Death Eaters were captured in the book, so I tried not to make too many changes here. So I apologize if the Ministry seems too incompetent.

*   The meeting was attended by about 30-40 people from various departments(and their supporters. Moody was invited because although he's not "super important," he's considered one of the best aurors.

Chapter Text

It took Edward quite a while to decide that he didn’t like riding a bike. Normally, he would have come to this conclusion much faster, but his mind was mostly preoccupied with memories of the events at the campsite and the desperate thought of not getting caught.

Another equally important reason he hadn’t realized his dislike earlier was the fact that he once loved riding a bike.

Once. So long ago that he could barely remember those times without viewing them through the lens of his current experiences. And yet, it felt so recent. So natural. When he grabbed the bike and hopped on it, it was as if the last time he got off it was yesterday, not seven years ago.

Then nostalgia took over. He remembered how Timmy from Resembool got a bike for his eighth birthday, and how, for the following year, it was the only bike in the village, and he kindly allowed the other children to use it.

Ed remembered how he and Al tried to build their own bike. However, they didn’t have enough metal, so they used wood. For a week, they meticulously analyzed the bike’s mechanics, and then proceeded with the transmutation, only to find out that although the bike looked somewhat okay, the wooden spokes couldn’t handle the joint weight of the bike and Al, who wanted to be the first to test their creation. The bike’s frame detached from the wheels and fell to the ground, with Al, along with it, who hurt his knee, which caused Pinako to get terribly mad at them.

So, immersed in nostalgia, Ed only after a long while and a few kilometers realized that the uneven weight distribution caused by the metal limbs and the small size of the bike definitely didn’t cooperate well with tearing through the forest in a desperate escape. Nevertheless, he somehow managed. He always did. He had learned to walk, run, so he could ride a bike that was too small. Though he had to admit to himself that it was more determination than skill that allowed him to reach some village or town far down the road.

The sky, which had been completely dark when he set off, was now starting to clear, turning into a dark gray in anticipation of the approaching dawn. Edward instinctively reached for the watch in his pocket, swaying dangerously as he lost a bit of balance.

3:17 AM

Just enough time to look around the village and find the train station.

A bit too much time for the people chasing him to realize that he hadn’t made a “bang” somewhere and start looking for him in the area, just as he would have done if he were chasing some stupid criminal, ordered by Mustang.

He didn’t get further than the third fence of houses before noticing how wrong everything was.

Cars parked in the driveways of every house.

Cars were a luxury item. Even Mustang, the wealthiest in the whole division, didn’t have his own car and only rode in a military one.

That’s why it was so improbable that every resident had one.

And... They didn’t even look nice. Small, square tin cans on soft suspensions that resembled nothing like the elegant, long machines used to drive around the city or even to farther places.

People are beings that easily adapt.

Further in the city, where the houses gradually lost their gardens and gained more floors, he encountered another surprise, this time a much more pleasant one.

In the shop windows, mannequins were dressed normally.

Some wore shirts, pants, often blue, similar to the jeans worn by workers. Others actually did wore dresses, except these mannequins in dresses had fake breasts and wigs with long hair.

And there were no orange stars.

This, along with the awareness that he had been riding for almost four hours down a remote dirt road, led him to reflect that maybe magicians didn’t flaunt their weirdness as much.

There. He said it.

“Magicians.”

He could no longer deny that what he had witnessed was not only unnatural but almost inexplicable. He had experienced it himself. A strange word, a flash of light, and suddenly gravity goes crazy, his body feels like it’s hit by a truck flying in the air, yet he doesn’t feel any pain until he falls. Or a sudden paralysis of muscles, as if in a fraction of a second, his body was kicked by electricity, locking him in a spasm.

And the flying brooms, which he still saw when he closed his eyes.

People are beings that easily adapt.

The most difficult part is accepting the fact that adaptation is necessary.

In Edward’s case, that meant accepting the inpossible conclusion:

“Magic.”

If there were, somewhere in the universe, a checklist on how to piss Edward off, it would look something like this:

• Dimensional travel
• Time travel
• Truth
• Unnaturally tall people (who also seemed to be present, let’s hope they were just crazy magic-stick assholes)
• That bastard Mustang (and Ed was almost certain that in his strange dream/recall of truth, “flame alchemist” was mentioned)
• Negation of the laws of physics
• And fucking fairy-tale-like “magic”

He didn’t know who to congratulate, but so far, all the points had been checked off. Some of them he hadn’t even known existed because seriously, who in their right mind would put “magicians” on their list of things that irritate them?

He hoped it wouldn’t turn out that his Scoundrel-father was somewhere around, living the time of his life, living another 100 years.

Though maybe – a quiet voice at the back of his head spoke – maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

He shook his head. He was walking through the city with curiosity, noting that a white line had appeared in the middle of the road a long time ago, and in some places, there were even two lines, creating three separate lanes for cars. This reminded Edward once again how unexpectedly common cars seemed to be there.

As he expected, the dense street grid led him to the center, and in the center, he easily found signs for the train station. And also for the town hall. The town hall, which turned out to be a beautiful building with carved window frames and incredible sculptures, although, in Edward’s opinion, it was lacking gargoyles. Nonetheless, it was still nicer than the command center buildings in the east or central city. He left the bike there after a moment’s thought, scratching a note on the ground that “he saw someone riding this bike and was sure it belonged to a family from the keeping.” He hoped that the security or the authorities would take care of it and return the bike to its owner. There was no way he would return there anytime soon, fearing that the incompetent idiots might still be there.

Then he approached the train station, and the dull pulsing in his automail ports in leg and arm informed him that it was supposed to rain. This was quite a phenomenal piece of information, especially since he had no money, and the only way to ride a train without money was to ride on the roof. Lovely.

To his surprise and pleasant astonishment, the train station was bigger than the one in Resembool, and the people there at this hour indicated that the trains were running earlier and more often than Edward thought.

This gave him a chance to think about which train he wanted to board.

“Support Flame Alchemist,” he remembered Truth’s words.

Mustang was somewhere here. And he had a mission in which he needed to support him.

He had arrived here, to this strange world, about five days ago, probably when he collapsed in his office. Something similar must have happened to his body. Truth! He would need to hurry so he wouldn’t worry Al too much.

He was almost certain, however, that Roy wasn’t at the stadium. At least not during the riots. After all, nothing was burning. And he wasn’t talking about random destruction of other people’s property. He was talking about the flames of the Alchemist known as the hero of Ishval. There was no fire.

And if Mustang, that always self-satisfied guy with that smile which, even after so many years, still made Edward want to punch his face into the carpet, wasn’t where the riots had broken out, as Truth had directed him, then it meant he must have been in the capital. He must have already made it into parliament and was probably licking some politician’s ass.

So, the dilemma of which way to go was laughably simple.

Central City – London.

Not to mention that it was highly probable that the task Truth had given him was related to politics. That was obvious, since she had chosen to summon Mustang. If it had been about causing chaos and demolition, it would have summoned Armstrong. Maybe it would have even called him, back then when he still had the gate. (Mustang had made it pretty clear that judging by the number of complaints, in terms of destruction he was even better than Strong Arm Alchemist.)

Because (it hadn’t even occurred to him) Truth wouldn’t have summoned moneone to carry out a mass murder on people violating the laws of physics, right? Sure, flying brooms were annoying and went against almost every principle Edward believed in, but... that was a bit of an overreaction. (Or maybe it was just about burning brooms?)

Trying to look as unnoticeable as possible – in his red coat, leather pants, and a wound on his back from which the blood had not only probably stained his coat but had also clearly congealed and started to form a huge scab full of dirt and sand. It was going to hurt like a bitch when he washed it.

It wasn’t hard to find the train to London – apparently, it was the third train on the schedule. The next one was supposed to depart at 4:26, in about 20 minutes.

It was much harder to focus on the trains when something else caught Edward’s attention at the top of the huge card.

Train schedules from the Princetown station for June – August 1994.

1994.

Edward didn’t often look at calendars (he usually ignored Mustang’s instruction to write the date on reports), but he was sure that the last time he checked the calendar, it was 1915.

So either someone was really Shitty at writing schedules,

or he was in deep shit

People are beings that easily adapt.

So, when the train screeched into the station fifteen minutes later, Edward boarded the train in 1994.

And as he crossed the door, which opened by some internal mechanism and not by the conductor, the most pressing thought in his mind was whether, as a 95-year-old veteran, he was entitled to free train rides?.

He entered an empty compartment, then, opening the window with no hesitation, leaned out and, grabbing the metal edge, pulled himself up onto the roof.
Soon after, the train began to move.

Edward had been on the roof of a moving train several times before. Most often when it turned out that criminals had boarded with them, and they had to defeat them in an epic battle on the roof, after which Edward would catch his breath, lying on his back and staring at the sky. Sometimes it was because he had argued with Al and didn’t want to be found. Sometimes it was because something had broken and he was asked as an alchemist to fix it.

But never before had it been because he didn’t have a ticket. Yes, sometimes it happened that he didn’t have a purchased ticket, but a simple showing off his silver watch and a request to direct any bills to the coloniel Roy Mustang, preferably using a three-page official form, was always enough.

But now... this was surreal. He was riding on the roof of a train like many times before, staring at the same cloud-covered sky, while simultaneously being in a different world, in a different year, not even knowing what the local currency looked like.
And suddenly, as he stared at the increasingly cloudy sky, the wind blowing his hair out of its braid, a thought crossed his mind that maybe he wasn’t in a different world.
Maybe this was his world, only in some terrifying alternate reality where they hadn’t stopped Father from destroying Amertis. That the promised day had happened, consuming their entire country, and in its place, a new state had grown with its capital in London. And the great tragedy, which few wanted to mention, had caused Ametris to fade into oblivion? Or maybe not oblivion, but it had become an unwanted subject of conversation, which was why that woman had looked at Edward so strangely.

That the people he saw weren’t practicing magic, but some bizarre form of alchemy, stranger even than alchemy itself.

Perhaps after the great catastrophe of the alchemists, they had been exiled? After all, when an entire country disappeared in a single day, it was no wonder people lived in fear. Or maybe they just didn’t like the idea of people who could do something that defied the laws of physics? Magic-tricks and BAM – “You are flying!” Just like many people in their world considered alchemy a crude form of magic, or like the Ishvalans, defying the will of God.

Or maybe the local alchemists were simply isolated from others? Like in Ametris although most understood alchemy and were aware that if they wanted, they could learn it, the local alchemical community was closed off (and judging by the attire they wore, they were either a closed-off community or just plain lunatics).

And the theory of a closed environment could even explain the planned human transmutation or lobotomy operation to “remove the memories” of the victims of the terrorists, who (like him) had been called “muggles.”

The only downside to traveling on the roof of a train was that he couldn’t sleep, no matter how beautiful it was or how tired he was after an entire night filled with experiences involving flying people, magic sticks, crazy people, and fleeing on a stolen bike.

The biting cold from the night wind and the louder-than-usual hum of the machine, as well as the knowledge that he could fall off at any moment, kept him fully aware.

Around five o'clock, the sky turned a breathtaking palette of colors as the sun began to rise, illuminating the clouds in pink hues in such a beautiful sight that Edward momentarily forgot that those same clouds heralded the incoming rain.

By six o'clock, the rain finally fell, and Edward swore under his breath, pulling his coat tighter around him. After fifteen minutes, he even began to consider going back to the compartment. Eventually, he decided to sneak back into the train when he heard thunder in the distance.

Because there was no fucking way he was staying anywhere in the field during a storm with two metal limbs.

He spent the rest of the time locked in the small bathroom, using the time to wash his wounds with running water and peel off the material and dirt from them. Eventually, the crackling voice of the conductor came through the speakers, announcing that the next station would be London – King's Cross Station.

So, this is where, in about 12 days, he will have to show up for the “Hogwart Express” train.

(Edward quickly gathered information from the people working at the station, asking about this train. However, when he was politely told that they didn’t know what he was talking about, giving him discreet, strange, and compassionate looks, Edward became convinced that the odd stick-obsessed people in starry dresses weren’t widely known (exactly as he suspected – after all, he was a genius)).

Now the most important question remained:

How to find Mustang?

Equally important was to ask how to get back home, and Edward was almost convinced that it was connected with a apin in his ass– a black-haired man.

The solution was always one:

The library.

It provided shelter, a warm room, knowledge of this weird world, and it would be Edward's first stop in stranhe world, so probably Mustang’s too. Who knows, maybe he’s still there. He wouldn't be surprised if that guy had been sitting there for the last 5 days gathering information. Old paranoid.

And even if he had already found someone to kiss up to and a position to sit in (the station was called King's Cross, so maybe he wants to start a new dynasty? "Roy Mustang 1" – Edward shuddered), Edward was sure that the librarians, especially the women, would probably remember him. Ed could bet that he’d already arranged dates with three of them.

At least when he asked about the library, people didn’t look at him weirdly.

The Great British Library turned out to be even more magnificent than Edward had imagined. So magnificent that he forgot about the aches in his joints, his wet clothes and hair wchich became even more wet after walking here from the train station.

So magnificent that he completely forgot about his mission to find Mustang and completely ignored the reproachful looks of people shaking their heads as he entered, dripping wet, and headed for the “scientific” section.

Breathlessly, he wandered past the shelves, passing the sections: Biology, Geography, Physics, Chemistry, History.

He didn’t find alchemy, magic, or any other section that could mean “abracadabra,” which was a great disappointment to him, but not for long, because the prospect of gaining new knowledge from another universe, 100 years earlier than in his world, was distracting enough. And "chemistry" was, in his opinion, close enough to "alchemy" to let his (one) leg carry him there and grab the first three titles that sounded the most interesting:

“Galvanic Cells: History of Batteries,”

“Spectroscopy – Practical Applications in Micro and Macroscopic Steel,”

“Molecular Mechanics – Advanced Level – Volume II” (Edward briefly scanned for the first one, but when he couldn’t find it, he didn’t hesitate to reach for the second of the three-volume series).

And then he found a chair by the window and began reading.

Jenny had been working at the London public library for eight months. The job was quiet and undemanding, especially since her place of employment was in the scientific section. A small number of people, usually the same students coming to study, ensured silence and a kind of monotony. That rainy day everything was shrouded in a sleepy fog, so the entrance of the unfamiliar boy in a red and somewhat dirty coat completely confused her.

She watched, with shy curiosity, as he walked through the sections, occasionally grimacing, then eventually turning back. Jenny was just about to speak up to tell him that children's and young adult literature was on the floor below, to the left, when the boy with shockingly golden hair turned into the chemistry section and almost randomly pulled out three books.

What was even more surprising, instead of starting to flip through them for some odd joke or to make more work for them, he sat in one of the chairs by the window and actually began reading the book, flipping through the pages in just a few seconds. He was clearly one of those geniuses who, at the age of fifteen, enter university.

Her curiosity finally ran out, and Jenny, like the other staff members, eventually succumbed to the monotony and dozed off. Until the moment when there was a loud thud.

“Where can I find more information about quantum theory?” – the voice asked.

Jenny raised her tired gaze only to catch a glimpse of the most beautiful golden eyes she had ever seen. She was only jolted back to reality by an impatient smack.

“So?” – the boy tapped on the page with printed chart lines, which Jenny didn’t understand. At the top of the page, however, there was the chapter title: “Introduction to Quantum Theory.”

“Um…” – she hesitated. – “Maybe you’ll find more in the physics section?” – in her mind, she scolded herself for sounding like a question. However, the boy didn’t seem to mind, as he turned away from her and headed to the physics section, leaving her staring at the red coat with the unsettling symbol of a snake impaled on a cross. These young geniuses were really crazy.

The gate had provided him with a lot of knowledge about the laws of the world and alchemy. Partly even about human transmutation, which allowed him to save Alphonse soul. But the knowledge was too much for one mind to grasp, even after going through three (four?) encounters with Truth. That’s why he read books. To gain knowledge he either didn’t have or to read something and realize that he had subconsciously known it all along.

However, as he read about quanta and quarks, Edward felt a new branch of knowledge opening up before him, something he perhaps only knew in the deepest recesses of his subconscious. It was not only genius, but it... it made everything make sense.

It was so fascinating that he didn’t even take the time to be shocked by how far the technological progress of the world had come in just 80 years, as he learned reading the encyclopedia about particle accelerators, spectrophotometers, and computers.

It was so fascinating that he didn’t even notice how the sun slowly began to dip toward the horizon, and the library slowly emptied.

And surely it was so fascinating that he didn’t pay attention to the annoyed words of the librarian. At least, that’s what he assumed, because his fascination was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and the irritated expression of the staff member, which suggested that she had probably been calling him for some time.

“The library’s closing”– she announced.

“Probably” – Edward muttered and had to stop himself from asking to borrow a book, with waving of his watch. – “What time does it open tomorrow?”

With the hand that didn’t hold the book, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch.

Don’t forget 3.oct.11

8:59.

“At 7 in the morning” – the woman informed him, still somewhat irritated. Edward didn’t really care about it. She was sleeping at work anyway, so it wouldn’t hurt her to stay a few minutes longer.

As he was leaving, he noticed a water dispenser, realizing that he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since… yesterday evening.

He yawned as he filled the second cup. Besides not eating, he hadn’t rested either. Now, when the fascination with science had faded, he felt a strange lightness in his head after such intense mental work.

He’d get food tomorrow. The Ametris soup kitchens for poor served breakfast, and he doubted it would be any different in this weird place.

The Great British Library had a lawn with a few trees, bushes, and benches scattered in between. [1] Some of them were occupied by quietly talking couples, one of whom was just kissing in a way that suggested they both wanted to devour each other's tongues, which, in Edward’s opinion, was quite disgusting. That’s why the bench he chose was far enough from the couple.

He drank the second cup of water and, setting it on the ground, lay down on the bench, wrapping himself tighter in his coat, once again astonished at how familiar everything felt. He was about to open his mouth to share this observation with Al when he realized his mistake.

Oh, right. Al wasn’t here. This wasn’t another one of their adventures. He wouldn’t have to sleep under the open sky anymore when they wouldn’t let him into an inn because of his military connections. Not ever again.

A sudden bitterness rose on his tongue, and his chest tightened slightly. But then he forced himself to take a deep breath.
But they don’t have to go through that anymore. Al got his body back. And he’ll return the watch and just be Edward Elric from Resembool.
He ignored the bittersweet feeling in his chest and allowed a smile to creep onto his lips, the same smile he wore when he drifted off to sleep.

On the campsite, where the ground had been magically cleared and grass had been planted to avoid raising alarms in the recently cleared minds of Muggles, chaos reigned.

Of course, not as much as it had the previous night – still, chaos.

Figures with wands and equipment detecting spells cast in that area wandered around the field, and even more figures circled around the tent in the center, where, as Alastor knew, a temporary unit from the department controlling the use of spells and general magical transportation had been set up.

Alastor Moody had just left the aforementioned tent.

He was considered one of the best Aurors in the ministry. Some said he should have retired long ago. But retirement wouldn’t have helped. There were still plenty of Death Eaters and dark wizards roaming the world. He not only had to catch them, but Alastor knew that if he ever retired and let his vigilance slip, his enemies would strike.

So he continued his service.

The order had come from Scamander, and Albus Dumbledore had personally asked him to pay attention to an unknown factor, allegedly a young werewolf. But even without that, he would have taken care of it himself. He had heard the stories. The werewolf was dangerous. Not as dangerous as Moody himself, but he couldn’t be sure. Nothing was ever certain, and he couldn’t let his confidence get the better of him.

Inside the tent he had just left, the officials were checking all the recorded traces of Apparition from the previous night, tracking when and where they had occurred.

Too many of them had disappeared behind the cover of Fidelius, preventing them from being tracked.

But they were doomed to failure.

Alastor knew that. He had no proof. He just felt it. His instincts told him so. The same instincts that had kept him alive during the wizarding war and later, when he still hunted down supporters of Voldemort and dark wizards.

He stepped out and tried to picture everything that had happened here that evening. He had only arrived in the morning. He hadn’t managed to catch the werewolf or prevent the captured Death Eaters from escaping.

His magical eye swept the surroundings. The lawn with grass too green to be natural, the distant forest from which someone had fired the Dark Mark. The distant Muggle house with a parking lot for campers.

The glass eye swirled over the building, and suddenly Alastor burst out in rough laughter.

Some of the wizards around him flinched and moved back uncertainly. A few – those who were Aurors – looked at him with curiosity.

Mad-Eye kept laughing.

“There’s no bicycle,” the laughter stopped, and his expression returned to the usual grimace.

“I beg your pardon?” Kingsley Shacklebolt asked.

“There’s no bicycle,” Alastor repeated. “The family has two kids. There are only three bicycles.”

As if to confirm his words, a small vehicle approached the house, from which a uniformed officer stepped out. When they approached, they overheard his conversation with the woman as he reported that the bicycle, had been found under the town hall by the night watchman, with a note stating it was stolen.

“We need to go to that twon” Moody ordered, turning toward the parking lot where several wizarding cars were parked.

“Moody? Shouldn’t we wait and question the officer?” young Tonks asked. She stated that she had run into someone resembling the werewolf they were searching for during the riots.

“You can try if you want,” Alastor scoffed dismissively. “But they don’t know anything.”

“How do you know? Maybe they saw him?”

Alastor didn’t respond. There was no way a werewolf who had taken down so many Death Eaters, who had managed to deceive them all while escaping on a child’s bicycle, would have made such a big mistake and allowed himself to be noticed. Leaving that bicycle behind was a mockery. It was a challenge, daring them to catch him.

Alastor Moody never backed down from anything.

Especially not from challenges. Challenges thrown by his opponents.

And yet, an hour later, his confidence had waned slightly. In the town, no one seemed to have seen anything. No one had heard of a golden-eyed boy. No one new had arrived, nor had anything strange happened recently.

So he left.

There were two possible ways out of the town:

By bus or by train.

“He took the train,” Alastor Moody interjected as Kingsley was reporting their findings to Scamander.

“How do you know that?” his boss asked. Alastor gave him a long look, allowing his magical eye to continue scanning their surroundings.

“Because it’s easier to disappear on a train.”

“No one new in this town bought tickets,” Kingsley politely reminded him.

“All the more reason for the train,” Moody repeated, without breaking eye contact with Scamander. “Trains have more people. Conductors are different from bus drivers. Besides… trains are a classic choice.”

“Then where did he go?” Theseus asked, accepting the explanation.

“He could be anywhere,” another Auror admitted.

“He got on the earliest train. Only three trains left before dawn. Two to Plymouth and one to London. He went to London.”

“How can you be so sure?” Mundungus Fletcher asked. “That he left that early or that he went to London?”

“Because that’s the easiest way to disappear,” Alastor growled. “Because that’s exactly what I would’ve done.”

“There are too many options to be certain,” Theseus said after a moment of silence. “He could’ve gotten off at any station along the way. We’ll need another lead.”

“Like what?” Alastor snapped.

“We’ll have to wait,” the man replied calmly, unfazed by the sharp tone. “The target suffers from lycanthropy. He should be in the registry.”

“And if he isn’t?” Tonks, who had been silent until now, asked.

Scamander turned to her, his gaze heavy.

“The full moon is in three days.”

She looked at him, not fully understanding. Kingsley sighed.

“Mr. Scamander is suggesting that if this person isn’t in the registry, they aren’t closely monitored by the Ministry either.”

The woman’s eyes widened in shock, and her brown hair lightened, taking on a pale green hue.

“You’re not saying that…” she hesitated.

“I want to see if any Muggle casualties turn up,” Alastor finished what had been left unsaid.

Then, without waiting for their reaction, he walked away, limping slightly on his wooden prosthetic.

Alastor Moody, the best of the Aurors and a man who never backed down from a challenge or danger, stared into the distance where the train tracks disappeared from the town. His magical eye swirled around, ensuring no one was following him or preparing to attack.

“I’ll find you,” he said to the empty air.

[1] The Great British Library does not have it's park/lawn as i have described. But for the sake of the story, let's assume that it exist. :) 

Chapter Text

Did Edward mention that he got used to waking up in strange places and strange situations? starting with waking up in the library or behind the desk where he would sometimes fall asleep after exhausting days and nights in the company of an unsleeping Al. Through waking up in trains and hospitals, to painful waking up with tied hands among masked kidnappers constantly talking about "revenge" or “intel”. Recently, to list joined waking up in a bloody stadium with fucking flying brooms

So yes. He prided himself having been woken up in many situations. So when this time he was pushed out of dreamless dream by a jerk and an unexpected pressure on his nose and mouth cutting off his air, Edward reacted before he fully realized what was happening. He straightened his right hand, which with a satisfying grind dug into something that was part of the body of the man attacking him.

He jerked his leg to partially fall off the bench, and utillizating an opportunity, to kick the man, who hadn’t expected the first attack, not to mention the second. He groaned and staggered a few steps back, which gave Edward enough time to get up and, aiming a right hook, to knock the man to the ground.

It also enough time for the other man to realize that something had gone wrong with the plan.

- Henry! what… You fucker! couldn’t you just lie down like an obident kid? I’m gonna have you pay for…

- Who are you calling so Little that he should already know about quarks as he stumbled upon them as he is so tiny that he is squeaking between atoms?

- Damn, that's some kind of madmen. - The second one growled, and glanced out of the corner of his eye at the man now sitting on the ground and holding his jaw. - He'll be harder to sell.

- You wanted to sell me? - Edward repeated in disbelief.

- Shut up and come quietly so it won't hurt.

The still standing man bend into a fighting stance, to which Edward responded in the same way.

- Don't fight me.

- You want to kidnap me and you tell me not to fight? - Edward could not belive what he just heard.

- You shouldn't be hanging around the city at night.

- I wasn't hanging around, I was just sleeping. - Ed growled. - until some asshole woke me up. Why does this always happen to me? Can't I just meet some pacifist chicken farmer for a change? Always murderers, kidnappers, mad alchemists and rebels?

- What the hell are you talking about? – men really frowned at him and Edward realized that he couldn't count on sympathy.

that's why instead of explaining, he attacked. Edward didn't like kidnappers and hated being woken up. And he especially hated being woken up by kidnappers.

this time the man wasn't as hopeless as stick-wilders. he certainly knew a few useful moves and had a grasp of the basics.

but he wasn't as good as Edward. Not many were. He quickly started winning. The man was pushed into the defensive and stayed there, trying to jump out of Edward's reach, after a while even giving up the urge to attack. So they danced around each other whenever Edward came near him, jumping away and dodging. It was as if he wanted to tire him out, which was funny because Edward was obviously in much better shape than the old fart who looked like he'd had a few liters of alcohol too much in his life. Or... he was stalling.

Edward realized his mistake a second too late, as he didn't manage to fully avoid the blow aimed at his neck. Luckily, he managed to shield himself with his right arm, through which, instead of tremble of metal plates, from the impact of a blow, a wave of paralyzing pain passed, causing his higher wires to suddenly short-circuit and his arm to straighten with a strength he had never known before.

Arm straightened itself straight at the man who attacked him.

he staggered back, screaming, grabbing his arm which had taken the full force of a metal arm with a force of almost 2000 newtons, compressed in a hydraulic press reinforced by the momentum of almost 12 kg of pure steel. [1] This probably broke trough bones.

Edward this time took no chances, and aimed another blow at the man's temple to knock him unconscious.

Now the second man did not play for time. He threw himself at Edward when his back was turned, and put his arm around his neck to deprive him of air.

which might have worked, if not for the fact that Edward had not only been trained by Izumi, who had made sure that such a method of immobilization would not work on him, but also because the metal arms had this thing about them that they could exert considerably more force than human hands. He twisted his body, grabbed his arm and, pushing it slightly to the side, pulled his head out from below, attacking before the man fully realized that he was not choking the victim but empty air. with a punch to the stomach he beat the attackers breath out and another to the nose to smash him of consciousness and probably break his nose, judging by the unpleasant squelching.

And just like that, with a quiet thud of a body hitting the concrete, it was all over.

In the middle of the night, among the bushes of the library garden, in the light of full moon, Edward stood, catching his breath and staring at the two bodies at his feet.

"I think I'm having déjà vu," he muttered to himself. "The only thing missing is those damn burning tents."

He took a moment to tear the shirts of the two men and tie them up with strips of fabric, then examined what had hit him, causing pain and tingling in his automail. Pressing a button at the top of the device produced a blue spark, and Edward realized it was an electric current—one that must have caused a temporary short circuit in his prosthetic’s wiring. If it had touched skin, it likely would have caused pain, maybe even unconsciousness, like electroshock therapy. [2]

Once he was sure his prosthetic was fine and that he wouldn’t need to find a mechanic in this bizarre world, he dragged the would-be kidnappers toward the black truck parked nearby. It was still warm, so it definitely belonged to them and was probably meant to transport their victims. He cursed quietly when he found ropes inside, along with silver tape with adhesive glue on one side—one of the most ingenious inventions he’d seen in this world, second only to the particle accelerator.

As he moved the second man, something crunched under his boot. Looking down, he spotted a small disk reflecting the light. A coin.

Following the glimmer, he noticed a few more coins scattered nearby, clearly spilled from a cup sitting under a bench. The same cup he had placed there himself.

Edward felt his jaw drop as he realized that sometime between the evening, when he had gone to sleep, and now, passing strangers had thrown coins into the cup.

Like he was some kind of beggar.

As if to emphasize his frustration, a distant rumble echoed through the quiet night. -  it was just his growling stomach.

"Well," he muttered to himself. "It’s not like I’m not poor and hungry. Maybe this will be enough for a sandwich."

He gathered the scattered coins, moved the second kidnapper into the van, and, after a moment of thought, reached into the men’s pockets, pulling out a wallet, a strange little box with a keypad numbered 0 to 9, and a bundle of crumpled banknotes.

Fifty-four dollars and seventy cents in total.

So either that wasn’t enough for a sandwich, or this world’s currency worked differently.

He also rummaged through the glove compartment at passage seat, finding a few granola bars and a chocolate bar. Just as he was about to take a bite, a quiet groan indicated that one of the attackers was waking up—the one with the broken nose.

"Who were you planning to sell me to?" Edward asked sharply, stuffing the money into his pocket.

The kidnapper blinked, shifted, struggled slightly, and looked around in confusion before slow comprehension dawned on his face. Not everyone was capable of quickly grasping their situation upon waking up, apparently.

Edward, in his generosity—having just found food—gave him a moment before repeating the question. Then, in even greater generosity, as he chewed his granola bar, he let the man stammer out denials for a while. Eventually, he got bored.

"Listen," he muttered, swallowing the last bite of his second bar. "You tried to kidnap me, so don’t bother claiming you woke me up just to tell me to go home. You said something about selling me, so don’t try to feed me some nonsense about how I was the one supposed to be buying something. Even if I were that stupid, do you really think I’d believe it now, when all you have in your van is ropes and snacks? Not to mention that you’re 'selling' at—" he checked the time, "—two in the morning?"

"I-it’s really a misunderstanding! Untie us!"

"I have a better idea," Edward muttered, reluctantly standing up and approaching the man, who had previously only struggled slightly but was now full-on panicking.

He ignored the cries of "Stay away!" as he reached for the man’s face, pinning his chin with one hand and grasping his nose with the other, setting it back into place with a quiet crunch of bone.

He had seen medics reset Havoc’s nose after a bar fight once, and he personally thought he did a pretty decent job.

A pained scream echoed through the night, and tears welled up in the man’s beady eyes.

"I’ll ask again," Edward sighed. "Who were you planning to sell me to?"

That was how he learned that the men were supposed to meet with their associate, who would then sell him to interested buyers—as a slave, a prostitute, or maybe even an organ donor.

Edward made it very clear that he disapproved of their business model. Then, since he had a captive audience, he took the opportunity to ask a few pressing questions:

— "Are flying broomsticks a common mode of transport here?"
— "Do people often wear robes covered in shiny stars pattern?"
— "Is it normal for people to go 'BANG' and disappear?"
— "Do you know what Amestris is and its history?"
— "Are wand-wielding magic users common?"
— "What about alchemists? Do you have alchemists here?"

It turned out they did—long ago. And apparently, here, "alchemy" referred more to chemistry experiments.

Finally satisfied with his newfound knowledge about this world, Edward tore off a strip of silver tape. Ignoring the growing confusion and fear in the man’s eyes—which had only intensified with each question—he pressed the sticky-glue-tape firmly over his mouth.

Then he hesitated for a moment.

"One more thing. Do you know someone named Roy Mustang?"

When the man only shook his head, Edward sighed in disappointment and sealed his mouth shut.

He exhaled, found some paper and a pen, and wrote something that, to his dismay, resembled a full-blown report. More than once, he had to resist the urge to insert comments for "Colonel Bastard."

After that, he closed the van doors, stuck a note on the outside, and walked away in search of another bench, hoping to get some more sleep.

Another day went by quite well. He woke up, had breakfast, and even had a double one when he realized that for 54 dollars, he could afford nearly 40 sandwiches. He went to the library, ignoring the white-and-blue cars with the word "police" on them, and resumed his reading.

That was until he read the eleventh book, in which the theory of quantum mechanics and quarks had only one chapter. The only publication that actually focused on this topic was a thin booklet of just 150 pages, half of which were graphs, and the graphs contained more data than what the author actually had written.

"Are there any scientific papers?" he asked the librarian, who had kicked him out recently. The girl blinked lazily, waking up from her daydream, clearly doing the same thing Mustang did all day long.

"Um..." The woman hesitated. "There are some scientific journals on that shelf, but I think you'll also be able to find some online." She first pointed to the shelf on the left and then to the desks on the right, where five black boxes with screens stood. Edward had only seen those a few times in high-ranking people's offices, displaying images of much higher quality than anything he'd ever seen. Those 80 years had really made unimaginable differences. [3]

He didn’t dare approach that equipment, not only because all five stations were occupied and a small line was forming, but also because he didn’t know how normal it was to have knowledge of how to operate that equipment.

And the journals, to be honest, were enough for now. Or at least that's what he thought, until he read twenty articles.

"Ah! They can’t just ignore gravity!" [4,*]

"Please be quiet," the old librarian reprimanded him from behind the desk, looking like Edward had just woken him up.

"How can I be quiet when these idiots skipped over gravity? It affects everything!"

"You know... maybe I’m not an expert, but I think quarks are also in space, where there's no gravity?" asked the old librarian, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

If look could kill, the man would have been dead, burned, and disfigured, and Jenny would have had to call the police, who were still trying to track down the man who managed to catch the kidnappers of homeless who were roaming the streets and terrifying whole London for over half a year. (Apparently, it was some lunatic from a magician cult.)

"Gravity in terms of mutual interactions! The theory of relativity! Not... Earth's pull on your fat, ignorant ass!"

"Hey! You can't just insult people like that!" Jenny intervened, seeing her colleague bristle at the attention. "Not everyone knows quantum mechanics."

"But it's Damn Basal basic!" the boy protested. "And this idiot just ignored gravity!" – he shook a paper he was reading right now.

"Not an idiot, but a well-known scientist," her colleague didn't seem concerned by the child's tirade. Actually, Jenny recalled hearing somewhere that the man had four teenage kids. He was probably used to such behavior.

"Still..."

"And if you want to argue about it, I suggest you go to that scientist, not shout out your frustrations in the library and disturb others. Otherwise, we'll have to ask you to leave."

To Jenny's surprise, the golden-haired boy didn’t start a fuss, seeking attention like she initially thought. Instead, he looked embarrassed.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Jenny thought that either he realized this way of getting attention wouldn't work, or he was too upset to care about manners. Though the latter seemed unlikely because, seriously, who would get so upset to shout while reading scientific papers?

"Umm..." The boy approached them, still looking somewhat remorseful but definitely regaining his previous energy. "Do you know where I can find this guy? William Brown?" Even when he tried to be polite with the scientist's name, there was a hint of disdain. "Is this your Central City? This is where you have your university, right?"

Well, the boy clearly wasn’t from here. That was obvious since he was asking about "the university" and not "universities." Also, he was asking about well-known universities in London, since it were Oxford and Cambridge usually attracted students.

"Can I?" the librarian man reached out for the magazine the boy was holding and quickly flipped to the beginning of a specific article with his nimble fingers.

"It’s a British journal," he informed him after a moment. "And William Brown published under Oxford, so I’d look there."

"And where is that?" The boy immediately asked, his golden eyes flashing with enthusiasm.

"About an hour from here. Faster by train. Want me to check when Professor Brown gives his lectures?"

"Yes! I mean, I’d be grateful!" Seeing his smile, Jenny couldn't forget her dislike for the rude boy.

The librarian left and returned after a few minutes, either making a phone call or going to the administrative section where three computers for the staff were located.

"The professor has lectures only on Wednesdays. He finishes at 3:00 PM."

The boy nodded, then stiffened a bit.

"Today is Wednesday, right?"

The librarian slowly nodded his head.

"It’s almost noon. I believe you might want to hurry."

In the blink of an eye, the boy turned around and covered half the distance to the door, then, just as quickly as he'd started, stopped.

"One more thing. Did you happen to see a suspicious-looking man about five days ago? He's tall, has black hair, and a stupid assy smirk. He might have been trying to flirt with a few women?"

The two librarians exchanged uncertain looks.

"I'm afraid... I didn't have the pleasure?" Jenny asked, more as a question than a statement.

"Neither can I help you. I swear."

The boy bit his lip slightly before nodding.

"Well, it’s not like I can’t find him later. Thanks for the help! See ya!"

And in a moment, he was nothing more than a memory, vanishing through the door. A lazy silence settled back into the library.

"Why did you help him?" Jenny asked curiously.

"Because it's my job." The librarian sighed, sitting back down in the chair where he usually took naps.

She looked at him in a way that silently suggested his job was to look after the library, not help rude customers. The librarian shrugged.

"Rarely do you see a young person so fascinated. And besides... it’s better to help him than to let him roam around the city and get into trouble with his temper. God knows that’s dangerous. Just think of those kidnappers of homeless people."

"But they caught them, didn’t they?"

"Yes, Jenny," the man nodded slowly. "But they were caught because someone beat them up and tied them up. So there’s someone even more dangerous than the kidnappers out there. That’s why... we can't let kids like him get hurt."

Edward sneezed while running to the train station.

Oxford definitely suited his tastes better. Probably because it felt familiar. Tall glass and metal buildings gave way to the architecture he knew.

Thanks to the kindness of a few residents and the kidnappers providing him with some funds, he bought a ticket for public transportation and, following directions, boarded a massive truck that looked like a single-train-carriage car.

He arrived at the university campus with an hour to spare. He wanted to catch Mr. Brown after a lecture. With more directions from some slightly more skeptical people, he found the lecture hall where Professor habilitated doctorwas giving a lecture on the latest discoveries in quantum physics.

"Professor, my ass," Edward muttered under his breath. "What kind of damn professor would skip something as basic as gravitational interactions?"

Fortunately for everyone around and for the scientific world in general, Edward didn’t bring any more articles with him on the train, so he had two hours to calm down and compose himself, as well as subconsciously fill in the gaps in the newly acquired knowledge that he had traded two limbs and the ability to perform alchemical creation for.

The door to the lecture hall were ajar, probably to allow airflow on the hot summer day. Edward stood there for a moment, realizing that only a minute had passed. There were no seats in the corridor. He was bored. The voice from the hall was distorted, so it wasn’t like he could listen in.

But the door was open, right? Surely... no one would notice if he quietly and inconspicuously walked in, waited there for another hour, and listened to the brilliant professor who delivers his lecture... right?

There was one flaw in his reasoning. An even bigger mistake than skipping over gravity: Edward Elric was anything but inconspicuous.

William Charles Brown, a fifty-year-old habilitated professor, an internationally respected and renowned specialist, had one secret.

He hated teaching.

He couldn't stand children, students, or anyone who wasn’t bright enough to grasp his words after he repeated them three times. Yes, quantum physics was a difficult subject. It had taken him two attempts to fully understand it himself, so he tried to be patient. But students never seemed to appreciate that generosity.[5]

The crème de la crème of Britain, and even the world, who couldn’t grasp the principles governing their existence, the world, and the universe. They stared at him blankly, scribbled nonsense at the back of their notebooks, slept, or—worst of all—belonged to that group of nerds with Asperger and autism who, being slightly smarter, bombarded him with hundreds of questions. They didn’t care that the lecture was over, nor that he had no obligation to answer their inquiries just so they could feel superior. [6]

Yes, he hated it.

He also hated the fact that he had to teach even during the summer, when part-time students pretended they could master a fraction of knowledge in just three months. But he had to endure it. That was the contract he made with the university. Oxford granted him access to laboratories and funds he wouldn’t have obtained in an ordinary research facility.

Fortunately, he had managed to limit his lectures to just one day a week.
A day that was now coming to an end.

"So, a quark is a fundamental element of matter, composing atomic components such as protons and neutrons. They have mass and a charge, which is a fraction of one-third. Interactions between hadrons occur thanks to gluons, and their strength is defined by Planck in his equation..."

Professor William Brown was fully aware of his reputation. He knew his distaste for teaching wasn’t exactly a secret. Students avoided him like the plague.

Which is why he couldn’t believe what he saw when the lecture hall doors creaked open.

A blond-haired boy froze at the sound of the door opening, then flushed when he realized he had drawn the attention of the entire room.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Didn’t think such a fancy institution would have so much rust on its hinges. I mean, seriously, who makes hinges with, like, 95% zinc?" He grinned foolishly.

William finally regained his voice.

"For the Queen’s sake, who brought their child here?" He glanced incredulously at the students, some of whom were certainly old enough to have teenage offspring.

"Hey! I’m not a kid! I came for the lecture!"

The professor couldn’t help himself—he burst out laughing.

It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. It was dry, harsh, devoid of warmth or genuine amusement. The kind of laugh that should have discouraged anyone.

But that didn’t happen.

"Don’t laugh!" the boy shouted, clearly gathering air to say more. However, he managed to stop himself from continuing. Barely. "I..." He hesitated for a moment. "I’ll just sit down. Please, continue with Planck’s equation."

There was an hour left. Not worth making a fuss over. Though... Brown thought as he resumed writing on the board, white chalk dust floating into his nose. Perhaps he should make it clear to this kid where his place was. He should consider himself lucky that Brown had no intention of taking his frustration out on him.

"As you can see, the constants cancel each other out, creating dimensionless values with reference to any system."

"For the first two cases, yes. In the third, the dimensionless values only correspond to the standard ones. But this mathematically forces gravity to be equal to one, which is cheating. A trick for lazy." [7]

The chalk snapped in Brown’s fingers, a piece falling onto his blue shirt. He turned, furious.

He didn’t have to search long for the culprit. A voice that young could only belong to one person.

The boy sat in the front row, leaning forward, propping his head on one hand. He didn’t seem to care about the attention of the entire hall.

"I see some of us were raised on a farm," Brown remarked acidly.

"Indeed," the blond replied with a grin, clearly proud that the insult didn’t faze him.

"In that case, I strongly recommend, young man, that you familiarize yourself with basic academic etiquette. Such as not barging in uninvited, not being late, and showing gratitude for even being allowed inside a lecture hall two hours past the start."

"Hey! Two hours ago, I was still in London!"

"Then you should have left two hours earlier."

"You think I planned this?! Two hours ago, I didn’t even know you existed!"

Soft murmurs spread across the hall, and William felt his lips twitch into an involuntary smile.

"I’m truly honored that my humble name has reached your ears, mr...?"

"Oh, come on, it’s not that humble," the boy replied, apparently missing the hint to introduce himself. "You’re kinda famous, you’ve got your paper published and all of that... So… belief in yourself," he added, smiling, seemingly in encouragement.

The murmurs grew louder, and William was certain he heard a quiet laugh somewhere.

William Brown really hated teaching.

He once again considered whether he should put the boy in his place, but then realized that humiliating a child was neither a challenge nor a victory—only a disgrace.

"Now, returning to what I was saying before I was so politely interrupted..."

"Professor," a man's voice rang out from the lecture hall.

William turned around, resisting the urge to sigh. It was one of the older students, around thirty, sitting in the middle of the hall. With a reluctance known only to himself, he gave him a slight nod.

"I wanted to ask, Professor, is it true that values merely correspond to reality?"

"Standard values," William corrected, his headache growing. "Mathematics, sir, is not an element of the real world, but a conceptual construct. And yes, that is true, but it holds no significance in relation to Einstein’s theory of interaction."

"But the theory of interaction was not based on quark forces. The energy of these systems is too great to conduct anything but theoretical research," the boy interjected, once again resting his chin on his hand.

William took a very deep breath.

"What an extraordinary mind has graced us with its presence! And how perceptive, judging by the ease with which it challenges the greatest intellect of this century—Einstein."

"I'm not challenging him. I'm pointing out gaps in the theory. Gravity cannot simply be equated to a multiplier of one."

"I'm afraid you don’t understand, boy. Your remarks add nothing new, and the confidence with which you question without presenting solutions speaks only of immaturity."

"That’s exactly why I came here—to..."

"The academic environment is in no way a playground. Especially for someone who so clearly lacks a basic understanding of proper conduct."

"Hey! I’m not—"

William once again didn’t let him finish.

"Perhaps, boy, you’d like to leave now and wait to attend university until you’ve grown up a little?"

He expected the kid to get flustered and leave. Maybe cry. Maybe protest. But certainly not this.

The change was immediate.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL THAT HE DID NOT HAVE TO THEORIZE ABOUT THE PHENOMENOLOGY OF QUANTUM GRAVITY BECAUSE HE’S SO TINY HE’S USING HADRONS AS A BALL?!"

And at that moment, William Brown, a scientist and researcher of international renown, realized just how low he had sunk—arguing with a child.

He was about to say as much, to tell the boy to leave and never return, perhaps even order some students to remove him by force if necessary, when suddenly, the boy's words began to register.

"- SO SMALL THAT HE CANNOT LIFT A GLUTTON EVEN IF THEY ARE REGARDED AS MASSLESS ENERGY UNITS THAT IS OF COURSE WRONG because of quantum gravity forces turbulating within hadrons and thus questioning relativity theory, that you are all OLD FUCKERS using, since from last decades instead of properly understending that is EQUIVALENT EXCHANGE that plays the major role and you are to LAZY to accept that Planck energy is able to bend gravity filed and THUS INFLUENCE BOTH MASS AND GRAVITY importance on quarks that is how Alche… I mean Big Bang and Black holes are the reason of most of our theories failure because you are just TOO LAZY TO CONSIDER THAT and their force filed causes all this and you are an ASSHOLE that instead of thanking me of showing how STUPIDLY BLIND you are you are CALLING ME SO SMALL THAT I AM EVEN A SMALLER THAN A BLACK HOLE WITH THE MASS OF ONLY ONE BUILDING! [8,9]

William was about to raise his voice to drown out the rant, but then something in the boy’s words stopped him.

"Repeat what you just said," he demanded.

The boy's face fell.

"You want me to repeat that you called me SO SMALL THAT I COULD FIT INTO INTERATOMIC SPACES IN A BLACK HOLE?"

"No! The... the part before that."

Completely calm now, the boy replied:

"The part where I called you a lazy asshole?"

Now it was William's turn to blush.

"No... your theory."

A grin spread across the boy’s face.

"That’s exactly why I came here. I read your paper, and while your assumptions are solid, you made a critical mistake..."

And he undertook explanations. about the exchange of energy, the influence of particles on each other, and their distance and force relative to the background, which was so far only speculated earlier. He explained the impact, supported it with observations and the scant amount of scientific evidence he had read compared to the extensive knowledge he had. William critically analyzed the words coming out of the boy's mouth for some time. But at some point, skepticism turned into indifference, followed by amazement and delight. Sometimes, catching the boy's thought earlier, he finished thought, other times he sketched it out and the boy responded with more in-depth explanations. Then they moved on to discussing examples and applications. Before he knew it, he had chalk in his hand and nose again and the board, previously written with neat lines and rows of calculations, was now covered with a chaotic tangle of lines, arrows and diagrams that both he and the boy were creating.

„Professor Brown!” – His name, spoken aloud, tore him away from the ecstasy of science. He turned toward the door, where a woman in a cleaning uniform stood.
The boy finished his sentence and, not receiving a response, also seemed to snap out of the strange trance that had captured them both.

“Professor Brown! We're closing soon. I need to clean the lecture hall.”

William glanced at the clock in the hall and, for the first time in his life, realized how quickly time passed. 6:35.

The boy beside him reached into his pocket, checking the time on an old pocket watch hanging from a chain at his waist. Then, lifting his gaze, an expression of surprise crossed his face.

“Where is everyone?” – he asked, bewildered, staring at the now-empty auditorium.

Through a haze, William vaguely recalled saying that everyone was free to leave and that their attendance would still be recorded.

It had truly been remarkable.

“We're leaving now”, he assured a lady, grabbing his briefcase and turning toward the blond, who rather quickly accepted how fast time had slipped away. Perhaps he was used to being swept up in scientific discussions. Or maybe it was simply that kids were easily adapt.

“Can we continue this conversation tomorrow?” – He asked, earning himself a bright smile in response.

“Of course! What time?”

“I’ll be at work from 8 AM. My office is next to the secretary’s office, to the left of the entrance to the department.”

“Then see you tomorrow! Truth, I’m starving! Al always made sure I ate regularly. Hey! Are there any kidnappers around here I should be aware of?” – he asked so suddenly that William needed a moment to understand the question. Then, remembering that kidnappers had been targeting the homeless in London for the past six months, he figured the boy’s parents had probably warned him about walking alone.

“Nothing that I’ve heard of”, he reassured.

The boy didn’t seem entirely relaxed, but he also didn’t appear particularly worried to start with. He just gave a small nod, shoved his hands into his pockets, and headed toward the exit, as if snapping out of a scientific trance, realizing that three hours had passed, and arranging a meeting with a professor were all just another day in his life.

With a mind like that, perhaps they were.

Then, William realized something important.

“You never told me your name!” – he called after him.

The boy turned, his amber eyes catching the gold light from the windows.

"Ed", he said. Then he smiled. "Edward Elric".

Bonus

General Roy Mustang would never admit it to anyone, but in his desk, in a drawer where no one else had access to, he kept a small notebook.
Actually, several notebooks—one filled with notes about his sisters (which one had a birthday when and what she liked best, so he wouldn’t mix them up), another about the women he had spent nights with in the past, another about generals, his future plans (for when he became Führer), his team, and an entire notebook dedicated solely to the Elric brothers.

At first, he had intended to add their section to the notebook about his squad. But after filling five pages of introduction, he realized he’d need much more space.

On one of the pages dedicated to the older of the two boys, he listed everything one could reasonably expect to find in a mission report after Edward returned. In other words, he wrote down everything that could go wrong.

• Edward is capable of stumbling upon something theoretically impossible (like souls bound to armor or human chimeras from Laboratory 5).
• On a simple mining expedition, Edward is capable of uncovering a secret conspiracy, a cult, or a criminal network.
• He will usually antagonize and get into conflict with said conspirators, cult, or criminals.
• Property damage will occur (this line was underlined so many times that the ink bled through to the next page).
• He may get injured and will certainly downplay it. Ensure he undergoes regular medical check-ups.
• He will disrupt the social order of whatever community he encounters.
• He will likely challenge authority.
• He will question all established laws of said community.
• In search of knowledge he would abandon common sense and social basics.
• He will get into another conflict.
• He will cause even more material and non-material damage. * - Ensure he doesn’t antagonize generals who could ensure future promotions.

General Roy Mustang might have been unconscious, and Edward might no longer have been a State Alchemist, but some things never changed.

A/N

[1] Biceps musculi max force is about 1000N, and I figured Winry would make automail much better than a regular arm. A single arm weighs about 3 kg (4 kg in Ed, because of muscles). Iron is 8x denser than the human body, but since automail is a shell with wires, I assumed it would weigh maximally three times more than a real arm (because, once again, Winry is a genius).

[2] Electroshock therapy was used in psychiatric treatment in the 20th century (just like amphetamine was given to soldiers as "energy snacks" and cocaine was used as a cure-all, especially in psychiatry).
That era was not the best guide for medical treatments.

[3] First “computer” was made in 1822 – “computer” because it was like… calculating machine that had LOOONG way to become computers we now know. However I assume that FMA AU would have some of them in 1910’

 [4] Before writing this chapter, I spent 3 days (almost 12 hours) studying quantum and quark theory, so most of what I wrote is about 90% correct.
However, I’ll be playing with the timeline a bit, since these theories were developed and refined around the 1960s, with the last quark being officially described in 1995. Meanwhile, I’ll be letting Edward use someone else (future made) discoveries to challenge the discoveries of many brilliant scientists for the sake of a more interesting story. Whenever I present slightly inaccurate information, I will mark it with ([*]) so you can verify the data.

[*] In quark theory, gravity does not significantly impact interactions, so it is sometimes ignored for simplification—though usually not in scientific papers.

[5] I’m sorry if that comment sounded racist or xenophobic. But… a man raised in the ’40s and ’50s would probably have this mindset.

[6] Again, I apologize to anyone who was offended by this comment. But I want to emphasize that this is William’s perspective, not mine. I personally have a close friend with Asperger’s.

[7] Paraphrased from Paul Wesson.

[8] Everything here is true, but the connections between these facts are fictional (or maybe they actually exist?). There is no "Law of Equivalent Exchange" theory, but Einstein’s relativity theory is indeed not fully applicable to quantum mechanics. So I thought Edward, with his knowledge from the Gate, could develop a better theory.
And because this is Edward, of course, he would name it “The Law of Equivalent Exchange.”

[9] A black hole is a condensed mass where interatomic forces are super strong, gravity absorbs even light, interatomic spaces don’t exist, and density is unimaginable.
A black hole with the mass of a building would be super small—about the size of a grain of sand or even smaller.

Chapter Text

William Brown listened to the hum of the engine blending with the sound waves generated by the turbulent airflow around the car.

That morning, he hadn’t turned on the radio to occupy his mind.

That morning, he hadn’t done many things.

He hadn’t spent lazy minutes in bed after the alarm rang.

He hadn’t bothered his wife in the bathroom during her morning routine.

He hadn’t sat down for breakfast, savoring his tea.

And he hadn’t hesitated when getting into the car.

William Brown had to admit, with some embarrassment, that he was behaving like a child who was promised a new toy.

And in a way, he was. He was a clueless child in the face of quantum physics. And he had been promised the most beautiful toy: knowledge. A key to the quantum world, and therefore to the mysteries of the universe. A key to understanding, that he had previously overlooked but had begun to uncover yesterday amid the fog of ignorance.

Despite the early hour, the city was already getting congested. He was forced to stop near one of the wooded squares, where people were sitting on benches enjoying their morning coffee, jogging, or—wrapped in a red cloth—sleeping on a bench. Probably a drunk student, since in this city, students were far more common than the homeless.

Of course, he paid no attention to the figure. He barely registered its presence, as his mind was consumed by theories building up and collapsing in an endless cycle.

He arrived an hour early for the scheduled meeting, and exactly 51 minutes later, the boy who had changed his world in the past 24 hours was let into his office.
Once again, he was wearing that same bizarre outfit: a black jacket, leather pants and boots, a red coat, and white gloves.

"Can we have breakfast first?" the boy suggested, his voice slightly groggy, as if his body hadn’t fully accepted the fact that it was awake yet. It didn’t take much effort to notice that his hair had come loose from its braid, his eyes were puffy, and faint pillow marks still lingered on his cheek.

"Of course," William agreed, even though he had already eaten breakfast. It was obvious that the boy had just woken up.

Very recently, judging by the way his skin still bore the imprint of his bedding.

The boy walked slightly ahead, his ridiculous red coat billowing behind him, brushing against his calves.

A flash of a stupid memory and an even stupider correlation formed between William’s neurons before he could stop himself.

"Did you sleep on a bench?" he asked before fully thinking through his words.

The boy shot him a glance with still-sleepy eyes.

"Yeah," he shrugged.

In the vast mind of William Brown, there was a brief moment of error.

"What do you mean?" he asked, incredulously.

Edward, in turn, looked at him with equal disbelief.

“you have just said so” and seeing his probably blank face, he shrugged "Normally," he replied in the tone people use when explaining something to an idiot. "You lie down on a bench and sleep."

"B-but…?"

"Listen, what did you expect, given that I came all the way from London just to meet with your thick skull?"

"I expected you to go home," William replied, ignoring the insult.

The boy’s expression twisted slightly.

William froze mid-step as realization dawned upon him.

Edward noticed a split second later that William was no longer following him, and he, too, stopped and turned around—slowly, as if delaying the inevitable, because he also knew exactly what was running through William’s head. His shoulders slumped slightly, tensing in anticipation of the confrontation that was sure to come.

William had already noticed yesterday that Edward wasn’t good at keeping a poker face.

"In that case, you must be starving," he said instead, feeling the need to change the subject.

Edward, of course, didn’t believe for a second that this was the end of the discussion, but he was grateful for the distraction and the delay of what was to come. At least, that’s how William interpreted the small, knowing smile that crossed the boy’s face.

"Yeah. I'm starving."

They had breakfast in the university cafeteria, and at some point, a thought crossed William’s mind—that maybe Edward knew so much about quark interactions and black holes because he had one inside his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was physically possible to eat five large rolls and still gaze longingly at the food counter.

When he commented on the sheer amount of food, Edward immediately exploded, accusing him of saying that he was "so small that even eating a single lettuce leaf would be enough to fuel his automail for a year and that he would never grow taller than a pico-micro-grain of a bean"—and there were a few other interesting references to the natural world that William didn’t entirely understand.

Either way, the discussion eventually shifted to physics, the potential publication of their theories, and possible applications. And that was more or less how their day passed—from lunch to a second lunch (thanks to Edward’s insistent stomach)—the black hole theory was becoming more and more probable with every minute), until finally, dinner. William invited the boy to a small restaurant three minutes from campus. There he was once again a witness to an extraordinary ability not only to absorb, but also to speak, eat and gesticulate at the same time. The boy definitely looked relaxed and happy, lost in a world of quantum and infinite possibilities.

"Stay with us," he said, not even realizing his lips were forming the words.

Edward, who had been mid-sentence, didn’t even stumble as he managed to send William a surprised glance before continuing his train of thought.

"They cannot 'stay without' We have just stated that without hadrons, energy transfer would not be possible and gravitons would not be able to maintain sufficient..."

"No. I have proposed that you stay with us. We have an empty guest room, and my wife would be delighted to have you."

For the first time, Edward clearly didn’t know what to say.

In the end, he simply nodded.

At first, hesitantly. Then more firmly, with a certainty that also flickered in his golden eyes.

And just like that, two hours later, they were sitting in his car, driving through the streets of Oxford. The summer sun hung high in the sky despite the late hour, illuminating the boy sitting in the passenger seat.

When William had announced that it was time to head back, the boy had simply nodded and stood by the door, shaking his head when asked if he had anything to take with him. Looking back, William realized that yesterday, too, he hadn’t noticed the boy carrying anything when he had burst into the lecture hall.

He had nothing except for his tattered and slightly stained red coat. No place to sleep other than a park bench. Nothing but his brilliant mind and his name. A name he had only revealed after hours of intense discussion.

Only now did William Brown realize how little he knew about the boy sitting beside him, his head resting against the window—whether from in resting or sleep, he couldn’t tell.

“So…” he began, suddenly strangely aware of the silence, which, in his opinion, shouldn’t have been so comfortable with a stranger. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced at his passenger out of the corner of his eye.

The boy’s eyelids lifted, revealing eyes that, for a brief second, looked far older and more tired than his supposed sixteen years (which had been shouted at him when he had dared to suggest fourteen). It must have been just a trick of the light and the shadows cast by his lashes.

William turned his gaze back to the road—both to stay in his lane and to avoid having to dwell any further on the look in that child’s eyes.

"Eh… from what I understand, you want to invite me over," Edward replied. "I mean, if you still want to. You can just drop me off somewhere here, and we’ll see each other tomorrow morning."

"No..." William shook his head. "I meant more—what are you doing... here? Why did you find me? Why so suddenly? Where were you before?"

He hadn’t thought too hard about the possible answer, but he suspected it would be one of those stories about a hidden, unappreciated genius who had only now dared to face the world. Maybe he had even run away from home to make it possible. Whether as an ordinary boy from an average family or perhaps a teary story of an orphan who had set out into the world, chasing his dreams.

More than seeing, he heard the boy shift in his seat.

The answer was certainly not what he had expected.

"Heh." The boy let out a quiet chuckle—the kind adults make when they recognize the irony of their own decisions. "Yeah... I was looking for someone. I just... found some information about quarks and got distracted and sucked in, and then I came across your article on gravity, where you had a solid theory but with a flawed assumption... I got a little carried away and..." He laughed again. "And here I am."

William Brown had to summon all his willpower to stop himself from commenting on how, exactly, a teenager could get "distracted" by quantum physics, then randomly stumble upon one of his most advanced papers and spot a flaw that had stumped physicists worldwide.

"Who were you looking for?" he asked instead.

The golden boy leaned his head back against the headrest and sighed. William didn’t even need to look at him to know he now looked far too mature for his age.

"Roy Mustang," he said, and the name rang in the silence, carrying a thousand emotions that William couldn’t name. So he said nothing, honoring, in his own way, the person whose whereabouts meant so much to Edward.

"He... came here about seven days ago. I think here. I’m... looking for him so we can go home."

It was vague. And yet, it sounded desperate. There was no hostility in his voice that would suggest he was chasing an enemy. And those words—"go home"—combined with the knowledge that the boy had spent the previous night on a bench and hadn’t seemed at all bothered by it, made William feel something strange in his chest.

Strange enough that before he even realized it, the words had already left his lips.

"I’ll help you."

The effect was immediate. The boy turned to face him, and the heavy air in the car, which William hadn’t even noticed before, suddenly lifted.

"Really?"

He nodded.

Two seconds later, however, came the question that posed the biggest challenge.

"How?"

William hesitated.

"I take it that since you haven’t found him yet, you don’t have many ideas about where to look?"

"If I did, I’d have already dragged him out by his collar," Edward muttered, a sudden hostility in his voice that had been absent when he first mentioned Mustang.

"Then maybe the easiest way would be to hire a detective?"

"I don’t have money," the boy scoffed bitterly.

William slowly nodded, still focused on the car ahead of them, which had just turned on its blinker, signaling a left turn.

"I do," he said calmly.

The reaction was immediate.

"I couldn’t possibly ask you for that."

"You’re not asking."

"But... no. I can’t accept that."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"I..."

"Then it’s ‘no’. So let’s make a deal, Edward. 'Equivalent exchange,' as you like to say so often."

That caught the boy’s attention.

"You help me develop the theory of quark-equivalent exchange, and I’ll help you find this Roy Mustang."

"But I would have done that anyway….”  – the boy started to protest before falling silent. The silence lasted long enough for the car in front of them to brake and turn, and then they accelerated again until the road in front of them was clear.

- Alright. – said the boy. William could almost feel him smiling. - Alright.

Today's meeting with the Minister was an exclusive one. Only ten people had been summoned, two of whom were Minister Knot and his senior secretary Dolores Umbridge, the next two being the head of the Auror office Skamander, and Mad-Eye Moody, considered the best Auror of all time, who had been assigned to this case on the orders of Lucius Malfoy.

That’s why the remaining six seats were so prestigious.

And that’s why Lucius Malfoy couldn’t believe his eyes when, upon entering, he saw Roy Mustang casually sitting at the table, chatting with Cornelius and his secretary.

“Cornelius,” greeted the pure-blood wizard as he stepped inside.

“Ah! Lucius! I’m glad you’ve arrived.”

“Greetings, Lucius.” Roy Mustang also stood up from the table, dressed in his dark blue robe, which unusually blended wizarding tradition with Muggle elegance.

“Roy, it’s a pleasure to see you here too.” Lucius allowed a delicate smile to appear on his lips—the same kind of smile that graced Roy’s. A smile that was false, sly, yet so genuine that anyone could fall into its trap.

Malfoy had to admit, with heavy heart and only to himself, that even he had also been caught in it at one point.

“It’s an honor for me,” Roy assured with feigned modesty, as if his every action hadn't been aimed at ensuring he'd be invited to such events.

“There’s no need for modesty. Your opinions are incredibly valuable to us,” Lucius assured him.

“Exactly,” Cornelius added. “By the way, doesn’t the school year start next week?”

“Indeed.” Roy’s smile became even more courteous, so much so that Lucius caught himself wondering if it was sincere. He began to wonder if it stemmed from a genuine passion for alchemy and teaching, or if it was because Roy Mustang wasn't trying to deceive him, knowing he had already seen through him.

It was truly terrifying.

Finally, the last member of the meeting arrived—Bartemius Crouch—and they began the meeting about the event that had shaken the wizarding world.

The broken wand that had been found was identified. Most of wands were unfortunately lost when death eaters did recover them, this one however remained. Probably because the "Accio" spell was supposed to summon the wand, not two halves of it. The wand was made from ash wood with a dragon heartstring core, belonging to a young half-blood wizard who was currently in hiding.

They had failed to locate the fleeing Death Eaters.

The young werewolf had still not been identified.

“Do you have any leads in his case?” Cornelius asked, with clear disappointment.

Theodore Skamander shifted his weight but shook his head.

“—We know he didn’t escape via Apparition or Portkey,” he sighed. “We suspect he stole one of the Muggle bicycles and rode it into the city. From there, he could have Apparated or switched to a previously prepared means of transport.”

“Or, judging by his previous behavior, he might have used a Muggle car—or even a train,” Roy added casually, throwing an apologetic smile at Theseus when it became clear that the other man had wanted to present that conclusion himself—to avoid appearing completely incompetent.

“Exactly. That’s what Alastor suggested, and I included it in the report. Unfortunately. We suspect he went to London, but we have no confirmation since none of the conductors remember a man matching our description.”

“Is he an animagus?” asked the old wizard sitting two seats away from Malfoy.

“Of course not,” huffed Alastor Moody.

“He may have an invisibility cloak,” Mustang replied seriously. “Or he’s good at hiding, or simply disguised himself. People remember a blond man in a red coat. The coat can be taken off, and long hair can be hidden under a hat.” He smiled, first at the old wizard, then at the auror, who gave him a begrudging glare with his single eye.

His wife, Daphne Brown, was already waiting for them, and with more efficiency than William could have imagined, she welcomed them, fed them, then undressed Edward from his old clothes and pointed him toward the bathroom. He could only thank her, to which she nodded understandingly.

“Honestly, I never expected the day would come when you’d invite your students to our home.”

“He’s not my student,” he corrected and recounted how he met Edward. Last evening, he hadn’t had the chance to talk, as when he arrived home, his exhausted mind, has to focus on getting himself to bed.

“But he’s a child you met through your work.”

“True, but it’s not…”

“And you liked him enough to bring him home.”

“He was sleeping on the street, Daphne.”

“So you intervened,” she nodded sympathetically.

“He’s brilliant, Daphne. You’ll understand once you hear him out.”

“I have no doubt he has a great mind.” She chuckled. “Only a great mind would explain that amount of spaghetti he ate. I thought I was cooking for two days.”

He couldn’t suppress the chuckle that came from deep within his throat.

“My wallet was surprised too when he ate five sandwiches this morning at the cafeteria.”

He looked at his wife, who was watching him with a look on her face he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asked.

Daphne shook her head.

“No… it’s just… I haven’t seen you shine like that in a while.”

“I’m shining?” he asked, confused.

She smiled warmly at him.

“Yes.” She leaned in to kiss him and likely add something that would make his heart beat faster when suddenly, they heard a rattle and a call:

“Sorry, but could I also borrow some socks?”

The couple pulled apart, and a fleeting smile danced on the woman’s lips before she called out:

“I’ll be right there.”

He heard her footsteps, the clattering of a drawer, and finally the knock on the bathroom door followed by the murmur of conversation before he saw his wife again in the kitchen doorway.

“Did he say anything about his religion?” she asked with curiosity.

“No,” William shook his head, fully aware of where his wife’s thoughts were heading.

He had already turned his attention to the boy’s tendency to wear gloves even indoors, though he attributed it to the poor fashion sense typical of teenagers. He was, however, willing to change his mind when the boy asked for a long-sleeved shirt to sleep in.

But his religion wasn’t their concern. So when the boy came out of the bathroom with still-damp golden hair, they didn’t comment on the fact that they hadn’t seen a single piece of skin besides his face.

It wasn’t their concern either when, that night, Daphne went to the bathroom and heard sleepy, yet hurtful groans coming from the guest room.

And even less their concern when, at dawn, the boy joined them, drank a cup of coffee from the espresso machine, and engaged in a lively discussion with William, his golden eyes alight as if his night had been nothing special.

One thing William was right about: the boy’s genius was only fully understood when one saw how he worked.

Daphne hadn’t seen her husband this engaged in a long time. He didn’t even bother to take leave for work, claiming that “he wouldn’t meet anyone at the university who could open the world to him the way Edward had.” The two men were conversing, writing down, and drawing strange lines that Daphne, as an accountant, could never understand. Books were scattered around them, and the computer on the desk kept making unsettling noises, signaling overheating that were ignored or even unheard by the working pair. Just like the knock on the door, which only she heard and opened.

“Good morning, Madam. My name is Zolf Kimbley. Private detective.”

Chapter Text

Daphne Brown led the man inside, casually showing him where he could hang his white siut.

"Sweethearts," she addressed the two men who had just gotten so deeply engrossed in their discussion that the outside world seemed to no longer exist for them. "The detective is here."

Apparently, Edward was so absorbed in the conversation that when he was suddenly pulled out of it and lifted his eyes to actually look at their guest, he quite literally spat out his coffee.
The dark brown liquid burst from his mouth like a cloud of murky mist, splattering onto the table and several papers—papers that William immediately rushed to save from getting soaked.

Meanwhile, Edward—evidently so excited at the possibility of finding his Roy—shot up from his seat, his legs slightly bent as if it had suddenly become harder to keep his balance from sheer emotion. And it was probably that same excitement that made him brace himself against the table, where his hand landed right on a pen, which he gripped tightly—too tightly, in a way that was hardly practical for writing—but Daphne simply chalked it up to the weight of his emotions and didn't give it a second thought.

Since her attention was on Edward and William at the table, she completely missed the way Kimbley was scanning the room. She didn't notice how his gaze landed on Edward and narrowed slightly as he observed the boy springing to his feet, ready for a fight.

"Ah!" William Brown finally wiped up the spilled coffee, stepped away from the table, and approached Zolf. "So it's you! Thank you so much for coming so quickly."

Kimbley smiled.

"The pleasure is mine. I hope I can be of help."

"You certainly can. I've heard a lot of good things about you. You were recommended to me by Tomasz Ditrowski. You helped him track down the people who broke into his lab and stole his research two years ago. Do you remember?"

"Of course. I’m glad we managed to recover his notes back then."

Kimbley smiled again—politely. The way of smiling of people who are capable of love and empathy. Not the way Crimson Alchemist would.

"Two years ago?" Ed asked, blinking slightly in surprise.

"More or less," Kimbley agreed, turning to him again.

This time, when his eyes fell on Edward, they didn’t narrow into sharp, watchful slits, poised for attack. They didn’t—because they first stopped on Edward’s left hand, where the pen he had gripped earlier had now slipped from his fingers. A grip ton pen hat had been meant not for writing, but for stabbing—held in a way that, with the right force and momentum, could allow a tip of pen to get buried deep into flesh.

In the detective's black eyes, there was warmth—and a quiet exhaustion lurking in the corners. The kind carried by those who have seen too much and would rather forget most of it—but whose conscience won’t allow them to let go of the things that have already been paid for with too high a price.

Edward knew those looks.
He had seen them in Mustang’s and Hawkeye’s eyes.
He remembered them in Hughes’s gaze.
He recognized them in the glances exchanged between Sig and his teacher, in the way his grandmother looked up at the sky, and in too many other faces—far too many—after the Promised Day.

But he had never seen this in Kimbley’s eyes.
Cold, unfeeling, analytical—tinted only with sadistic laughter and lit up by the glint of madness.

Because...

As Ed suddenly realized...

...the man standing before him wasn’t his Kimbley.

Not the one who had served in Ishval.
Not the one who had collapsed the mine shaft over his head.

Because in this world, there was no Ishval.
There was no alchemy to manipulate unstable runes, to destabilize molecular structures.

Because this...

Wasn’t his world.

And the man before him...

Wasn’t his Kimbley.

Mr and ma Brown left Edward and detective Kimbley in the living room to give them some privacy. The couple sat down in William’s study. They had no intention of eavesdropping. However walls of their house were thin, and the voices of the two men were loud enough for words to be heard. Yet, neither of the couple suggested turning on the radio to drown them out.

"I’d like to introduce myself first," Zofl said. "I’ve been a private detective for five years. Before that, I served in the military until I was discharged."

"Let me guess. Something with explosives?" Edward asked, his tone sharper than one would expect, addressing the stranger.

"No." Zofl didn’t seem fazed. "I was shot in the arm. The rehabilitation was supposed to take almost two years, and I might never have fully regained my strength, so I left to do something less demanding for my health."

Edward made a low hum of acknowledgment.

"You don’t have a brother, right? Or… your grandfather wasn’t also named Zolf?"

"No. I’m an only child, and my grandfathers were named Daniel and Alfred." The man now sounded confused. Nevertheless, he carried on smoothly, discussing the terms of the contract, the confidentiality policy, and when professional secrecy would no longer apply.

"So… I heard you’re looking for someone," he said at last.

"Yes. His name is Roy Mustang."

There was a pause while the detective presumably wrote something down. He probably nodded because Edward continued.

"He came here five… I mean, seven days ago. Here, meaning England. He’s not from Britan, but he speaks fluent English, so you probably wouldn’t recognize him."

"How did he get here?"

"I don’t know," Edward admitted. "It could’ve been anything. Even… even just ‘bang’ – and there he is." Silence fell, probably intended to be meaningful. Whatever reaction Edward expected, Zofl didn’t provide it, so the boy continued.

"But he’s very characteristic. He’s 30. About this tall, with black hair, dark eyes. He might wear blue pants, maybe a military uniform… I mean, something that looks like a military uniform, but it’s blue… or no, he’s probably wearing some ridiculous suit. But he might have a butt cape."

"Butt cape?" Daphne mouthed silently, raising her eyebrows at her husband in the hope he’d clarify the term. Unfortunately, he seemed just as lost as she was.

"Butt cape?" Zofl repeated.

"Yeah… this weird blue thing around his waist… you know, a butt cape," Edward explained, not really solving the mystery.

"Anything else?" The detective apparently gave up on that trail.

"Umm… He often wears gloves with a red circle on the back. And besides that… his face looks like the kind you want to punch. He’s always smiling like he knows everything. He likes to lick asses to climb the ladder, so I suspect he’ll try cozying up to some politician or military officer. Hey! Do you have a program where someone can join the military, pass some tough exam, and become a major?"

Zolf had to shake his head, either not wanting to interrupt Edward or unable to find the right words, because the boy continued:

"Shame. You’d probably find him there. Although… as for the task he came there to do… I’m not sure what it is, but it’s something big. Like… really big. Like a coup d’état. World war. World War Three. Or… I know this might sound strange, but… a group of people with superpowers?"

The silence this time spoke for itself. Edward must have realized how bizarre it sounded because he quickly rushed to explain:

"I mean… they look like they have superpowers. Yeah. That kind of vibe. They might pull off a trick with light. Or… Or maybe they’re a group that draws circles… I mean, can I get a piece of paper?" A brief pause. "Something like this. Or like that."

"Could this have anything to do with crop circles?" the detective asked.

As it turned out, Edward had no idea what crop circles were, or even Stonehenge. After a bit of explanation and preliminary sketches, the circles didn’t seem promising. However, Stonehenge piqued Edward’s interest, although Zofl didn’t seem convinced that an ancient structure could be related to the man they were searching for.

"You could try looking in well-known brothels," Edward suddenly suggested. "I mean, that Bastard is a terrible womanizer and always steals girls from others, but not like that. His foster mother owned a brothel, so he uses them for gathering information."

He mentioned a few other fascinating  pieces of information—ones that, quite frankly, sounded even less believable than if Edward had just told them a story about a walking, talking suit of armor.

"So, to sum up," the detective sighed, his voice sounding much more tired than at the beginning of their conversation. "I’m looking for a man with black hair, a face that makes you want to punch him, political or military ambitions, and a tendency to use roundabout methods and connections to reach his goals—including an intelligence network in brothels. He has pyromaniac tendencies and is carrying out a mysterious, extremely important mission that may or may not  be supernatural in nature?"

"Hey! You’re making it sound like a bad joke," Edward protested.

"I’m sorry to say, but it does sound like a child’s joke."

"Hey! WHO ARE YOU CALLING A CHILD SO SMALL HE HAS TO HIRE A DETECTIVE TO HELP HIM FIND SOMEONE BECAUSE HE CAN’T SEE OVER THE TOPS OF THE GRASS?!"

Zofl didn’t comment further, probably just giving him a look, as Edward’s next words sounded completely different from before—serious, confident, heavy, and old. As old as he had seemed back in the car when his shoulders tensed under the invisible weight of the world.

"I know how it sounds. I wouldn’t believe myself, either. But it’s true. I don’t know what his goal is, but I know it’s important. And yet, he’ll handle it quietly. Behind the scenes. He… he’s a good chess player. Right now, he’s probably still gathering information, but soon he’ll show up where he needs to be. Maybe he already has. I know England isn’t currently at war… Oh. One more thing. What I said about fire… I know I called him a pyromaniac, but… he uses it as a weapon. So if there’s any information about fires or accidents…"

"I understand," Stephen sighed. "But I’d like to inform you that if the investigation reveals Roy Mustang’s involvement in arson, I’ll have to report it."

A laugh rang out from behind the wall. Joyless and heavy. A laugh that Daphne only after few seconds connected to the young, golden-haired boy.

"Don’t worry. He… wouldn’t hurt civilians anymore. You were in the army, right? Then you must understand."

Kimbley must have nodded because the words were met with solemn silence before the men began wrapping up their meeting, setting the terms of contact.

Daphne turned to William, who was staring at the study door with an unreadable expression.

"Who that boy actually is?" she asked quietly.

Her husband didn’t answer immediately.

"Someone who’ll change the world," he finally said with unexpected certainty. "I just don’t know yet whether the change won’t turn everything into flames."

In the Ministry, it was easy to tell apart the regular workers from workoholists. Commoners  from the important ones—and the truly significant—just by their working hours.

Those who simply worked for a living would arrive and leave at fixed times.

Those who lived for their work - precious employers - showed up early in the morning and were still there long after their colleagues had left, completing their duties till dark night.
Then there were those who were their work. They came and went as they pleased, sometimes staying late when matters demanded their attention, sometimes dropping in for just half an hour—yet their very presence could shift the atmosphere of the entire department.

These were the ones that should be reckon with .

Roy Mustang belonged to this third category. Although his presence was more frequent during the summer holidays than during the school year, it still remained an event that drew attention. Or perhaps it was him as a person who was attracting attention, not just his role in politics.

In any case, when Roy strolled into the partially empty Auror office, he certainly caused a stir. Many of the Aurors, though they might have denied it, were not quite as apolitical as they liked to believe. Nor were they immune to the man’s serpentine charm.

This time, however, it was clear that Roy hadn’t come merely to bask in the attention and assert his authority—something Alastor Moody occasionally suspected when Mustang would walk in, wathing over their work as though he were their commander, and then leave, apparently satisfied.

This time, he had a purpose. After a quick round of greetings with the cluster of onlookers, he made his way towards the back of the office.
Towards Alastor Moody’s desk.

"Alastor," he greeted him with a simple nod.

A nod that Alastor despised. A Nood too smooth, with just the right tilt of the head to give the impression that Roy was subtly lifting his chin—a gesture accompanied by that ever-present faint smile Roy Mustang wore like a badge.

"Mustang," Alastor muttered, making no effort to hide the growl in his voice. He didn’t trust Mustang. He trusted no one, but Roy Mustang was at the top of his distrust list. Perhaps even higher than Lucius Malfoy. Perhaps at the very top.

Apparently, though, it wasn’t just him who felt that way. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t trust him, and he certainly wasn’t the only one who saw that the power Roy Mustang held in his hands was dangerously vast—and still growing.
And that was precisely why the dark-haired man was here now. Even as he carried himself like the master of the place, it was merely a façade, something his blood, rooted deep inside, along with the Slytherin serpent scales.

Roy Mustang was here by order. An order meant to humiliate him.

It was another meeting about unfortunate events of the Quidditch World Cup. A grand meeting had taken place, attended by the most influential ministers, and even representatives from other countries—all to present the English Ministry’s progress in tracking down those responsible. Death Eaters, yes, but also someone who occupied their thoughts even more—a young werewolf.

A meeting that was still vivid in his memories. Because it was a meeting where the Aurors had turned into a laughingstock. Because even after a week, it looked like they hadn’t accomplished anything at all.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Lucius Malfoy spoke up, suggesting that if Roy Mustang had such a good feel for the case, why shouldn’t he join the search and bring in a "fresh perspective"?

Cornelius Knot clapped his hands at the idea, and the rest followed.

Alastor’s magical eye caught the fraction of a second when that polite expression on Roy’s face slipped, revealing anger tinged with uncertainty before he smiled again and accepted the offer.

So quickly that only Alastor could see it.

Roy was smart enough to know that this "opportunity to prove himself" was actually a stone tied around his neck just as he was being pushed into deep water. Because if they hadn’t found any leads after a week, they certainly wouldn’t find them now—and the blame would fall on Roy.

But that wasn’t the only reason Roy’s mask slipped. The real reason was the fact that it was Lucius Malfoy who had tied that stone.

Lucius Malfoy, who had once been a mentor to the lost Serpentard. He had exploited Roy’s youthful vigor, trying to manipulate him. But when it became clear that Roy wasn’t just another pawn on his chessboard but a king in his own game, Lucius had backed off—though he had kept their relations outwardly polite. So, with that declaration and by assigning Roy to this case, it became clear to anyone with eyes that Lucius had finally seen more danger than advantage in Roy Mustang. And he had decided to cut him off.

That didn’t mean Roy Mustang was no longer dangerous, though. Quite the opposite. He was dangerous enough that a cautious player like Lucius Malfoy had chosen to take the risk and play the card of an unsolved mystery to humiliate Roy Mustang—who, otherwise, was on his way to becoming a hero.

But that plan had one flaw,- Alastor Moody thought.- It assumed they wouldn’t catch the young werewolf. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He wouldn’t let such a significant threat as that mysterious warrior be ignored.

That was why he had nodded to Roy and, without a word, gestured at the files spread out on his desk, which the man undoubtedly already knew.

“So?” Roy Mustang smiled as if his presence there wasn’t a demotion but the natural order of things. Perhaps, for him, it was. The man always seemed to find an opportunity to shine. “What’s the plan?”

“We’ll keep searching. We’ll sweep the area again with tracking spells. I’ve also submitted a request for Nifflers, and just in case, we’ll check the werewolf registry once again. And we’ll probably ask around to see if anyone has heard of someone new,” Alastor said sharply, scrutinizing Roy from head to toe on many more levels than just the surface, thanks to his magical eye. As always, his gaze was drawn to the burn scar on the man’s abdomen.

“That’s certainly a good plan,” Roy said politely—but with the tone one uses at meetings, without really listening at all. Infantile. “But I have another suggestion.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Roy Mustang drew his white wand, and with a nearly inaudible murmur of incantations, conjured a leather armchair for himself. Not just a chair—a full armchair. And he sat in it across from Alastor’s desk as if this were his bloody office. And to think that not long ago, Alastor had almost felt sorry for him. He shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be fooled by the serpent.

Another flick of the wand, and colorful newspapers materialized in the air—likely previously shrunk to pocket size or concealed with an invisibility charm to make their appearance more dramatic.

 “I suggest we take a look at the newspapers. There was a full moon recently—something must have been noticed.”

“We’ve already done that,” Alastor snorted. “Neither The Daily Prophet nor even the gossip magazines reported anything unusual. We red them Twice. A trainee is going through them for the third time right now. We’re not idiots.”

“Of course not,” Roy Mustang smiled again, the same infantile smile. He leaned back in his chair without taking his eyes off Alastor. He wasn’t even distracted by the magical eye spinning in its socket. Alastor really hated this man. “I simply wanted to suggest a slight change in approach.”

The newspapers slowly settled on his desk. Alastor glanced at them, then raised an eyebrow and looked back at Roy. Then he blinked and looked at the newspapers again with his normal eye, ensuring his magical prosthetic wasn’t playing tricks on him.

But he wasn’t mistaken.

The pictures weren’t moving.

When he raised his gaze to Mustang again, the man was still wearing that smug smile, watching him closely with his dark blue eyes. He was waiting for his reaction—waiting for how he would respond to being presented with Muggle newspapers.

Muggle newspapers—brought in by a Serpentard. The epitome of Slytherin. The snake, serpent and everything Alastor despised. Muggle newspapers, brought in by someone who, by all rights, should be repulsed by them.

And yet, here they were, presented to him as potential sourse of leads or evidence.

“Even if ordinary people know nothing of werewolves, I’d hope they might notice unexplained brutal attacks, strange noises, disappearances, or—heaven forbid—murders.” Clearly, the silence had dragged on too long, because Roy mistook his astonishment for disbelief and hurried to explain.

He didn’t need to. Alastor realised it the moment he saw the newspapers. How odd it was, however, to hear such words from a Serpentard. Words of concern and hope that Muggles might be able to help them.

“I never thought I’d hear such words from one of the snakes,” Alastor sighed. He swallowed, then fixed Roy Mustang with both eyes, drilling into him with his piercing blue gaze. Without a word, he reached into the drawer of his desk, pulling out newspapers he had hidden from passing strenger eyes. The very same ones he had been reading alone.

The same kind Roy Mustang had just brought in.

Muggle

Three hours later, with only two other people still left in the Auror office and the magical landscapes in his magical-artificial window showing a beautiful summer sunset, Roy and Alastor were still reading.

The older Auror had just finished flipping through another crime section leaflet and set it aside with a sigh.

“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong city?” he suggested reluctantly. They had a pile of papers describing incidents like muggings in dark alleys or reports of couples being overly amorous in public spaces. But nothing that pointed to an attack by an unregistered werewolf. Certainly nothing resembling the kind of attack one would expect from the warrior described by witnesses at the Quiddich tournament.

Roy Mustang hummed noncommittally, continuing to read. Alastor waited five, then ten seconds, and was about to growl at his unwanted companion when Mustang’s stormy eyes lifted from the page.

“Perhaps,” he nodded in agreement. “Although something tells me we’re in the right place.” He leaned back in his chair and handed Alastor the newspaper he’d been reading.

Surprising.

Most wizards avoided unnecessary movements if they could use magic. Even Alastor occasionally indulged in such small conveniences. Roy Mustang, on the other hand, seemed to operate the opposite way. He performed large, showy gestures with magic, flaunting his flawless non-verbal spells, yet in moments where a wizard’s useage magic was almost instinctive, Mustang unconsciously did everything like an underage kid. As Muggle would do.

His glass eye focused on the article Roy had handed him.

It told the story of the capture of kidnappers allegedly responsible for a series of disappearances in London. They had been found near a park beneath the city library, tied up in their own car with a letter explaining who they were, what they had done, and that this time they had tried to abduct the wrong person. The police were still searching for the mysterious hero, while boasting that thanks to the capture of these two perpetrators, they had uncovered an entire human trafficking syndycate.

“These kidnappings have been going on for months,” Alastor murmured sceptically, fixing his magical eye on Roy. The man nodded. When he didn’t say anything further, Alastor pressed on.

“I don’t think a werewolf had anything to do with this. These were people, and they acted systematically. Those beasts aren’t capable of any organised activity under the full moon. It makes no sense.” He shook his head.

“I never suggested a werewolf was Kidnapping people,” Roy Mustang sighed at last. “I suggested it was the one who caught them.”

Alastor hesitated.

“That’s… a bit far-fetched, don’t you think? What makes you say that?”

To his astonishment, the ever-eloquent Roy Mustang had no immediate answer. He simply sighed and shook his head—not as a gesture for him, but more like he was trying to clear his mind.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just… have a feeling.”

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Chapter Text

Aside from the bizarre conversation with the detective on Friday—which, in a way, had sparked some slight concerns within the married couple about the boy’s stability—the rest of the weekend went smoothly and productively.

On Monday morning, they got into the car and headed toward the hadron collider, located about a thirty-minute drive away. On the way, they stopped by one of the popular among the youth Italian cafés, where William ordered coffee for Edward after hearing him complain all weekend about the “stupid tea-drinking culture.” The boy seemed to appreciate the gesture, and the caffeine definitely kicked in, because if William had thought Edward was a genius before, now—listening to the words the caffeinated boy was spewing out—he felt like an insignificant grain of sand in the presence of a blazing god. He was truly grateful that he had been walking around with his recorder turned on since yesterday, because there was no way his tiny brain could store all these grand ideas long enough to write them down later.

The hadron collider and the Oxford laboratories formed an enormous complex. Although William didn’t visit often, fortunately, everyone there knew and respected him, so it wasn’t a problem to order the machines to be turned on and begin research—without yet having the university rector’s approval.

That kind of approval would take far too long, and every minute of delay was a minute the world remained unaware of what Edward Elric was about to accomplish.

“Mr. Brown!”

A slightly hoarse and sour voice, worn by age, suddenly called out to him.

“Peter Trevor?” William couldn’t believe his own eyes.

“Yes.” The man nodded.

Peter Trevor was a professor of quantum physics—just like William and a good portion of the people in this building, which wasn’t exactly surprising, given that they were currently inside Oxford University’s research facility. What was surprising, however, was the fact that Peter Trevor was a professor of quantum physics at Cambridge University.

William respected Peter. Personally. As a scientist. It wasn’t Trevor’s fault that, in his youth, he hadn’t been smart enough to get into Oxford and had to settle for a second-rate university.[1]

“What are you doing here?” he asked, confused—only half-aware that Edward, still muttering to himself beside him, had also stopped and raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve got some nerve asking that, really.” Peter let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “First, you call me on Saturday night to ask for my research results, which you haven’t cared about for three years. Then, on Sunday, I hear from a friend that you pulled some strings to get into the collider and conduct some kind of research. And now—what the hell is going on now anyways?”

William didn’t know why, but he smiled.

“A breakthrough,” he said.

Peter looked at him as if he had lost his mind. Out of the corner of his eye, William noticed Edward doing the same. Maybe he really did look insane.

“A breakthrough is happening, Mr. Trevor. A breakthrough that will change the world.”

Something new flickered in Peter’s eyes.

“What are you talking about? Have you discovered something?”

“Not exactly. It’s just a theory.” Edward suddenly spoke up before turning to William. “You look like some crazy old creep. Stop doing this with your face, else you’ll scare off any other being that has even a shred of self-preservation instinct.”

Then William definitely have looked like he had lost his mind. It was good to know he could always count on the boy to point out even uncomfortable facts.

Meanwhile, Peter looked thoroughly confused.

“Who is this?” he asked once he found his voice again.

“Edward Elric.”

“Your student?” Peter couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice. It was common knowledge in their circles that William despised students.

“As if.” Edward scoffed before William could deny it. “This guy skips gravity in quantum interaction calculations.”

Peter had the kind of expression that said, “But that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do,” and William had the distinct impression that his own face looked the same when he had first met Edward five days ago.

And even thou watching Edward—either consciously or unconsciously—completely destroys everything Peter has ever believed in, while simultaneously crushing the man’s confidence was certainly amusing, the hum of activated engines and generators suddenly filled the air, signaling that the massive hadron collider was slowly preparing for operation.

“But…,” Peter started.

“If you say, ‘That’s how it’s done,’ I swear I will smash your head in with an accelerated proton,” Edward growled.

“I’m afraid the hole might be a bit too small to cause serious damage,” William pointed out, only realizing too late what a mistake he had just made.

“WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL THAT HE CAN—”

“Edward,” William cut him off. “Do you want to start the experiment, or are we going to stand here arguing until they kick us out?”

As if under a spell, Edward immediately fell silent. Then he turned to him and flashed a wide grin, revealing his white teeth.

***

The control room was a vast space, where several scientists moved about, occasionally glancing curiously in their direction. William, along with two technicians, set all the parameters and carried out the first collision of the day.

Everyone watched in fascination as the computer screen displayed the measurements and recorded them in the form of a graph. It was magical—to be able to see how energy spreads, rises, falls, and intertwines.

"We had too little power," Edward suddenly said.

"What are you talking about, boy?" Trevor frowned, looking at the blond.

"Too little power. But the energy is also too pure. It’s not contaminated by thermal energy, like tectonic energy. And the circle is too large. Though that probably doesn’t matter much here. Anyway, for now, we’re just breaking particles apart." He muttered to himself in that tone which had already taught William to pull out his notebook and catch every word—because these stray thoughts were the ones that had changed so much in his limited mind.

"That’s the whole point!" Peter Trevor scoffed. "This is a hadron collider."

"No," Edward sighed, turning his golden eyes away from the display. "Understanding, reconstruction, and deconstruction. We focus on reconstruction without having full understanding. We’re not just supposed to break them. We need to free them and let them interact with each other."

Then he fell silent, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow.

"Brown? What the hell is this kid talking about?" Peter demanded, turning to William.

"You’ll see," Brown simply said, watching in fascination as Edward’s left hand—still gloved—reached for a pen and filled a sheet with data and formulas, quickly adding results as if seeing the solution in his mind. And then, absentmindedly, he doodled in the margin—three circles and numerous geometric lines.

And indeed, they did see. By the third attempt and after much insistence toward a very reluctant technician who adjusted the device’s configuration, they obtained images, graphs, and data that they combined with Deep Inelastic Scattering theories, their current knowledge of lepton and hadron arrangements, as well as the newest theory of Equivalent Exchange.

Using a six quarks theorized concept from 1973, they ultimately managed to prove the existence of the last of the. The top quark.

"I don’t believe it," Peter Trevor exhaled, staring at the sheets filled with calculations, graphs, and images, some backed by photon emission spectra. And yet—there it was. With its own positive charge, classic half-integer spin, the final of 6 quarks was laid out before them on paper.

A bright light flashed, and then, when they turned toward it—another one.

"Hey!" Edward protested indignantly, blinking rapidly and shielding his face with one hand.

One of the older technicians smiled slightly, peeking out from behind the camera.

"Sorry. But this is a moment that needs to be documented. Can you all stand together and smile?"

Thus, the photograph was taken—one that would later be displayed on the walls of many of the world’s most prestigious scientific institutions. Professors smiling, and a scowling teenager in leather pants and worn-out boots, standing between two men, holding up a sheet with the most crucial equation while his mouth was open mid-verbal protest against the stupid idea of posing.

"So, how did you two meet?" Peter asked a little later, in a bar they stopped at on the way back. It was already late, but none of the scientists felt tired—not after the rush of emotions and breakthroughs they had achieved that day.

Edward and William exchanged a look.

"I read his article in London, but it was such bullshit that I got on a train just to meet him and tell him he’s an idiot," Edward said, shrugging and casually sipping his cola. He had wanted coffee, but there still weren’t many places in England that served it, and the roadside bar certainly wasn’t one of them. [2]

Peter blinked, looking at William, expecting him to provide the real version of the story, but when he realized that wasn’t going to happen, he burst out laughing.

"It’s not funny!" William protested, though he couldn’t help but smile.

"Of course it is, old man. Just like the fact that you talked about ignoring gravity values!"

"I was using Einstein’s postulates!"

"You were lazy! And you were an asshole. You kept insulting me!"

"I didn’t insult you! You’re the one who suddenly started shouting physics theories at me!"

"I did not!"

"You absolutely did. Look, Peter, you’re about to witness what this little kid can say:"

"HEY! WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL THAT SPINNING SEPTONES CIRCLE AROUND HIM, CREATING A CURRENT THAT GENERATES A MAGNETIC FIELD THAT WOULD IMPACT HIM, AS HE IS SO SMALL THAT IRON PARTICLES IN HIS BLOOD TURN INTO FERROMAGNETICS?!"

William laughed, and Peter blinked before the meaning of the words fully sank in—then he, too, burst out laughing.

"DO NOT LAUGH AT ME, YOU ASSHOLE!" Ed shouted, his face turning red with anger, which only made the professors laugh harder.

"So yeah, he gave a similar rant during my lecture, then kept interrupting me until the other students started asking questions too, and then a discussion broke out and…" William shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. [3]

"Don’t act surprised. You sounded like you had a stick up your ass. Obviously, they were looking for an excuse to interrupt your rambling for even a moment."

"I’d like you to know that my students make an effort to attend my lectures. They often travel from very far away."

"Then they must be damn disappointed," Edward remarked. "You talk in a boring way, and you don’t even explain things properly—you just throw theories around. If I had to learn from you, I wouldn’t understand a thing."

"You sound very confident." William observed.

"As hell I am." I learned atomic bonding theories when I was five. From scientific books! And I taught them to my brother, who was only four!"

William fell silent for a moment before exhaling deeply.

There were ordinary people, there were geniuses, there were geniuses, and then there were people like Edward.

Peter couldn't even bring himself to ask the boy to lower his voice a little.

So he simply watched the argument unfolding before him for a moment longer when suddenly an idea struck him.

“How about a bet?” he asked before William could take a breath to continue his speech.

“A bet on what?”

“For what?” Edward asked at the same time.

“Anything you want.” William shrugged. “A bet on which one of you would give a better lecture to the students?”

Both of them fell silent. For a moment. A very short one.

“Of course, it’s me. I accept the bet!” the boy declared, slamming his palm on the table. A strange rattling sound of metal echoed, but no one paid attention to it.

“You have no experience. Public speaking is harder than it might—”

“Are you chickening out?” Edward asked William with a grin.

“Of course not. I’m trying to spare you the embarrassment.” William frowned.

“In that case, I’ll come to your next lecture.”

“Fine. And what exactly do you plan to give me when I prove to you that experience isn’t something you can make up for with sheer bravado?”

“Whatever you want.”

“You don’t have a penny to your name. If not for my wife you’ve been wearing the same clothes for five days.”

Edward hesitated slightly.

“500 pounds,” Peter said, placing his wallet on the table. He didn’t actually have that much cash on him, but it was the gesture that mattered. “If you lose, you’ll work it off in my lab,” he proposed boy, to which Edward nodded.

“Deal.” William extended his hand.

“Um…” Edward hesitated suddenly. “It’s just that… we’d have to do it tomorrow? I mean… I have a train on Wednesday, and that’s my only clue to finding Mustang, so…,” he sighed.

“I’ll give you my lecture,” Peter offered. “Tomorrow, at nine. It’s a lecture on thermodynamics in molecular physics, lasts two hours. After that, we can go to the labs or grab lunch?”

“Awesome! When I win 500 pounds, I’ll treat you to a meal. And then I’ll find Mustang and go home.” Edward smiled at them, baring his teeth.

And suddenly, it hit William just how young this boy was. And how incredibly lucky he was to have met him six days ago.

***

Early that same morning, Roy Mustang stepped through the doors of the London police headquarters. Right behind him followed the uneven steps of Alastor, whose quiet stomp-thud, stomp-thud was both familiar and yet unsettling. Almost as if, in the back of his mind, Roy had expected a different kind of limping.

He shook his head and, signaling Alastor to wait, walked up to the reception desk. The brown-haired woman behind the counter looked up and smiled at him.

“Good morning, mademoiselle,” Roy greeted her with a slight bow of his head. “I seem to be a bit lost, however I was hoping I could acquire some clues from such a beautiful lady. Would you do me the great honor of granting me your attention?”

The woman looked at him, bewildered, then a blush crept across her face as she shyly lowered her gaze.

“Of course, sir. How can I help you?”

“You see, I was hoping to speak with the officers who apprehended the kidnappers.”

“Oh…” The blush faded slightly from her face. “The press conference was held on Friday. The next one is in four days, though I can direct you to the press officer…”

“Forgive the misunderstanding,” Roy interrupted her with his dazzling smile. “But I’m not a journalist. I’m conducting…”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“a separate investigation. We’re looking for someone who was involved in last week’s riots and who, we have reason to believe, contributed to capturing the kidnappers.”

“Riots?” The woman frowned.

“That’s also classified,” Roy smiled at her again, and she blushed once more.

This went on for another three minutes, during which he told her about his mission with a rather eccentric veteran, sanctioned by the minister himself. Then, he managed to steer the conversation toward the heavy burden of duty resting on his shoulders, his desire to bring peace to the citizens, and finally, he praised the woman’s beauty and asked for her number, which, after a brief moment of hesitation, she wrote down on a piece of paper for him.

He returned to Alastor with a smile.

“You’re on duty. You shouldn’t be getting distracted.”

“I wasn’t distracted; I was gathering information.”

“You revealed a lot of confidential details. You should erase her memory!”

“There’s no need,” Roy smirked lazily, waving at the woman once more before heading toward the detectives’ offices. “Besides, then I wouldn’t be able to call her.” He patted the spot on his chest where he had placed the note.

“You’re disgusting,” Alastor growled.

“On the contrary. I’m cautious. Erasing her memory exposes us to being detected, on possible failure, or accidental damage to her mind. Now, the woman will remember a handsome visitor and his strange companion. She’ll remember flirting at work in front of everyone, and tonight, she’ll be thinking about whether that handsome dark-haired man will call her. And if anyone asks her what happened today, she’ll say she doesn’t remember the details. Now do you understand?” He turned to Alastor with a smile, and the Auror shivered with embarrassment.

He himself had used to practice a similar technique once. Years of war had instilled suspicion and uncertainty in his mind, but the mustang's words made sense.

"Are you going to call her?" Moody asked instead.

Roy shrugged.

"Who knows?"

He ignored his companion's narrowed eye, turning to face forward.

He wasn't going to explain to him that for some reason he felt he had to flirt with that woman. Especially when he was being observed by someone else. That it was probably an important part of who he used to be before.

Which disgusted him. Because he behaved like this with almost every woman he met. He flirted with them, and sometimes went to bed with them. Even though he didn't feel like it at all. At least no less than a normal male.

What's more, whenever he was with women, he subconsciously looked for blond hair and amber eyes, which he simply put down to it being "his type" while stubbornly ignoring the voice that told him it wasn't that simple.

But he wasn't going to explain all that to Alastor, who didn't even hide the fact that he hated him.

They reached the office where four police officers were seated.

Roy once again nodded at Alastor, gesturing first at the officers, then at the pocket where the man kept his wand, and finally at the door.

The Auror understood and obeyed the order without a word. Discreetly, he pulled out his wand while Roy stepped inside and requested a private conversation with the officers, this time introducing himself as a reporter from The Times, working on a new article.

Roy Mustang attempted to charm these men as well, once again feeling that strange certainty that he could do it—and at the same time, - not here. That the blue uniforms of the officers were not the ones they should have been, and that these men had no reason to yield to his personal charm. So when, on the third attempt, he failed, he politely stepped aside, not even needing to ask for Alastor to know what they should do.

Once they were in a separate office, Alastor cast a tongue-loosening spell, along with a silencing charm on the walls and a locking spell on the door.

The conversation, however, proved fruitless. The officers recounted how they had been called to a badly parked truck with strange noises coming from the inside, how they entered and found the bound men inside along with a note addressed to the police. How the arrested individuals had not put up much resistance, instead shouting stories about some kind of a hero.

It had all lasted less than ten minutes.

"We didn’t learn anything new," the Auror muttered, scowling as Roy warmly thanked the officers and then stepped out. As he passed him, he placed a hand on Alastor’s back—a subtle signal that, once again, he had no intention of allowing memory-wiping spells. Alastor wanted to argue. Or rather, he would have wanted to—if not for the shiver that ran down his spine when he felt the warm hand, covered in an elegant white glove, resting on his lower back. A touch far too intimate for what he usually allowed. A touch far too intimate for what was considered appropriate between two men. And a touch that was definitely out of place, given the sheer disdain Alastor held for Roy Mustang—a disdain he made no effort to hide.

And when he realized that Roy had done it only to distract him from erasing the officers' memories, his disdain grew even stronger.

Roy Mustang smiled. That smile was even more infuriating—because Alastor could still feel the warmth of his hand lingering on his back. He would to have to wash up when he get home.

"On the contrary, my dear Alastor," Roy drawled, and Moody was certain he was using that tone on purpose, fully aware of how much it riled him up. "Now we know that the officers don’t know anything more than the reporters do—which, in turn, tells us exactly where we need to go to learn more."

"You want to go and speak with the kidnappers," Alastor deduced.

Roy Mustang smiled at him again and nodded.

***

Alastor laid out the plan for breaking into the cells. He would conjure a hole in the wall for them to slip through, cast an invisibility spell so they could sneak past the guards, break into the duty office where the prisoner records were kept, and finally, reach the cells of the arrested men.

Roy listened to everything with a contemplative expression.

"Is all of that necessary?" he finally asked.

"Listen, Mustang," Alastor scoffed. "I know you’re some big-shot in the Ministry, so why don’t you stick that pretty little face of yours into politics and leave the fieldwork to me?"

Oh, for Merlin’s sake, how much he hated that smirk on the smooth-talking bastard’s face.

"Of course," Roy flashed him a charming smile. "But tell me, Alastor—don’t you think that the simplest plans are the most effective?"

"That’s exactly why this plan is simple. We go in, we find out where they are, we get to them, and then we leave. And we wipe their memories. This time, you won’t stop me."

That smile again. Roy Mustang didn’t even bother to deny it. Which… in a way, was almost a form of courtesy. He wasn’t treating Alastor like some naive fool.

For a moment there was quiet in which Roy Mustang fixed his dark blue eyes on him - as if inside his could, contemplating.

“You are aware that we are not breaking into dark wizard hideout, right?” - he asked with suddenly serious tone. Auror straightened his back but he did not have time to say anything as Roy smiled again and continued as if nothing happened.

"Tell me something, though, Alastor—how do you plan to get around the security cameras?"

"That’s easy. They stop working when magic is nearby."

"Are you sure?" Roy challenged. "Muggle technology has advanced. And even if it does work that way—when all the cameras in a detention facility suddenly go out, don’t you think that might alert the guards?"

"We’ll ask the most important questions and leave before they show up," Alastor said confidently—though the moment the words left his mouth, he realized it was a lie. They had no idea how much the kidnappers actually knew, or if they were even connected to their werewolf case at all.

"What if…" Roy mused theatrically. "What if we approached this even more simply? Without shutting down cameras or using magic at all?"

"You’re suggesting we pretend to be Muggles again?" Alastor grimaced. Roy responded with laughter, which only made the older man scowl even harder. Not because he found the idea of blending in with Muggles offensive—but because that this damn Mustang was right again.

And he was right that it was not a dark wizard hideout. What was even more wondering as how could a harmless alchemy teacher and politician understand what experiences has clouded his right judgment.

"We could also pay them a visit, claiming we’re reporters once more” he grumbled.

The dark-haired man nodded in agreement.

This time, things went much more smoothly. Alastor let Mustang do the talking while he quietly cast subtle spells on the guards, nudging them toward cooperation. Not getting in each other’s way and utilizing their strengths in the most effective manner.

Almost like they were a team.

And Alastor had to—grudgingly—admit that if he had ever needed a partner, back when he was younger, back when he wasn’t so paranoid, this was exactly how he would have imagined their partnership.

He couldn’t believe he had even entertained such a thought about that slippery snake.

And yet, in the next moment, they were sitting side by side, with the two kidnappers placed in front of them. One of them had a massive bruise around his nose—already fading but still evident—a clear sign it had been broken and then reset.

“We already told you everything,” growled the one with the broken nose, scowling in their direction.

“But if you wire us some money, we’d be willing to give an interview. Maybe even pose for a few photos,” offered the other, who had apparently convinced his friend to agree to this meeting.

“Don’t count on it, criminals,” Alastor spat. At the same time, Roy sighed as both men turned to look at the old Auror, noticing the way his eye swiveled in a manner no human eye ever should. Quickly, Roy pulled his wand from his pocket and muttered a calming spell under his breath, preventing fear and anger from cutting their meeting short.

“We’re not reporters,” he assured them gently. “At least, not the kind who want to write about your little criminal enterprise. We’re more interested in… another aspect of this case. After all…” He hesitated, offering a small smile. “We heard you were found beaten up in your car. We came to learn more about what happened that night. Because, at the end of the day…” He paused, his smile lingering. “The person who attacked you committed assault. That is a crime, isn’t it?”

He smiled, though the words caught in his throat. Not just because he disagreed with them. But for some other reason. That same annoying voice that insisted he take this case seriously. That same voice that clenched his chest when he referred to London’s unknown defender as a ‘criminal.’

Still, he showed no sign of hesitation, and his words clearly appealed to the kidnappers.

“So you’re looking for that lunatic?”

“Exactly,” Alastor confirmed. The old Auror wasn’t one for deception or pretense, but he wasn’t stupid either. He instantly recognized that this line of questioning would be effective, so he adapted. “So tell us everything. From the beginning.”

“That guy was a demon,” said the man with the broken nose. “I swear, he set a trap for us. He waited until we got close, then jumped us. Before we even knew what was happening, he knocked us out cold, then dragged us into our own car. And when we woke up, he was just sitting there, eating our food like it was nothing.”

(Roy, for some reason, had to suppress a smile.)

“And then he started spewing nonsense, robbed us, and left! Like nothing even happened! Like it was just another day for him!”

“What did he look like?” Alastor asked. Roy decided to let him lead the conversation so the man wouldn’t feel excluded.

“Like a demon,” the man repeated. The words hung in the air for a moment.

“We thought he was just some homeless guy because he was sleeping on a bench in the park,” the second man eventually explained. “But when we got closer, we saw he was young. Had long blond hair. You know, the kind that’d sell for a decent price as a wig.”

Roy felt a sudden wave of anger roll through him. He hated people who exploited children for profit.   (*at the same time he felt itching in his nose)

“Did he have yellow eyes? And a red coat?” Alastor asked, almost urgently.

“I don’t know about the eyes…” the man started, but his friend cut him off.

“Yes! They were yellow—like the devil’s! It was like he could see in the dark. He moved so fast, so sure of himself.”

“You’re exaggerating,” his companion muttered. “But yeah. The kid… well, I think he was a kid. He looked about fourteen, but—” he hesitated, reconsidering. “No, he was older. Probably eighteen. But he had a real baby face. And he was really short.”

(Roy once again felt amusement bubbling up in his chest. This was getting concerning. Ever since the Quidditch World Cup, the emotions he had once controlled so masterfully had been slipping. He should ask Severus for a calming potion.)

“Did this Werewo— this boy look strange in any way? Was he overly hairy? Oddly proportioned? Huge teeth, maybe?”

“No…” The more talkative of the two squinted, thinking. “He had long hair, like I said, and he looked too young to have much facial hair.”

“How about… did he try to bite you?” Alastor mused.

“No.”

“No. He just preferred to beat the hell out of us. Broke my nose, then toyed with it. Like a sadist! He even smiled at me like he was about to bite me!”

“Maybe the weirdest part was that he was immune to the taser. I shot him with it, and he just punched me like it was nothing. And his arm… now that I think about it, it felt like a damn rock. One hit dislocated my shoulder and bruised the bone. The doctors just let me stop wearing the sling yesterday.”

Roy caught Alastor’s glass eye and gave him a small nod. The answers seemed to throw the Auror off. From the start, Alastor had been skeptical of this lead, and now he was likely wondering if they were simply chasing someone who happened to resemble their mystery fighter.

But Roy didn’t share that doubt. With every word, he became more certain—they were on the right track.

“You mentioned he said strange things,” Roy leaned forward slightly. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

To the wizards’ surprise, one of the kidnappers laughed.

“You’re gonna think we’re crazy. But I swear, everything I say is true. That guy was the crazy one, alright?”

Roy gave a slow nod, and the kidnapper continued his story.

 “I swear, I’m not even sure if I can repeat it. I was still dazed and confused by everything, but he was asking about crazy stuff. Like flying people and brooms. Like witches! Or about… ‘BANG-ing’ ourselves? I have no idea what he meant.”

“When he was fighting us, he was shouting something about serial killers, fugitives, and… I think… chicken breeders?” added the other one, whose face hadn’t suffered as much damage.

“Yeah. And something about pacifists. And then, when he dragged us into the car, and Henry was unconscious, he started asking where we were. And if we knew where… I can’t remember the name, but I think it was Amestris?”

“You mean America?” Alastor asked, focusing on the speaker, which made him miss the painful grimace on Mustang’s face as a sudden wave of white-hot pain shot through his head.

“No. That’s what I thought at first, too, but he kept insisting on some ‘Ametitis.’”

“Do you know that place?” Moody turned to Mustang, who forced a smile onto his face.

“Unfortunately.” He said it while tasting something strange on his tongue, something that seemed to blend with the slowly fading headache.

A headache that made it impossible for him to fully concentrate on the rest of the conversation, which he left to Alastor. In the end, the old Auror still asked where exactly they had encountered this so-called ‘vigilante’ and where the fight had taken place.

When they finally left, Roy took a deep breath.

“So it really is our werewolf,” Alastor muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets, where he clenched his wand tightly.

The dark-haired man smiled.

“Yes, it was an excellent lead. And your conversation with them helped us immensely. That was a brilliant idea, Alastor,” he said, as if it hadn’t been his own idea, as if he hadn’t been the one to suggest it to the Auror. As if all the credit for this success truly belonged to Alastor.

And the worst part was that he said it with such conviction that even Alastor almost believed him.

Roy Mustang truly was a politician to his core. One of the best. Which made him one of the most dangerous.

And that’s exactly what Alastor told him.

“You’re dangerous, Mustang. But not to me. I’m not one of those power-blinded fools. So don’t think that kissing my ass will impress me in any way. You might as well drop the act.”

To his astonishment, Roy Mustang actually did.

“I Apologies. It’s a reflex,” he said in such a normal tone that Alastor barely recognized it. Gone was the sly smirk, the false servility, the smug confidence. It was the voice of an ordinary man, sounding just a little too tired for his apparent age.

Alastor Moody was considered the greatest Auror. He knew many things, and very little surprised him.

But now, he was at a loss for words.

“Bold of you to speak that way,” he finally muttered. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell someone?”

Mustang slipped his hands into his pockets in a casual, almost careless gesture—something Alastor would have never expected from him.

Then he gave him his usual smile, but in the context of everything else, it almost looked mocking.

“Tell them what, Alastor? That I’m two-faced, deceitful, and a slippery snake? You already say that, and no one believes you. So why would they start now?”

“You knew,” the Auror murmured, slightly surprised.

“Oh, please. If you don’t want me to treat you like the rest of the idiots, do me a favor and don’t treat me like one.”

Alastor almost nodded in agreement despite himself.

“So you just decided there was no point in pretending in front of me because I don’t pose a threat to you?” he asked, clenching his teeth slightly and trying to loosen his still-too-tight grip on his wand.

“No.” Roy didn’t even bother denying it. “You’re not a threat. Not to me, and not in the Ministry.”

“Of course not. You’ve kissed so many asses that you have connections at the highest levels. Don’t fool yourself into thinking I’m afraid of them. Or of you.”

To his surprise, Roy actually laughed.

“I can’t deny that, Alastor. But… that’s not why I’m telling you this. I wanted to show you trust, because that’s the only way I could expect the same in return.”

Roy Mustang stopped and turned to face him. Though his hands remained in his pockets, he suddenly looked far more serious.

“Because, as you so eloquently put it, to be someone and to achieve something in the Ministry, you need people to support you. Like those whose asses I’ve so graciously kissed. But that practice will never take me higher than the people whose asses I kiss.”

“What…?” Alastor hesitated. “What are you trying to say?”

Roy Mustang smiled.

“You’re a smart man, Alastor. You know exactly what I mean.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other before Roy shrugged.

“You don’t have to answer now. You know that we- two-faced snakes -are patient. But I do hope that, whatever your decision might be, this conversation would stay between us.”

Alastor stood there for a moment longer before he limped toward the park the kidnappers had mentioned.

He knew exactly what had just happened.

Roy Mustang had just declared that he intended to rise higher than the people he had been serving and flattering.

Higher than the highest officials in the Ministry.

Higher than Cornelius Knot himself.

Roy Mustang had just revealed that he planned to apply for position of Minister of Magic.

And that he was asking for Alastor’s support.

[1] - so… i heard about Rivalization between oxford and Cambridge and I wanted to make a joke about this. This was via Williams perspective of course not mine. I respect both of these universities ;)

[2] - i am not sure how it actually looked like in England in 90’ when it comes to coffee (probably not like this) I have decided to go with the stereotype of English people drinking tea, because I want to use this later :) And because I consider this funny and this is fiction work, so sorry if anyone felt offended :)

[3] we should NOT drink before driving car but there are (probably I did not check British law from 40 years ago) margins of how many permilles you can have and one bear is not too much I guess.

Chapter Text

Alastor and Roy reached the park at sunset.

It was a small area with grass and flowerbeds along a gravel path circling a small artificial pond, where ducks swam lazily. A few benches stood by the path, and behind them grew trees—probably meant to provide some intimacy, away from the city’s hustle. But there were too few of them, and the city was far too big for it to work.

“This is where the kidnappers’ car stood,” Alastor muttered, staring at a photo from a Muggle newspaper. It was the first thing he’d said since leaving the holding cell. Roy didn’t seem to mind his silence, strolling with a relaxed smile.

Still, Alastor wasn’t considered the best auror for nothing. He’d spent his life tracking Death Eaters and knew all the snakes’ tricks. He’d been watching Roy since the very beginning. He was one of the first to realize just how dangerous the unknown man truly was.

That’s why his sharp eye didn’t miss the slightly unnatural stiffness in Roy’s shoulders or the faint tension at the corners of his eyes. He was nervous. Rightfully so. He’d just shared his darkest, most ambitious plans with him. A man who never hid his hatred and disapproval toward that fake man.

And yet, here Alastor was. Silent. As if considering Mustang’s offer.

As if he was really thinking about helping him climb to the top of the magical world.

As if he was going to support the smug, slimy snake in his quest for power. The heir of Slytherin. Lubricous and cunning. Ambitious enough to aim for the top. Unafraid to break every rule of the wizarding world.

Like reaching for despised Muggle newspapers in search of information.

So self confident, that he laughed at those who took pride in their family’s accomplishments, not in themselves.

Unafraid to distance himself from the other corrupt officials in order to build a new government—one that, judging by the fact he asked Alastor for help, would have nothing to do with hundred-year-old traditions. With nepotism and corruption.

Alastor shook his head and growled under his breath. He didn’t know why, but the insults in his mind didn’t sound quite as bad.

They definitely shouldn’t sound that tempting.

“Probably there is on of these benches, like they mentioned,” Roy Mustang’s voice snapped Alastor out of his thoughts. But not back into reality—no. The old auror was always alert and aware of his surroundings. But his mind tended to wander sometimes.

They approached the first bench, scanning the ground and the surrounding shrubbery.

“I don’t see any claw marks,” Alastor muttered.

“Nor shreds of fabric,” Roy agreed. “Even when a werewolf fights the full moon with Wolfsbane Potion, getting attacked should still trigger some loss of control. Not to mention the pain of transformation. The potion soothes and dulls the senses. There's no sign of anything like that here.”

“You sound awfully sure for someone who’s not supposed to know much about werewolves,” Alastor noted, a touch hostile.

“Of course I do,” Roy smiled faintly. “I spoke with Remus Lupin to better understand the situation. He said young werewolves especially suffer during full moons, which is why it mattered to him that we find this one and offer support.”

Another one of Mustang’s flaws—being so ambitious he’d overcome fear and prejudice toward the cursed-blooded, just to get information and succeed.

Moody hated how much these insults sounded like a compliment.

He also hated that he had done the exact same thing. He’d contacted the former DADA teacher to prepare better for the investigation. And even if their motivations had been different, the result was the same. Just like the conclusion about the Muggle newspapers and magazines.

“What do you think about that kid?” Roy asked unexpectedly.

Alastor hesitated for a moment.

“How do you even know he’s a kid? We can’t be sure,” he countered, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Roy just shrugged.

“Almost everyone agrees he’s young—and short,” he added with a smirk, clearly amused by that fact for some reason.

“Everyone also agrees he beat a group of Death Eaters and has been evading all Ministry squads—and likely Death Eaters too—for ten days. You really think a kid could pull that off?”

“Why not? There are twelve-year-olds who’ve done even more.”

Alastor paused, frowning at the oddly specific age. Roy taught at the school. It made sense he’d appreciate kids’ cleverness. But they started school at ten.

And suddenly, he realized.

“You mean what Harry Potter did? Killing the basilisk?”

Only because his magical eye was still fixed on Mustang’s face did he catch the man blink, looking momentarily confused.

“I… I think so,” he muttered—and for some reason, it sounded more like a question.

Then again, what else could he be talking about? What other miraculous twelve-year-old?

“And you? What do you think?” Roy asked, obviously changing the subject. Alastor let him, turning to the next bench. With his magical prosthetic, he could still see Roy shook his head and rose his fingers to his temple, rubbing it like he was trying to chase off a sudden headache.

“I’m willing to believe he’s a teenager. Not fourteen. Maybe seventeen? Barely an adult. Nineteen, tops, considering his combat experience.”

“And you think someone that young could pull all this off? Fight an entire squad, escape the Ministry, then stay hidden?”

“If you’d asked me a week ago, I’d have said no,” Alastor laughed dryly. “But yes. I do. Such a person would need to be experienced in combat—or at least trained by someone who was. Likely an auror. He attacked from within, limiting their ability to cast spells. Didn’t waste energy grappling but knew how to fight. Contrary to what you might think, Mustang, not many of your types- people living in peace -  can knock someone out in one or two hits. He’s smart enough to use the surroundings to his advantage. But too reckless to be an adult. He charged the Death Eaters head-on. After beating them, he didn’t take their wands—just kept running. Dove straight into their midst without backup. Saved the family but didn’t cushion their fall. Then tried to attack Mr. Crouch.

If you ask me, Mustang, we’re looking for a barely-adult kid with combat experience. Probably gave his parents trouble, got into fights, maybe even had ties to gangs. He’ll be impulsive, hot-headed, and probably loud and explosive. With his looks, he’ll attract attention—even when he doesn’t want to.”

Roy nodded. He thought the same—and it was good to hear it confirmed, along with the reasoning. Because he just felt these things. He seemed to knew them, even though he obviously didn’t know the person.

Sometimes, he thought he was losing his mind.

Sometimes, even less often, he theorized that maybe, in his previous life before the amnesia, he had known a similar person—or perhaps even the same one they were looking for. But that knowledge was just his mind drawing conclusions without him even realizing all that reasoning he did.

His headache eased slightly.

"And what do you think about the fact that he fought without a wand?" he asked Moody.

Alastor didn’t respond for a moment, peering at him from under narrowed lids.

He was hesitating. And if Roy was right, and the man was about to confirm his rest of his suspicions, maybe he truly wasn’t mad? Or maybe that was really his subcontinua memories rom before his amnesia. And so, maybe some barely grown boy really was connected to the fire, blood, and violence Roy dreamt of at night?

“You might think I’ve gone mad, Mustang, but I think the one we’re looking for is a Squib. Or not even a Squib—a Muggle turned into a werewolf who somehow slipped through our registry."

Roy, despite himself, felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Funny," he muttered, still scanning for traces. He didn’t need to turn around to know Alastor’s magical eye was drilling into him. He let his silence turn into a dramatic pause. "Because, you see, Alastor, I came to a similar conclusion."

The old Auror unexpectedly laughed.

"They already call me mad, Mustang. What’s your excuse?"

Roy shrugged and allowed himself a faint smile.

"Madness, Alastor, is the engine of progress. Just like self-driving machines, flying chunks of steel carrying people, and the idea of turning lead into gold were once considered madness."

"I might be wrong, as you’re alchemist, but that last one’s still not been achieved," Alastor scoffed, refocusing on the path and search for traces.

Which was precisely why he missed the fleeting expression of confusion when Roy realized that indeed, alchemy as an art couldn’t achieve such a transformation. Even if his headache and the pressure in his chest insisted it wasn’t impossible—just illegal, due to inflation.

The rest of their search passed in silence. It wasn’t a pleasant silence. There was no friendship between them, only a grudging cooperation, rooted in years of prejudice and stifled by numerous secrets each man carried, as well as the weight of the mystery Roy had so casually dropped. And yet the discomfort of the silence stemmed less from their past and more from the fact that with each bench they passed, they moved farther from the spot where the kidnappers had been found—and still had found nothing.

They returned to the starting point, standing before the gate leading into the park.

Alastor rubbed his forehead in frustrated sight.

"A dead end. Bloody hell. After talking to those bastards, I was almost sure it was our fighter. Although..." his magical eye spun, stopping just a second longer to notice Mustang staring blankly at the park’s name plaque. "Although maybe we’re making a mistake, and he’s not a werewolf at all? As we have already stated. That would make a bit less sense when it comes to the lack of a wand, but it would explain why he’s not in the registry. And also why there are no traces of a transformation."

Silence answered him.

Alastor sighed.

"I know it sounds mad, but Mustang, this guy already showed madness by taking on Death Eaters alone, so why the hell not? Why couldn’t a Squib train in combat? Any logically thinking person knows that physical attack is a weak point for nearly every wizard. Come on, Mustang. Don’t tell me that thought hasn’t crossed your mind."

Roy Mustang flinched. His shoulders relaxed, and his slightly hunched posture straightened as he turned and gave Alastor a confident, disgustingly slick grin.

"You’re right, Alastor. Apparently, our boy isn’t a werewolf. But let me add something more. I am pretty certain he’s not a Squib either. I don’t know how, but he’s a Muggle. A regular Muggle who somehow ended up at the stadium. And you’re wrong to doubt the lead. We’re in the right place."

Alastor felt a shaky laugh bubble up in his chest. And to think he believed he was the one who sounded insane just now.

Though he must’ve been mad, because instead of pointing out Mustang’s idiocy, he asked:
"And how can you know that?"

Roy Mustang smiled that slimy smile again and gestured for him to come closer. Against his better judgment, the Auror obeyed. Mustang pointed to the fence—the spot he had just been staring at so dispassionately. Turned out his interest was focused on a copper plaque:

“Queen Victoria name Library Park”

Alastor shot Mustang a skeptical look.

"And what about it?"

The dark-haired man gave a dramatic smile and pointed left, where an enormous building was emerging from between the trees.

"A public library. A Muggle one. Our boy was here, looking for information. Probably fell asleep on a bench. Unless he’s homeless."

And as insane as it sounded—it made sense.

The young adult was just a Muggle who had accidentally found himself at a heavily guarded Quidditch World Cup, seamlessly blending into the crowd, and then—at the sound of a riot—instead of fleeing, he threw himself at unknown wizards. After escaping, he went looking for information, and on the way, he happened to encounter the wanted London kidnappers—whom he also defeated.

Alastor knew many called him mad.

He laughed.

"You’re Crazy, Mustang. Crazier than I thought."

A shadow of doubt flickered across Roy’s face. Alastor didn’t know whether it was doubt in himself or in him—Mustang clearly hoped to find some support in Alastor. But he didn’t have time to dwell on that, because Mustang continued:

"But So are you. So come on, let’s find our werewolf."

There weren’t many people in the library. They asked the staff at the entrance if they saw anyone like who they were looking for, who unhelpfully stated that hundreds of people passed through every day, each stranger than the next.

 Then they headed to the section on legends and general fiction, where they would have started gathering information about wizarding world, and where none of the employees were of any use. Same with the culture section, the fantasy novels section, and the children’s stories. In a moment of desperation, they even checked the young adult and adult fiction sections, as well as crime novels, horror, and action books—figuring that if the boy could fight, maybe he liked that kind of subject matter.

Ultimately, they were left with only the science section.

"Excuse me, have you seen a young blond boy with yellow eyes? Probably wearing a red coat?" Roy asked a visibly tired librarian.

The man raised his life-weary gaze at them, then pondered a moment.

"Think I might have. Fourteen, fifteen years old? Short?"

"Oh," Alastor sighed. "Sorry, must be a mistake."

"Yeah, that’s him," said Mustang at the same time. The librarian didn’t seem even remotely interested enough to be surprised.

"Yes. One came in about a week ago. Asked where he could find more about quarks."

"Do you know where he is now?" Mustang pressed.

The librarian slowly shook his head, then added that he thought the boy, upon leaving, had asked about opening hours—specifically for the shift when Jenny would be there.

Apparently, said Jenny wouldn’t be at work until tomorrow morning, so Roy and Alastor politely thanked him and headed for the exit.

When they were back in the open air, Alastor appeared to be staring straight ahead, all while letting his magical eye—which usually scanned the entire area, never letting its guard down—focus solely on Roy Mustang.

“They said the boy looked about fourteen. He can’t be that young and have that much experience. I told you—nineteen. At least seventeen.”

“He probably just looks young… or small,” Roy Mustang muttered, smiling faintly. The kind of smile that didn’t carry the full shrewdness of a snake, and Alastor suspected it was because the man wasn’t even aware of the fact he was smiling. “Because what are the odds that, just a day after the riot, a suspicious blond kid in a strange red coat shows up here? We’re among Muggles. Fashion is seen a little differently here.”

“How did you know? That he’d be in the library? And how can you be so sure it’s him?” Alastor pressed, staring intently at the man’s face, trying to take advantage of the fact that Roy clearly had no idea he was being watched, having let his ‘snake-like’ mask slip.

And only because he was watching so closely, Alastor caught that flicker of confusion in his eyes.

Like he didn’t know the answer himself.

Alastor had seen that kind of disorientation before. He’d experienced it himself more than once. Which is why he knew Roy Mustang’s answer before the man even opened his mouth.

“Gut feeling,” Roy Mustang said.

When Peter Trevor informed his students that today’s lecture—on the guest topic of quantum theory—would be delivered by a different professor, the room filled with whispers and murmurs of discontent. No surprise, since Trevor was one of the most well-known specialists in molecular physics.

Luckily (though it did sting his pride), the discontent vanished the moment he announced William Brown.

The man began the lecture with—Peter noted—an unusually high level of enthusiasm for him.

He talked about equations, about force relations and interactions, scribbling some things on the board and even sharing a scientific anecdote at one point. And then, his timer beeped, signaling that sixty minutes had passed. William needed just three more minutes to wrap up the topic, and then—to everyone’s surprise—stepped down from the podium.

And to everyone’s even greater surprise, a blond fourteen/fifteen-year-old stepped up, piercing them with golden eyes and smiling.

“So, my name’s Edward, and I made a bet with these two old fellas that I could teach the class better than Will.”

Whispers broke out immediately, and one of the students—someone Peter particularly disliked, as the kid was constantly trying to prove he was better than everyone else—even stood up and asked if this was some kind of joke.

Edward assured him it wasn’t a joke but a bet, and that was about to win five hundred pounds. Then he added that if the kid was questioning his professors’ judgment on who should teach the class, he was welcome to come up and explain the nuances of quantum theory himself.
That caused the student face turn red—and a wave of quiet laughter from the others. Edward stared down on his audience, scanning the room with his golden eyes.
And then there was silence—much deeper than the kind Peter would’ve expected if he himself had stepped in to say Edward was a specialist despite his young age.

It crossed his mind that the boy already had some experience in commanding respect from people who, age-wise, should’ve outranked him. In other words, he realized the kid was used to being seen as an authority, and who this authority deserved.

“So then…” Edward began. “As you know, atoms are made up of protons, neutrons, and electrons. And as you’ve probably already heard from Will, even those are made up of quanta. Each one contains three quarks. With different charges, which together sum create the charge of the molecule. And what’s strange—each of those is a particle of pure energy with no mass, and yet the element they form does have mass.”

And then he launched into his lecture. About how each quark has its own spin and angular momentum. That, of course, since there are three, their charge is either 1/3 or 2/3. That quarks’re kind of like children spinning in a circle. One child spinning on its own won’t do much or draw any attention, but if a bunch of them gather, laughing and spinning together, they suddenly become something their mom—and the neighbors—start paying attention to. In this case, the entire universe.

He made odd comparisons to springs and planets orbiting each other. Twice he even considered bringing up historical alchemy, but stopped mid-sentence with laughter.

Only once Ed he got carried away, muttering more complicated theories, only to snap out of this when otherwise quiet students asked him what was an “array”

Overall, it felt more like a storybook than a lecture.

And Peter Trevor only near the very end has realized that those silly, childish metaphors actually made sense. More sense than a string of scientific jargon that usually had to be explained by more jargon. Somewhere in that lecture—about bouncy balls, spirals, and spinning kids—Edward had smuggled in a condensed understanding of the smallest particles known to man.

In a way that could be grasped by both a 10-year-old… and a physics professor at the world’s top university.

At the end, they’d prepared a short quiz for the students. Ten questions—five based on Edward’s part and five on William’s too see who performed better. They didn’t even need to grade it. As soon as the students started writing, William got up and silently placed five hundred pounds in front of Edward.

And Edward, instead of just accepting the money quietly, grinned from ear to ear.

“Told you I teach better than you! I explained molecular interactions and bondings to my brother when he was four! And I was five then. Hey, students!” he called out to the writing class, beaming. “Looks like I can afford an awesome dinner now, thanks to you!”

That’s when it really hit Peter Trevor—just how young the kid was. Not just physically—that had been obvious from the start—but as a person. A brilliant sixteen-year-old mind who probably took the bet not for the sake of polite academic competition… but as a game. A challenge.

After the lecture, they were showered with thanks from the students, who had so many questions for Edward that the men had to pull him away.

Then, as promised, they went out to dinner, talking about everyday things, but also quantum physics and new theories—of which Edward had no shortage.

When the boy excused himself to use the restroom, Peter smiled at William.

“Since I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you this… engaged. Not just in the lecture—but in science, period.”

William wanted to deny it. Say that physics had always been his life’s work, that he couldn’t imagine a world without it.

But he fell silent.

Because he realized he’d forgotten about his old burning passion… and couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had this much fun.

Roy Mustang usually showed up to meetings fashionably late. He’d walk in, making sure every eye in the room turned toward him, and then casually drop some offhand comment or light statement.

That’s why Alastor Moody was so taken aback when he arrived at the agreed-upon place five minutes early and saw Roy already sitting there.

The man smiled at him and greeted him with a slight raise of the styrofoam cup he was holding—one that had a printed logo of the Muggle company SO Coffee.

“Coffee?” Alastor couldn’t help but comment. Coffee certainly wasn’t common among British wizards. Especially not the ones who prided themselves on centuries-old family traditions. So definitely not among the pure-bloods.

Roy Mustang only responded with that charming smile of his—the kind that made Moody feel want to puke.

“A way to start the day right. Good morning to you too, Alastor. Ready to wrap this up?”

“You can’t be that sure of it.”

“Today’s the last day of summer break. Tomorrow at noon, the Hogwarts Express leaves. Besides, it’s not like our warrior can stay hidden forever. And how much more complicated can it be?

“I never pegged you for an optimist.”

“It’s the coffee. And also, I might or might not have spent last night prepping for this meeting, and sleep deprivation may or may not be messing with my grasp on reality. The Ministry’s got a meeting at noon, so we don’t have a lot of time.”

“A meeting?” Moody grimaced. Most things at the Ministry were still revolving around Death Eaters and the Quidditch Tournament, and no one had informed him of any gathering with this regard.

Roy Mustang rose from the bench with the grace of someone who knew exactly how to move to leave an impression.

And as disgustingly slick as that was, watching it made a shiver run down Moody’s spine. Not just because Roy moved with that same grace when he was charming ministers—and women—but because once upon a time, young Alastor Moody used to move that same way when trying to impress a woman.

It was the way of moving of someone who knew their own body. And you know your body through training.

Roy Mustang had trained long enough to move like a warrior.

“Meeting of the Department of Magical Artifacts,” Mustang continued, seemingly unaware of Alastor’s thoughts. Or maybe very much aware—judging by that faint smirk. Alastor really hated snakes. Especially this one.

“Didn’t take you for the type who’d take interest in this matter. Especially for a subject as looked down upon as that.”

He realized he shouldn’t have said it a second too late—right as Mustang gave him that smile again. Lazily. Like a predator.

“I see you’re not as ignorant as you like others to believe, Alastor.”

When Alastor didn’t reply, Roy shrugged.

“You’re right. But I wanted to bring up the idea of electronics and their potential adaptation to the wizarding world. I was hoping to push for budget approval to study the interaction between magic and technology, and how much magic actually limits electronics. It’s highest time we started raising public awareness about what’s possible in the outside world. Because it’s painfully clear we’re falling behind—faster and faster each year.”

Jenny was sitting at her desk, reading a book from the fiction section, when out of the corner of her eye she noticed two figures entering the science section. She ignored them at first, but when they started heading her way, she reluctantly slipped in a bookmark and looked up.

The first thing that caught her eye was the bizarre look of the shorter man—his eye looked freakishly unnatural, especially within the huge monocle. But despite the weirdness, she didn’t pay him much attention—because the taller man had already drawn her gaze. Tall, elegant, dark-haired, and incredibly handsome. Their eyes met, and she couldn’t help but pause for a moment in admiration of how intense they were. And then the man smiled at her.

“Good day, gentlemen. Welcome to the National Library. May I help you with anything?”

The man’s smile widened slightly, and while she remained fixated on his eyes, she didn’t notice how the weird eye of the other man was rolling—its iris vanishing into the right corner, only to reappear in the left, like it hadn’t just rolled up, but all the way around.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble a lady as lovely as you. But I do indeed have a question. Would the lady be willing to spare me a moment?”

Jenny smiled at him.

“That’s my job. Are you looking for a book? Doing some research?”

“That too. But there’s another matter on my mind right now. You see, my nephew has been disappearing from home lately, and my dear sister is terribly worried. He often gets into trouble, and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to him while I hadn’t done everything I could.”

And again—if Jenny had been watching—she might’ve noticed the weird eye rolling once more. But her focus was entirely on the tall man’s mouth and eyes, which, she realized, weren’t black or even dark brown—but had a mesmerizing, stormy shade of blue.

“London’s not safe,” he went on. “Just a week ago, they caught a ring of serial kidnappers, and we know that network’s bigger than it seems. You understand, don’t you?”

Jenny nodded.

“Of course. It’s wonderful you care so much for your nephew.”

“I can’t imagine otherwise. Family is everything,” the man replied seriously. And despite herself, Jenny glanced down—hoping to discreetly check if he was wearing a ring. Nothing. She looked back up, proud of how subtle she’d been—he didn’t seem to notice a thing. (Meanwhile, the strange man’s eye rolled up again.)

“Of Course. So how can I help you?” she asked. He looked at her with a warm smile and a glint of worry behind his gratitude.

“I heard my cousin showed up here about a week ago. Short, relatively young. Blond hair, usually tied in a braid. Probably wearing a red coat.”

Ah.

Something must’ve flickered across her face, because the man’s eyes seemed to light up.

“You remember him?” he asked, hopeful.

“Yes…” Jenny sighed, wondering how such a composed man could be related to that loud, uncivil kid.

And under the guidance of his gentle questions, she began her tale. About how the boy had come in on Tuesday, stayed the entire day until she had to ask him to leave. How he’d returned first thing in the morning, completely ignoring the police and investigation team outside.

Here she veered off, recounting what had happened exactly a week ago. About the police, the kidnappers, and all the rumors she’d heard. Once or twice, the weird man interrupted, which mildly irritated her—but the soft tone of the dark-haired one—“Call me Roy, miss”—pulled her attention right back to him.

And then she returned to reporting about that outrageous moment, when the boy had started screaming at the top of his lungs about gravity and accusing  an Oxford professor.

"That's completely ridiculous," he laughed lightly. "What could a kid like that possibly know?"

Something flickered in Roy’s eyes. A mix of irritation and tenderness, quickly swept away, but undeniably there.

"As you said, miss. He is just a kid. So, do you happen to know where he might be? Maybe he's still hiding somewhere around here?" He looked around, as if expecting to catch a glimpse of him.

"I suspect where he might have gone. You see, Roy, after he started shouting and after I scolded him—because you can't let children do whatever they want—" she smiled faintly as he nodded in agreement, "he asked where that professor was. If I remember correctly, his name was William Brown. Of course, in Oxford. He has lectures on Wednesdays. And it was Wednesday then. So the boy just asked how to get there and ran off. He didn’t even put his books away."

"I’m really sorry." Roy sighed, then looked at her with a spark of hope. "Could you tell me where I can find William Brown then?"

She gave them the address. Told them the man had a lecture tomorrow from 12 to 3 a.m. And then, just as they were saying goodbye, she called out after Roy and quickly scribbled her phone number on a scrap of paper.

"Could you call me? Just to…" she blushed slightly, "just to let me know if you found him. Because I’ll be worried."

Roy smiled at her and promised he’d call.

As they walked away, she suddenly remembered something else.

"Oh! When your nephew ran out, he mentioned he was looking for someone. That someone had…" she hesitated, digging into her memory. Only one detail came back to her. "…apparently, they had a stupid and annoying smile. I hope that helps."

Despite the obvious confusion, Roy smiled at her and gave a small bow.

"Thank you for your help. It was nice meeting you, Jenny."

Alastor had to be given credit—he held his tongue until they were out of the library.

"You're disgusting," he muttered.

Roy Mustang smiled at him.

"I think Jenny would call me charming."

"You're going to call her too?"

"Perhaps," he shrugged. "But you should know—I haven’t called any of the four women whose numbers I’ve had in my pocket since this week." Roy said it calmly. "But today I’ll make an exception for Jenny. I’ll let her know my nephew is safe, then hang up."

Alastor gave him a long, judgmental look, his magical eye lingering a bit longer than necessary before he snorted and said nothing.

That was the end of that conversation, for now. They found a phone booth, and Roy used it to call the Oxford number. Roy Mustang did not like using phone booths. Every time he stepped into one, he felt a strange tightness in his chest. A voice in his head whispered things he couldn’t clearly hear, and he always had the urge to look around—to make sure… though he wasn’t quite sure of what.

At first, he blamed the suffocating feeling and shortness of breath on claustrophobia, but he ruled that out after several encounters with Hogwarts’ closets and nattow corridors.

The call was redirected to the molecular physics department, where a polite man answered and informed him that Professor Brown wasn’t in the lab today, but would be there tomorrow for his lecture. Roy asked if there was any way to contact him sooner, but the man politely declined, saying Brown should be at work by eight the next morning.

Mustang thanked him, hung up, and turned to Alastor, relaying everything.

"So I guess we’re heading back to the Ministry," the Auror grumbled. Roy nodded.

They walked in silence for several minutes, broken only by a brief stop at a bakery, where Roy bought two sandwiches and handed one to Alastor without a word.

And Alastor accepted it without a word.

Neither of them suggested Apparition. Or creating a Portkey. Or finding a nearby Floo connection. Or calling a taxi, like respectable officials would. They just walked.

"So…" Alastor started, tossing his sandwich wrapper into a trash bin. "Muggle inventions. What else?" He asked, almost despite of himself.

Roy Mustang gave him a long look.

"Is that your answer?"

Moody’s mouth snapped shut.

He didn’t need to ask what question that was supposed to answer on. Technically, there hadn’t even been a question. And yet yesterday's conversation kept him up at night.

He shook his head and snorted.

"Of course not," he said, then grimaced, realizing it sounded more like it wasn’t an answer yet, instead of "no" being the answer.

"I don’t trust snakes. I don’t work with them," he said. "I’m asking only because you need to know your enemy. Know who you're fighting against. That’s why I need to know your ambitions, Mustang. So I can counter them. So I’m asking to find out. I need information about you—and time to form a plan against you."

"So, tomorrow then?" Mustang asked, completely unfazed by how Alastor’s reply had sounded. A faint shadow of a smile danced at the corner of his lips before he suppressed it. And the fact that he suppressed it—that made Alastor even angrier. The man pretended to care about being turned down, while speaking with the kind of certainty that implied he’d already accepted yesterday offer.

"In such a hurry to have me wipe the floor with your face and drag your ego down to earth?"

Roy Mustang just laughed.

"I’m afraid you’re too short to reach even the bottom of my ego."

"Excuse me?" Alastor blinked, completely thrown off by the answer. That was not the kind of thing he expected from someone trying to recruit him to such serious plan.

Roy, even more strangely, blinked in confusion as well, as if he himself didn’t know where those words had come from, then shrugged.

"I want to bring magic into Muggle medicine."

"A bold move," Alastor muttered. "But the Statute of Secrecy will get in your way."

"It will. But it’s the Statute of Secrecy, not a Statute of Noninvolvement," Roy said. "I think there are ways. Even just spreading potions as ordinary medicines. Starting a cover company."
"Besides, I want to reform the military. I mean, the Defense Forces. Aurors aren’t enough."

"Brave words to say in front of me."

"Exactly because stating in front of you I don’t hesitate to say them. The war with the Dark Lord showed the system’s inefficiency—and nothing’s changed ever since. Someone like him could rise again and bring the same chaos. If not worse. We need a clear structure. A chain of command. Fewer pointless meetings. A proper intelligence network. Better and more efficient use of resources. Things like enchanted armors, portraits, or… firearms."

There was a silence louder than any other they had shared so far.

"You want to start a war?" Alastor asked cautiously.

He wasn’t expecting the haunted glint that flickered in Mustang’s dark eyes, or the sudden loss of focus in his gaze, as if he were staring at something far away—anywhere but the streets of London.

"Never in my life," said Mustang. That slick snake, that liar and politician—

Alastor Moody believed him.

"Who were you before?" he asked quietly.

For a moment, Roy didn’t answer. Then his gaze sharpened again and settled on him before shifting forward.

"I don’t know," he admitted with a shrug. "But I don’t think it matters. What matters is who I am now. Who I will become. And who you will be." He looked at him meaningfully.

Alastor didn’t answer for a long moment.

"Give me some time."

"Tomorrow the school year begins, Alastor. You’re a respected Auror, someone whose experience I value. But we both know you’re not the kind of man who sits and thinks. You’re the kind or man who acts. You’ve already made your decision."

It wasn’t a question.

Alastor didn’t reply.

He didn’t reply when they reached the magical phone booth, or when they stepped inside, or even when they were asked to show their wands while entering the Ministry. It was only after they passed through the gates that Roy spoke again.

"So, see you tomorrow?"

Neither of them pretended this was a polite farewell—it was a question about that elephant ganging in thick silence between them.

Alastor swallowed the lump in his throat, then frowned with determination and nodded.

Roy gave him one of his smiles.

"Then until tomorrow. I’ll check which Floo fireplace is closest to the university and send you an owl."

Moody nodded.

"Good luck with your meeting."

Roy Mustang smiled.

Alastor took a deep breath. He hated snakes. Their smiles were nothing but stretched jaws, ready to swallow prey. And the fact that Roy Mustang’s smile seemed friendly to him only reminded him just how dangerous the man really was.

Edward Elric smiled once more and allowed Mrs. Brown to hug him.

"Let us know if you find your Mustang," she asked gently.

"Call us this evening. I don’t know where this Hogwarts is, but even if it’s an international call, let us know you're alright." - Said William.

"And if it turns out your Mustang isn’t there, don’t hesitate to come back," the woman added. "William seemed to come alive with you around."

"There, there, darling," her husband muttered with some embarrassment, then looked at Edward as well. "But seriously if thinks did not went as you hope to, don’t hesitate to return. Zolf Kimbley is still searching for Roy on his end."

"Don’t worry," Ed smiled lightly. "I’ll find that bastard."

"You wouldn’t be imposing," Mrs. Brown assured him, clearly picking up on the hesitation Edward tried to hide.

"Besides, Peter asked me if you were my assistant—and when I told him no, he immediately offered you a job. Not that I’d recommend you take it—I’d pay you twice as much."

Ed chuckled.

"Thanks, but instead of job hunting, I’d rather focus on finding Mustang so I can finally retire."

He chuckled again, and they joined him. Edward had said a few odd things like “service” or “retirement” before, and the couple had chalked it up to some strange private joke. Because surely he hadn’t really meant “barking like the general’s dog” or “punching God in the face.”

The boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver pocket watch.

"I really need to go. And so do you. Thank you again for agreeing to drop me off."

"Nonsense," William laughed. "I’ve got a lecture in two hours. Besides, no one cares if I don’t show up to the office right away. It’s not like I’ve got meetings or anything."

They said their goodbyes one last time, exchanged hugs and promises that Edward would call or at least write.

And then, it was really time to go. William and his wife to their car back to Oxford, and Edward to platform nine and three-quarters.

Which, of course, didn’t exist.

He asked a kind but thoroughly uninterested lady at the ticket booth where he should wait for the train. She responded with a tone that suggested it wasn’t even the strangest question she’d heard today, let alone in her career.

"Sorry, lad, that train doesn’t exist." "If you like, I can sell you a ticket. Where would you like to go?"

So Edward turned away, gripping his now-crumpled ticket, and headed to the tracks to search for something that wasn’t there.

There was platform 9. And 10.

But there were also pillars marked ¼, 2/4, and ¾.

He swore loudly, drawing glances from nearby passersby. A mother leading her six-year-old by the hand gave him an outraged look and tugged the child a little further away. Which, honestly, was a bit much. Everyone do curse.

And unlike the last time he’d wandered through King’s Cross, now he was clean, dressed in washed clothes, combed, and well-rested. He should not look that scary.

He decided to ignore the mother and cursed again.

Of course, there was no damn platform 9¾.

Because he would bet his remaining arm that the so-called "Hogwarts Express" was connected to the BANG-disappear-stick-wielders.

Ah, how easy it had been to forget—after a week of science and normality—that this world’s visit had started very differently. That Truth had sent him with “what he needs”—and it hadn’t been a physics book, but a stick and two tickets.

So, using his brilliant mind, Edward reached the obvious conclusion: the platform and train he was looking for did exist—but they’d be a royal pain in the ass to find.

Because, based on his experience so far with freaking maicans, those weirdos actively tried to break the laws of physics.

And judging by the calm crowd around him, they clearly hadn’t encountered any wand-wielding lunatics yet.

Conclusion: he had to find hidden platform 9¾.

So he approached the brick pillar and looked up, expecting to see… what, exactly? Floating lights with a self-descending ladder for those waiting and believing? Self-launching fireworks with moving animated arrows?

Unfortunately, it was just a pillar holding up the ceiling.

Maybe the floor glows?

Edward cautiously circled the pillar twice, inspecting the tiles and tapping them with the heel of his leather boot.

Then, just to be sure, he circled it a third time. “the charm” and other bullshit. Then hopped around it on one foot, because—why the hell not?

Well. “Why not” answered him in the form of a scornful look from an old woman on the opposite platform across tracks.

Edward scowled at her.

She furrowed her brows.

He stuck out his tongue.

She recoiled slightly, then quickly got up and hurried off—probably thinking he’d cast some weird curse from a distance. What was he gonna do, sprout wings and fly after her?

Not his problem.

He started knocking on the bricks.

Nothing.

The wall showed no signs of change. The bricks weren’t loose, and the mortar around each one was firm. Every tap echoed with the same dull sound.

Eventually, Edward gave up.

He sighed, stepping back three meters to view the wall from a slightly wider perspective.

And then, he sighed again.

He knew what he should do. What he would do. What made his hands itch and his soul sing.

All it would take was a clap of the hands, pressed against a wall, and deconstruct.

Wave the silver watch and say it was military business.

Then smile at his brother, who would scold him for stirring up chaos again, and mutter that damned Mustang would have to deal with another wave of complaints from railway employees.

Edward swallowed the lump in his throat that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

This wasn’t his reality anymore.

He forced himself to take a very deep breath and smiled again.

Alchemy isn’t everything.

Al always said that if he couldn’t manage something on his own, he could just ask for help.

And how do you ask for help in searching for a hidden passage to a hidden society of stick-wielding weirdos?

Find a weirdo with a stick.

He glanced quickly around the station and, though he didn’t see any man with a stick, his eyes were immediately drawn to a family with a father pushing a trolley loaded with a leather trunk and a cage with a bloody owl in it.

Not to mention that said father was wearing a crisp white dress shirt with what was obviously a woman’s cardigan draped over it – in a disgustingly bright shade of blue.

All of this was just begging for some damn stars to be embroidered on it.

The next day, Roy Mustang drank his takeaway coffee while sitting calmly at a little table in a small botanical shop run by a charming elderly witch.

When he finished, he casually glanced at his peculiar silver pocket watch, etched with a strange serpent-dragon hybrid.

It was one of the few items he’d had on him five years ago.

Five years since he’d lost all his memories. Since he’d had to relearn almost everything.

Magic, culture, manners.

Four years since he’d given up searching for his lost past.

He traced the engraving with his finger.

At once so familiar and so foreign, when he didn’t know what it meant or where it came from.

Yet, it wasn’t the metaphorical longing for lost memories that made him pull the item from his pocket.

10:03 a.m.

Roy had a tendency to be late sometimes.

Alastor Moody?

Never.

That man was the most soldier-like person this chaotic wizarding society had.

And yet he was late.

Roy Mustang closed the watch and smiled at the witch who had just entered the room.

“Tea, Mr. Mustang?”

“With great pleasure, Ms. Bradywoodina.”

“Oh please, you flatter me,” she laughed.

Roy Mustang wasn’t worried.

Not about Alastor. Not about his lateness this time.

A pretty young secretary had sent him her silvery meerkat an hour ago, letting him know that Alastor Moody had sent a signal for help that morning – apparently ambushed.

But Roy wasn’t worried.

Not about Alastor.

As he had just stated – That man was the most soldier-like person this chaotic society had.

Yes. He had many enemies among dark wizards and Azkaban exiles.

But the very fact that he had them meant he was powerful enough to earn them.

And the fact that he had so many meant he’d lived long enough to earn them all.

So no, Roy didn’t worry.

He sipped his tea – with licorice root and Worinamozol leaf. According to the witch, it was commonly used in antifungal potions for toenails, but she personally believed it went very well with tea.

And he had to agree.

And perspective of potentially fungus-free toes was just a bonus.

But then he finished his tea… and Alastor still wasn’t there.

“He probably forgot,” the woman laughed as she saw him check the time again.

“Probably,” Roy muttered. “Or he’s buried under paperwork. I partly expected that.”

The woman tilted her head, studying him carefully. Roy was sure she wouldn’t see anything there.

“You know… if you’re really supposed to meet, maybe send him a Patronus. Maybe whatever’s holding him up isn’t urgent and he needs an excuse to get out of it? Me and my colleague used to do that all the time when we worked at Old Gretha’s breeding house. She was a horrible boss, so when she wouldn’t let one of us go to lunch, we’d send each other Patronuses with emergency messages.”

Roy couldn’t help but smile. That did sound like something he could use to get out of doing paperwork.

Even if he didn’t really have that much paperwork.

Or anyone like stict Old Gretha that he’d need to trick.

And yet, something very much like instinct told him to remember that advice.

“That’s certainly a charming memory,” he smiled politely. “Though I doubt Alastor would appreciate it.”

“Probably not,” the woman giggled. “Alastor Moody is mentioned in the Daily Prophet quite a bit. He doesn’t strike me as the type who’d enjoy being rescued from trouble,” she laughed gently.

That was certainly true.

But that wasn’t the only reason Roy didn’t take her advice.

Patronus.

One of the very few spells he had never mastered.

Not for lack of trying.

He simply… couldn’t.

And he knew why.

A happy memory.

He’d tried.

Tried to recall those pleasant moments with a woman. The way their bodies pressed together, the mingling of breath.

But it wasn’t enough.

Roy knew why. Because those moments had been pleasurable, but not happy.

There was lust, but no passion.

There was sex, but no love.

He had also tried invoking other memories – from his time teaching alchemy. And as much as he liked those kids, teaching hadn’t brought him joy.

Alchemy, though clearly a career path he had clung to, had always carried with it a bitter aftertaste, seasoned with the scent of smoke and ashes.

Politics wasn’t pleasant either. Sure, he’d found some success.

But it was hard to feel happiness when half the ministry hated you for who you associated with, and the other half served those very same people – who rather quickly (by Roy’s standards, and far too slowly by political ones) realized he was a threat and started distancing themselves.

He’d tried finding happiness in food a few times, but… something was always off in the cushine too. The flavors, while delicious, were missing something. Like it lacked one specific spice. Or some silly ingredient he just couldn’t remember.

So there was nothing left but to wait.

Roy reengaged in the conversation with the witch.

He asked about customers, where she sourced most of her plants, and what the strangest plant in her shop was.

Turns out, it was a weird variant of an even weirder flower that, when the air in your flat got too stinky, would turn orange and instead of releasing a scent of flowers, sea breeze or sweetness like others of its kind – would start smelling like rotten socks.

She was just telling a story about the time she accidentally bought a batch of plants that needed to be carried in one’s pocket for two whole months – including during showers – when the door burst open with a bang, slamming into the wall, and Alastor Moody rolled inside, stumbling on his cane and furrowing as he put weight on his stump-capped leg.

Mustang winced with sympathy. He knew stumps could hurt. Especially since they’d been walking a lot lately. He knew this somewhere deep in his head, never wondering where the knowledge came from and always assuming it was common sense. That stumps could ache with changes in the weather, with rain and cold. From too much strain, or sometimes just because someone was having a bad day. Especially when the loss of the limb was still technically fresh, and the rehab after its loss had been rushed.

It was such obvious knowledge that he never questioned that Alastor’s injury was old. That it was caused by magic, and patched up by magic. That wizards had plenty of enchanted ointments and potions to dull the pain, and a magical prosthesis would cause almost no discomfort at all.

Because the subconscious voice whispering that it was normal—that it was a young injury, a sensitive body, and a stubborn soul—completely drowned out the logical arguments that it shouldn’t hurt.

Roy, seeing the grimace forming on Alastor’s face—most likely due to a 23-minute delay—quickly thanked the old witch, and together they used Floo powder and the fireplace to arrive in old Flihwery’s bookstore, which was only a twenty-minute walk from the university.

They walked in silence for the first few moments before Roy, as was his habit, slipped his hands into his pockets.

“So?” he asked in a conversational tone. “Certain birds told me you were attacked today.”

“None of your business, you serpent. Tell your snaky birds to choke on it.”

Roy Mustang, as if he were a deaf idiot and hadn’t just been insulted, only smiled.

“I’ll make sure the message gets through. I see the amount of paperwork is enough to discourage any further plans of being kidnapped.”

Alastor grunted—whether in agreement or annoyance at Mustang’s voice.

Again, they walked in silence for a moment.

“We’ve got a beautiful morning today. So…” Mustang’s voice remained light and conversational. “Have you thought about what I said?”

Alastor didn’t even spare him a glance, snorting instead:

“I didn’t need to. I never plan to listen to snakes like you.”

In a split second, Roy’s casual smile became forced, and his relaxed posture stiffened. His pale lips pressed together and twitched twice before he finally found the words.

“Then I’m sorry,” he said—his usually easygoing voice far from its usual deep, warm baritone. So far, in fact, that even Alastor turned to him, scrutinizing him with a look. “Apparently, I let myself get carried away,” Roy continued, glancing sideways twice before finally mustering enough strength to look into the auror’s blue eyes. “But, Alastor? If you ever… change your mind. I’ll be waiting.” He tried to smile again. The attempt was painful to watch. Even more painful was the sight when even that attempt was crushed by Alastor’s next words.

Moody scoffed dismissively.

“I will never change my mind, you snaky scum.”

In his frustration and the crushing pressure in his chest—something Roy hadn’t expected—the alchemy teacher didn’t notice that two eyes were watching him with pure contempt. That Alastor’s magical prosthesis wasn’t making its usual rounds across the surroundings and his body, pausing not-so-subtly where a mysterious burn scar lay under his clothes. That the magical eye was looking in the same direction as the normal one, as if Alastor still hadn’t adjusted to how the prosthesis worked.

But Roy Mustang was too upset. He didn’t notice. And he let his always-confident gaze drop to the street and the tips of his shoes.

It took a lot of effort not to hunch over.

He didn’t know if he succeeded.

They walked in tense silence until they reached the Quantum Physics Department, where—according to the information they’d been given—they could find William Brown. Once there, Roy Mustang took a deep breath, straightened up, and once again smiled at the world in that way that made the world smile back.

In the office, they were told that although William Brown was scheduled to be at work since 8:00am, he hadn’t arrived yet. They were offered tea, and it wasn’t until thirty minutes later that the door opened, letting in a man who looked exactly like what Roy imagined a world-renowned physics professor to look like.

He invited them to his lecture hall, apologizing along the way for his lateness, saying he’d had to take someone to the train station.

Roy said it wasn’t a problem, and once the pleasantries were exchanged, Mustang got to the reason they were both here.

“We’re looking for a boy. We believe he joined your lecture last week. He had long blond hair, golden eyes, and probably wore a red coat? Do you happen to remember anyone like that?” the black-haired man asked William.

The professor immediately straightened up and once again scanned the visitors with a careful gaze.

“May I ask who you two are?” he said, though he already knew his behavior had more or less answered the question. Still, the younger and more handsome man just smiled.

It was the strange-looking one who replied:

“Old friends. We’ve been looking for him for some time.”

“We’re worried about him,” Roy quickly added, still smiling warmly, with almost not noticeable stiffens in the corners of his eyes. Perhaps, if he’d come alone, William would not notice his nervousness and would have believed him. But the nervous, shifty-eyed glance of the other strange man inspired no trust at all.

And his answer? “We’re friends”? – it sounded like some kind of cult.

William once again recalled Edward’s odd habit of not showing any bare skin.

Then another memory surfaced. How, on the first day—exactly a week ago—Edward had casually asked if there were any kidnapper gangs in the area. Maybe he hadn’t been asking about London’s kidnappers… maybe he was running from some other organization?

William made a decision.

If Edward hadn’t mentioned family or friends like the crazy-eyed one, then he had no intention of putting the boy at risk.

“He was here,” he answered truthfully. “He stayed after the lecture to talk, and we saw each other again on Thursday. But that’s it.”

The black-haired man didn’t let his face betray anything, but the shorter, stockier one looked irritated.

“Did he mention where he planned to go afterward?” the black-haired man asked.

Of course Edward had mentioned it. William had just taken him to the station.

“No,” he lied. “And now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to prepare for my lecture.”

The blond one scowled.

“You’re lying,” he growled. “You’re hiding something.”

William didn’t like the accusation in his voice or the threat in his eyes.

“I believe I’ve said all I can. So I suggest you leave this building now, or I’ll call security.”

Luckily, the black-haired man picked up the hint and simply smiled.

“Of course, Professor Brown. Thank you for your time.”

William nodded and allow his gaze to walk them to the door, and when he was sure they were gone, he reached into his briefcase and slowly began to lay out his materials.

About five minutes later, a thought crossed his mind—if it hadn’t been for the second, odd-looking blond man, perhaps the black-haired one would have earned enough of his trust that he would’ve revealed where Edward had gone. It was the man’s smile. It seemed full of trust.

William froze.

Black hair, average height, and that characteristic smile. And how conveniently they were looking for Edward.

William hadn’t asked the stranger’s name, but something told him that if he had… it would’ve been Roy Mustang.

Eventually, Edward spotted his draft horses—the ones that would pull him through the secrets of the pillar.

A family that blended into the background of normal people about as successfully as a clown at a funeral approached that Pillar 9 and ¾. Not at all as discreetly as they hoped, they glanced around. The mother's gaze met his, and she gave him a faint smile. He smiled back and kept watching them.

They just stood there. Her husband and son had apparently noticed him now too. And… yeah, it got awkward pretty fast.

But Edward had no intention of looking away.

At least, that’s what he told himself—right before a group of unnaturally tall people passed between him and the family, momentarily blocking his view with their collective mass. When they passed, he was staring at an empty platform.

He immediately ran up to the column, frantically looking around. But there was nothing.

Well, nothing as in the "as empty as a capital city train station can be at 10:23 AM" kind of way.

The point was, the weird-ass family with the goddamn owl in a cage? Gone.

They hadn’t had time to sneak off anywhere else.

They’d vanished into that bloody pillar.

“Fuck,” Edward hissed. Then, since it didn’t help even a little, he said it again. And again.

“Fuck, goddammit, son of a bitch, bloody hell, suck me, fuck this bullshit and fuck you, Truph, and the fucking up-the-ass damned powers of the goddamn universe or whatever the fuck, and that asshole colonel who, of course, OF COURSE couldn’t make sure his smooth flat ass was somewhere actually findable.

No! He just had to be in some fucking cult whose members—besides the BANG—now apparently walk through walls!”

Wait a damn minute… Edward suddenly turned sharply to face the pillar.

Walk through walls.

He narrowed his eyes at the brick wall.

Sure, he’d already checked and tapped it. But... as the saying goes: Use your fists, not your head?

…or maybe it was the other way around?

Whatever. He usually preferred the fists option anyway.

He stepped forward and didn’t follow through with the next leg—more like twisted his body so his right shoulder would slam into the wall, and a split second before impact, he threw his full weight into the wall, hoping for the impact to activate whatever mechanism the wall held.

Except… there was no resistance.

The wall mechanism seemed to not exist, because instead of a solid pushback, Edward felt weightlessness—and then the familiar feeling of falling, as his force wasn’t countered by anything.

Or at least he was falling… right up until he hit something soft, warm—something that let out a loud “oof” and “What…?” and “No!”, and then Edward found himself on the ground, entangled in the limbs of that family’s kid.

“Fuck,” Edward muttered, immediately scrambling to his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t know that…” he trailed off, looking just past the boy who was also trying to get up.

The place he’d landed in definitely wasn’t a small hallway that might exist inside a pillar. No… It wasn’t even a hallway or a room.

It was a entire fucking platform.

“What the fuck?” he muttered.

At that moment, the people he had landed on seemed to regain some situational awareness.

“Cedric! Are you okay?” asked the concerned woman, dropping to the boy’s side. Apparently, Cedric raised his hand and smiled at her while starting to stand.

People are beings that easily adapt.

Edward, suddenly inside something that was either another dimension or at the very least a platform accessed via teleportation portal, wasn’t even as shocked as he thought he’d be.

He looked behind him, toward where he’d come from.

Behind him: bricks.

Though this time, he wasn’t fooled into thinking they were real bricks.

“Hey, man. You’ve got pretty strong arm,” laughed a young voice behind him.

He turned to find Cedric already back on his feet, smiling at him in the kind of way you smile at strangers when you're as nice as Al.

“Sorry,” Edward muttered. “I didn’t know you could just…” He waved vaguely. “Just a minute ago, I was knocking on those bricks, and they seemed solid and—”

“It’s cool, I get it. First time’s a total mindblow,” Cedric laughed.

“We’re sorry, dear,” the woman said warmly, stepping closer. “I assumed you were a Muggle since you don’t have a suitcase. If I’d known you were going to Hogwarts, I would’ve taken you through.”

“No worries, ma’am.” Edward gave an awkward smile, scratching his neck with his left hand. “I managed somehow.”

“Let’s move away from the entrance,” said the dad in the sweater, speaking for the first time and snapping everyone out of the awkward stranger-stampede energy.

Edward took the opportunity to say goodbye before he got dragged into more small talk.

He slipped off toward one of the corners of that bizarre platform, found a bench, and sat down to calmly analyze what the fuck had just happened.

Of course, no amount of analyzing helped.

What even start with? Magic? Dimensions? Hallucinated bricks?

People are beings that easily adapt.

A minute later, Edward took a deep breath and stood up.

Might as well get on the train and find a seat.

He weaved through the oddly and not-so-oddly-as-on-the-match dressed people talking, saying their goodbyes, meeting friends, and swapping parting gifts.

He used to do that too. When he and Al came back from Resembool to work. When Hawkeye or Havoc dropped them off at the platform before a mission. And sometimes even when things went wrong, and he got injured badly enough that Al ignored him and called the colonel. Then someone would be waiting for them at the station to take him to the infirmary, the dorms, or sometimes even the bastard’s office—where the guy would say nothing and make Edward wait on his couch long enough to accidentally fall asleep. He suspected it was Mustang’s sadistic streak—watching Edward flail in embarrassment trying to regain coordination after his nap.

And now here he was, in this fucked-up weird-ass place, trying to find that same bastard.

Assuming he had understood his fuzzy memories right.

The voice in his head instead “find flame alchemist” might just as well have said, “find lame, I’ll come east,” which… made slightly less sense, but he was here, among wizards, so Edward shouldn’t talk about sense.

So he walked across the platform full of unusual people doing their usual platformy things and boarded the train. The corridor was full of compartments. Edward picked one a little further down, pleased to see it was empty.

He sat by the window, reached into the material bag slung over his shoulder, and pulled out one of the three books William had lent him for the trip.

Bang—teleportation, stick-lighters, sometimes solid, sometimes ghost-bricks, and a whole goddamn platform in a spot where a pillar should be.

The scariest part was how easily he accepted it all.

He opened to the first page.

He had half an hour before the train left.

He could only hope that if someone joined him in the compartment, they wouldn’t be too chatty.

Chapter Text

"Do you think Professor Mustang will be on the train?" Ron asked excitedly.

"Probably not, Ronald," Hermione sighed, looking at her friend with irritation. That had to be the tenth time he'd asked that. Today alone.

"Will Professor Mustang be on the train?"
"Will he be at the feast?"
"Or maybe he got special permission to skip it? Skip it because of the investigation?"
"Dad said Mr. Yenney mentioned that Mrs. Litteking heard from Mrs. Warren, who heard from Mr. Mustang that they have a promising lead."

"Highly unlikely, son," Mr. Weasley smiled at the kids through the rearview mirror. "I heard Alastor Moody was attacked today, so their plans got delayed. They probably wouldn't have made to the train. Espetially if they had succeeded."

"Sweetheart, can we stop speculating about that mysterious warrior already?" Mrs. Weasley asked, her voice as tired as Hermione's. If not more so.

"Oh, Molly," Mr. Weasley clearly did not take that as a hint that his wife had had enough. "You didn't see him there! I swear, one moment he was at one end of the clearing and looked like he was in danger, and the next—just as I pulled my wand—he was already by the Death Eater and knocked him out! With one hit! It was like watching one of those colorful Muggle heroes on tunnelvision."

"Television, Mr. Weasley," Hermione corrected gently. The man only chuckled gently.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a meaningful look. They'd heard this story a thousand times. The only tale that rivaled it in frequency lately was Mr. Weasley's account of how Professor Roy Mustang invited him to meet with the Minister to give his testimony.

"The way he led that interrogation was masterful!" Mr. Weasley would say with a dreamy voice. "He'd casually ask questions that completely shifted the room's dynamic! Everyone listened to him! Even Alastor!"

The young wizards knew their alchemy professor was involved in politics (hard not to, considering how much Malfoy bragged about it). It was one of the reasons they opted to take his class as an elective. That, and the desire to uncover the secrets of alchemy and the Philosopher's Stone—something Voldemort was famously obsessed with.

So they decided to keep an eye on him.

It wasn't a secret that Roy Mustang stayed close to Lucius Malfoy and his group. Just as it wasn't a secret that the man had lost his memory five years ago and nothing was known about him. Even his name could be fake. With a surname like "Mustang," that was highly probable.

"It's suspicious, don’t you think?" Harry muttered, leaning toward his friends. "At the same event the Dark Mark appears, a werewolf shows up that nobody knows, and suddenly Lucius Malfoy orders Mustang to find him? His underling?"

"I don’t think he’s so underling anymore," Hermione shook her head.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

She gave them a weird look and, with a sigh, closed the book she hadn’t really been reading for a while.

"What your dad said before, Ronald. Lucius Malfoy ordered Mustang to catch a werewolf right before the school year. It’s obvious he wanted him to fail. That’s called sabotage."

"But that would mean he wants to get rid of Mustang!" Ron suggested. "Why would he do that if the Minister loves him?"

"Exactly, Hermione. It’s way more likely he told Roy to find the werewolf just so he could get to him first. He must think it’s dangerous if it managed to beat Death Eaters."

"Or maybe this is all part of a plan to make Mustang shine?" Ron offered. "Maybe the Death Eaters caught the werewolf, and now they’re holding it so Mustang can heroically find it and bring it to the Ministry? Of course, first they’ll erase its memory and..."

"We’re here," Arthur Weasley said just as the car turned and began to slow. They'd arrived at the station parking lot.

"Finally!" George shouted.

"I thought my legs would fall asleep," Fred groaned, lunging for the car door.

As the others got out, Harry turned to his friends once more.

"I don’t believe that werewolf isn’t somehow connected to Voldemort or at least the Ministry. And I don’t know what’s going on with Professor Mustang, but we need to keep an eye on him. You know that my scar sometimes gets weird when he is around. And he’s got a suspiciously good relationship with Snape."

"But Harry..." Ron began. After hearing his father’s story, he too was impressed by the tale of the mysterious warrior.

"Something dangerous is going on," the black-haired boy murmured. "I can feel it. And I do not speak only about these weird dreams." As if unconsciously, he reached up and touched the scar on his forehead.

Hermione rolled her eyes at her friend's paranoia but nodded anyway. She couldn’t pretend not to see that something was off. Both with mustangs and Harry’s scar sensivity, with mustang, ministry and all this events on quidditch cup.

They just had to figure out what.

And how all this was connected.

***

Ed returned home. He pulled off his coat, hanging it in the hallway, and called out that he was back.

Silence answered.

He walked deeper into the house. Down the corridor, even though at Grandma’s you were supposed to enter straight into the living room. It was dark. As if the walls hadn't been painted in years, stained with age.

He heard a rustle. Half a moan, half a sob. Half ragged breaths.

"Big Brother! It hurts!"

Suddenly, in the dark, he tripped over something that clanked and rolled to the side.

A helmet.

A suit of armor's helmet.

"Al," he choked, looking around frantically.

More armor pieces were scattered around.

Here and there, on the floor, lines could be seen.

Not just any lines.

A transmutation array.

In the center lay a body.

Ribs stuck out at unnatural angles. Limbs too long and skeletal to be real. Blond hair—like his own, recently cut.

And female hips.

"What..."

The figure raised their eyes to him. Blue.

"Winry?"

" Didn’t you think, alchemist, that human transmutation came without a price?" came a voice from behind. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

"I paid! I gave up the Gate! My alchemy!"

An alchemist for an alchemist. A body for a body. Remember what you said? ‘Take it all’. I did. You gave too little.

"No! No no no..."

"Your two closest people. Now they’re one. Your brother, paid for with your Gate and the body that came with you."

"No..." Ed shook his head violently.

And then Al—or Winry—raised their pale blue eyes and, with a breaking voice, whispered:

"Help us. It hurts."

In the distance, Truth laughed.

Something shook the house, and Edward's body was thrown forward — straight into the transmutation circle, which couldn't really hurt him without a Gate.

Into the dust, where he once again tripped over a piece of armor and fell — directly into the bubbling, poorly assembled body. He felt himself sinking into it.

Ed gasped sharply, jerking forward and panting.

A shiver ran through his body — though a second later he realized it wasn't a shiver. It was the jolt of an entire train.

A train, because that’s where he was.

After so many years of traveling, his body had grown used to the idea that trains were sometimes the only chance for rest. And apparently, this one hadn’t felt out of place because — apparently — he’d fallen asleep before they even departed.

“Your humphiloons are restless,” a voice said in front of him.

Edward denied that he screamed.

Still, he might have made some kind of startled noise and definitely jumped as he looked toward the voice.

Across the compartment sat a blonde girl holding a magazine — upside down.

She was staring at him with an expression that was uninterested, yet somehow strangely intense.

“My what?” Edward finally spouted out.

“Your humphiloons,” she repeated. “They’re restless.”

Edward looked at the girl again.

A girl on a magic train, parked at a magic platform, reading an upside-down magazine whose photo was moving.

People are beings that easily adapt.

He leaned back in the seat and took one last deep breath to steady himself.

“And what are humphiloons?” he asked calmly.

To his surprise, the girl didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, like she was trying to get a better look at him.

“Humphiloons are small, invisible creatures that live around our heads,” she said at last, still studying him carefully, as if searching for some strange reaction.

When she didn’t find one, she went on: “Each person has their own little colony. Sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller. When we sleep, they hang from our hair, weaving tangles and dreams. Nightmares — if they feel threatened or uneasy. Like yours.”

Edward reflexively reached for his hair — where he knew tangles often formed — and ran a gloved hand through a loose strand, trying to feel if there was anything odd in there that might be a humphiloon.

Nothing. But…

“They’re magical creatures, aren’t they?” he asked.

The girl hummed quietly in response.

Ed sighed heavily. Of course it wouldn’t be as simple as just pulling them off. Somewhere deep in mind he was shocked how easily he accepted that.

“Is there a way to get rid of them?” he asked her.

She tilted her head again, this time in a gesture of consideration.

“Unfortunately, once they find a host, they stay with them until death. But—if you want, there is a way to calm them.”

Edward sat up straighter, and the sunlight from the window flashed in his golden eyes.

“How?” he asked, just a little too hopefully for anyone to thought that his nightmares happened only occasionally.

“It’s simple,” she giggled. “They’re soothed by a mother’s lullaby.”

“Ah,” Ed slumped back against the seat and let out a small, dull chuckled. “Well, shit.”

The girl tilted her head again, then nodded slowly, still humming.

Edward had the sudden, sinking thought that she knew exactly what that meant.

For a while, they traveled in silence through sunny green plains.

The train creaked gently, the wheels clattered on the tracks, and the landscape moved slowly past.

Edward felt the warmth of the sun through the window and let that sleepy heat spread through him.

He was just about to once again, let gravity lead his body into the embrace of the wooden compartment wall when the girl spoke again, humming softly.

“I haven’t seen you before.”

“We’ve been sitting together for hours,” he noted, resting his head against the window in a way that shouldn’t be comfortable — but after all these years, somehow was.

“You’re a bit too old to be a first-year, aren’t you?”

…That was the first time anyone had told him he was too old for something.

For a moment, Ed didn’t know what to say.

Then it hit him — she was talking like they were going to school.

And he swore quietly.

Because of course he had ended up on a train full of schoolchildren.

Probably a whole train car packed with them.

“I’m… looking for someone,” he muttered eventually.

She tilted her head again, raising one of her blonde eyebrows.

“Who?”

“His name is Roy Mustang. Black hair. Looks…”

“Ohhh. The alchemy professor,” the girl said with a strange mix of surprise and lazy indifference.

“Alchemy professor?” Edward echoed, feeling the knot in his stomach twist. “So he is here! Damn it! Of course that bastard landed a cushy teaching job while I was out fighting maniacs, chasing down kidnappers, and wandering the streets looking for his sorry ass.”

Most of that he grumbled under his breath, but the quiet compartment and his sheer irritation made it impossible for the girl not to hear.

She didn’t react, though. Just hummed again, like she’d suddenly lost all interest in conversation.

She raised her magazine — still upside down — and began to “read.”

Edward wanted to ask if she was okay, but then he noticed the wand sticking out of her coat pocket and remembered:

He was surrounded by magic folk.

Magic kids. On a magic train. Heading to a school that was probably not a normal school.

His only comfort was that they taught alchemy, which meant they had to possess the ability to think critically.

Most of what had haunted his dreams as crimes against physics he had witnessed were probably just dumb tricks on his senses with actual explanation.

At least, that’s what he thought—

Until a cart lady knocked on their door, asking if they wanted to buy something to eat.

The girl asked for two chocolate frogs, offering one to Edward, which was unexpectedly kind of her.

Madam Daphne packed him a few extra snacks for the road, but Edward was never one to say no to food. Especially when it was chocolate. (Dark. – without disgusting cow juice)

He examined the very realistically shaped frog with mild curiosity, while the girl had already bitten the head off hers, letting bits of chocolate crumble into the hollow inside of the snack.

Edward was just about to follow her when—

Suddenly, the chocolate beneath his fingers stiffened.

Tensed.

And then — disappeared.

As the frog jumped.

Let me repeat that.

The chocolate frog. Jumped.

What the fuck.

“What in the bloody hell?!”

Edward shouted, shaking his hand like he could flick off a frog that had, just a second ago, leapt off it — and was now casually hopping across the floor.

“Hm? Yours is quite lively,” the girl murmured, biting off another piece of hers.

Edward stared at her.

And suddenly, the image of a young blonde girl eating a chocolate treat didn’t seem so innocent anymore.

“That’s normal?” he asked, incredulous.

He got a croak in reply. And a soft hum.

“Usually. Personally, I prefer frogs over licorice fish.

They jump, too, and sometimes they sting.”

“Licorice can sting,” Edward repeated blankly.

And when the chocolate frog landed on the floor with a soft slap, he instinctively pulled his feet up onto the seat.

People are beings that easily adapt.

…

No.

Edward had been through a whole load of bullshirt in his life, and this was where he drew the line.

…

But neither the frog nor the girl eating her frog seemed to care.

On the contrary.

The girl locked her haunted gaze on him, smiling slightly as she did.

“What’s your name?” She finally asked.

“Ed,” he mumbled.

“Nice to meet you, Ed. I’m Luna Lovegood. I like singing in the shower.”

Ed blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then he reminded himself he was among people who thought flying on broomsticks were normal.

“Uh… I… don’t sing in the shower, since in the barracks we have communal showers, but… um… I guess I like drinking warm water before bed?” …provided he actually went to sleep instead of passing out over his books or during travel.

He wasn’t sure if that was a good answer.

Maybe he should’ve said something about his hygiene habits? Or his music taste?

But the girl—Luna—nodded, appearing satisfied, so Edward assumed he’d improvised well enough.

Then she opened her magazine with the moving pictures and dived into it— still upside down.

Edward followed suit, though this time with his book the right way up, filled with delightfully unmoving diagrams on ultra-cold atomic interaction research. The idea of superconductors was quite interesting.

From the world of accelerated energy conduction, he was dragged back by the sound of the compartment door slamming open and a new person appearing out of nowhere.

“That’s Loona Loovegood,” a blond boy of about fourteen threw over his shoulder to his companions, whom Edward couldn’t see from his angle. Then the door slammed shut again, followed a moment later by the distant thud of another door.

Edward blinked.

“Who was that asshole?” he demanded.

Luna shrugged.

“That was Draco Malfoy. He’s probably looking for Harry Potter.”

“He seems like a dick,” the boy muttered under his breath.

The girl shrugged again.

“Probably. But I think it’s mainly the Crackletters in his head.”

“Crackletters?”

“Beings that live in our ears and whisper only bad things, which makes people constantly angry and irritated. They're natural enemies of the Wrackspurts.”

“If he’s a dick because of the Crackletters, why doesn’t he just get rid of them?” Edward asked, raising a brow.

The girl hummed, as if she hadn’t heard his question.

Edward reached for the cardboard box that once held the chocolate frog (which was still hopping around the floor) and pulled out one of the cards he’d hoped to use as a bookmark.

“It’s not that simple, getting rid of Crackletters. First, the person needs to know they’re infected. And not many are willing to admit that. Plus, to get rid of them, you have to starve them. That person can’t hear any insults or negativity for an entire month.”

“Ah,” Edward muttered.

Not hearing insults for a month sounded nearly impossible.

Impossible, when nearly every year he heard people call him a dog of the military, an illegitimate child of Mustang or some other officer, and countless other insults aimed at him.

His height, his age, or his intelligence.

Luna hummed again.

“Draco has a very strict father. My dad says Lucius only had a child because it would’ve been shameful not to continue the family line.”
Edward winced with sympathy.

“Most dads are dicks,” he muttered.

Luna hummed noncommittally.

“Parents tend to have flaws. Whether it’s neglect, absence, or just a life that’s too short.”

Edward looked at her just in time to catch her eyes.

They shared a small smile.

In the uplifting silence that followed, he reopened his book to the page marked with the card from the frog box.
Turned out it was a card showing someone named Michael Sagan, whose white wig suggested he’d lived a long time ago.

Who was now waving at him.

Edward slammed the book shut.

…

He opened it slowly, just to confirm that the card with Michael Sagan wasn’t, in fact, waving.

Of course it wasn’t.

Because it was a piece of paper and Edward was not crazy.

Apparently, Michael Sagan was just standing there with his hand on his hip, frowning in disapproval and wagging a finger, like slamming a book on someone’s face was terribly rude.

…

People are beings that easily adapt.

Edward took a very deep breath.

“Luna? Are pictures of people supposed to move too?”

“Mhm…” she hummed, still reading.

Well, of course they would too. Like in her magazine. Moving photos and moving people on these photos. Totally logical. Even if someone took these pictures when someone was acting really strange.

Meanwhile, Michael crossed his arms, clearly offended by the question.

Edward swallowed.

“And are they supposed to, I don’t know… act like they have a personality?”

“That depends on whether it’s a photo or a portrait,” the girl said, like that was the freaking standard for whether or not pictures moved.

“Sorry, but last I checked, pictures didn’t move at all.”

He couldn’t help the skepticism in his voice.

He knew he shouldn’t have said that, as it only made it more obvious he didn’t belong to this freaking stick-wielders community.

But then again, she had probably figured that out long ago—like when he was surprised by a jumping frog or when he didn’t know something as obvious as “Humphiloony.”

Fortunately, the girl didn’t seem bothered by his attitude.

“Cameras are enchanted to capture a fragment of the scene. Newspapers usually don’t print photos longer than fifteen seconds, though my dad once took one that lasted a full twenty-three. It was a picture of Mr. Scamander proposing to his wife, and then the camera panned to a dog in the park chasing its own tail,” she giggled.

“And portraits photos, like on the collector cards”—she nodded toward Edward’s book, giving the object its cursed name—“are a bit more like portraits.”

“Portraits?” he repeated, once it became clear that the term was supposed to mean something to him.

“Portraits,” the girl repeated. “Where paint or ink is infused with a bit of the person’s personality and memories. And because of that, they can communicate with other portraits of themselves as well as with surrounding”

Edward stiffened despite himself.

“That sounds… awfully similar to soul trans— I mean… to trapping someone’s soul in a picture?”

To his surprise, Luna giggled softly.

“Just memories and personality. It’s not a real person. Not a way to cheat death. Sadly,” she added in a quieter tone.

Edward remembered what she’d said earlier, about parents failing their children with lives that are too short.

So he figured she knew what she was talking about, from personal experience.

Just like he knew, from experience, that human transmutation was impossible.

A solemn silence fell over them again.

At least on his part, because the girl seemed to dissolve a moment later, escaping into another world inside her head, worriless.

And just when he thought the discussion was over—mentally labeling it “portraits that contain personalities and memories of probably dead people” as the fact—the girl broke the silence again.

“Besides, I think that if someone wanted to extend their presence in the world, instead of becoming a portrait, they’d just become a ghost.”

Edward choked on his own saliva.

“Excuse me, what the fuck?”

But the girl didn’t answer. She just hummed absentmindedly, staying quiet no matter how many times he asked what the hell she meant by “ghosts,” until he realized it made no sense. So all he could do was sit down, sigh, close his eyes, and add also “ghosts” to the already massive list of bizarre things.

People are beings that easily adapt.

Edward hated that truth.

He hated magic, lunatics, time-space travel, moving pictures, and ghosts. Especially ghosts.

Because he suspected that a ghost was a soul. And a soul that stuck around after death… that was a Philosopher’s Stone. Even a single living soul had enormous power. He knew that better than anyone. The scar from being impaled still reminded him.

Ed really fucking hated this world.

***

“Professor Mustang,” Minerva McGonagall greeted the man as he caught up with her on the way to the Great Hall.

“Minerva,” he greeted her with a charming smile. “Your scarf brings out your eyes beautifully.”

“You flatter me, Professor Mustang,” the woman replied, turning slightly toward him and, chin raised, gave him her usual stern look.

“Maybe I do, but that doesn’t change the fact you have impeccable taste.”

Roy didn’t even flinch under her scrutiny, instead offering her an even more dazzling smile.

She pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, young man.”

He didn’t lose his smile. On the contrary, it widened.

“My only goal today is to make it to get to the feast, dear Minerva.”

Minerva never knew what to make of the man. The young wizard who had appeared out of nowhere.

But not just because he was full of mysteries and contradictions.

Minerva didn’t know what to make of him because she didn’t know him.

Of course, she wasn’t talking about the long five-year acquaintance they’d had as teachers.

She meant something much deeper.

Minerva knew almost every wizard in England.

She was an old witch who had been teaching practically since she finished school herself.

First Numerology, and then, when the position opened, Transfiguration.

She had grown up with one generation of wizards and taught two more after that.

She knew nearly everyone.

She knew Sybill Trelawney as a withdrawn student quietly reading a gossip magazine.

She knew Cornelius Cnot as a cheerful young man who always liked to surround himself with friends and fun.

She remembered Severus Snape as a perpetually tense student whose face only softened when Lily Evans was nearby.

She didn’t know Roy Mustang.

Neither she, nor the wizarding world.

They searched. Searched to help him recover his memories.

In vain.

They concluded that “Roy Mustang” was likely not his real name, and that the man was probably one of those pureblood children raised according to old traditions, homeschooled.

But a childrens raised in isolation werent’t usually as social as Roy.

Not so clever, quick-witted, silver-tongued, nor so charismatic.

She glanced at the man again from the corner of her eye.

He walked proudly, shoulders straight — broad and muscular, the kind seen in Quidditch players, Aurors, or those who worked in Herbology, replanting magical flora with physical labor.

A physique rarely seen in wizarding society, which tended to avoid manual labor.

He strode confidently, with a slight spring in his step. His lifted chin and handsome profile explained why he was considered the most attractive teacher at Hogwarts.

And his silver tongue and charming smile helped him win hearts once his looks had caught the eye.

But Minerva couldn’t shake the feeling that in the past five years, the man hadn’t changed at all.

There were no wrinkles by his eyes from his constant, fake smiles. No lines under his cheeks. He looked exactly the same as he had five years ago, when he arrived at the castle with no idea who he was or why he was there.

Well —

Minerva would be lying saying “nothing”

Roy Mustang had lost that lost look in his eyes.

That too-wide, haunted gaze, overwhelmed by the realization that he knew nothing.

Now, in those hypnotic dark-blue eyes, sometimes turning gray like a stormy sky, there was certainty and determination.

He was no longer the young man who had lost twenty-something years of his life.

Now, he was a man who had spent the past five years becoming one of the most influential wizards.

A man defined and shaped by only the last five years, with ghosts of the past only fueling him, adding experience to any goal he set.

Because Minerva was well aware that even though Roy Mustang had lost his memories, he hadn’t lost them in his heart.

She knew because she worked with him to find his memories.

She knew because sometimes Roy Mustang would flinch when someone entered via the Floo Network.

And she knew because Severus had once come to her, troubled, saying that Mustang had asked him for potions to ward off nightmares and ensure dreamless sleep.

In his eyes was hidden that same lazy confidence and the determination to achieve whatever he had decided.

And a glint of amusement that appeared out of nowhere.

Minerva realized she was staring.

And that Roy Mustang had noticed that too.

She cleared her throat but didn’t avert his gaze.

Even if she didn’t know what to think of Roy Mustang, she was still the esteemed witch who had raised two generations of young wizards.

The young man before her was no different.

“Alastor hasn’t arrived yet. I heard you saw him today?” she asked.

To her surprise, the glint of amusement vanished, and that confident look disappeared — just for a fraction of a second, allowing her to see again the lost, wounded young man from five years ago.

Then it all vanished so fast she wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her.

“I did,” Mustang replied casually. His face relaxed, tone lazily satisfied — and Minerva was once again struck by how much she had missed by not knowing him when he was younger. She couldn’t say what lay beneath the mask.

“Did he mention being late? The students will arrive in less than thirty minutes.”

“I’m afraid we didn’t have a chance to talk about that. But don’t worry. Alastor is an adult. He can manage his time and make his own decisions.”

Minerva had the distinct feeling that Roy Mustang was talking about more than just a missing teacher.

“You were looking for that warrior from the Quidditch tournament, weren’t you?”

“Who wasn’t?” Roy replied smartly.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“We found a promising lead,” Roy sighed at last. “But it went cold. Maybe…” — he paused, regaining that gleam of determination in his eyes — “maybe I’ll go and talk to him again. This morning… I was a bit distracted.”

“You think after all this time, we can still find him?”

“Of course,” Roy said, never losing his smile. “After all, people don’t just disappear into thin air.”

Five years ago, Minerva would’ve said the same thing — that people don’t vanish or appear out of the air.

And yet here she was, talking to Roy Mustang.

And the topic was a mysterious werewolf who, besides that one incident, kept eluding the Ministry.

Irony is a funny thing.

Beside the mustang, they finally reached the Great Hall, which doors were already wide open, and inside, teachers were slowly beginning to gather.

Many of them had their own houses and returned home for the holidays, so today’s meeting was a reunion just as much for them as it was for the students.

He led her through the corridor between two long tables, eventually reaching the raised platform. Minerva approached her favorite seat, which Roy had already neared, and with a chivalrous jest, pulled the chair out for her.

“Roy!” called out Professor Trelawney, approaching them.

“Sybill,” Mustang smiled at her and took her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles without looking away from her deep blue eyes even for a moment.

“A gentleman, as always,” the Divination teacher giggled, blushing faintly.

“Always,” Roy confirmed with a smile.

“If someone didn’t know better, they might think that you’re trying to gain something right now”

A biting voice came from their right.

Roy raised his gaze to yet another professor.

“Manners, dear Severus, aren’t dictated by a desire to gain, but rather a desire to give.”

“That’s true, Severus,” Trelawney giggled lightly. “Besides, Roy is not one of those false men. I wouldn’t fall for that. People like that usually emit a bad aura. But not our Roy! He’s so warm and bright. Like a fireplace! Unlike you, Severus. Darkness lies in your eyes. Your fate isn’t looking good. You must beware of people with iron in their hands. Otherwise, great agony awaits you.”

“Well, Severus. That’s an incredibly valuable piece of advice.” Roy smiled at the other man, who looked back with his ever-present grimace. “What a shame that we’re about to sit at the table and each of us will reach for cutlery. Apparently, a hard year awaits you.”

“As if you weren’t a teacher too.”

“Clearly, the stars shine on me,” the alchemy professor once again allowed a smile to appear on his face, which only made Snape scowl even more.

He was one of the few—if not the only person—in the entire castle that Trelawney hadn’t prophesied a gruesome death, painful trials, betrayal, suffering, or helplessness. She saw no darkness in his past either, which others were particularly eager to dig into because of his amnesia.

They found nothing. Which was all the more ironic, considering Roy was plagued by nightmares, and sometimes caught himself in strange thoughts—about screaming, sharp sunlight, and burning flame, as well as the scent of gunpowder which, as he reasoned, really shouldn’t be familiar to him.

And certainly shouldn’t be comforting—shouldn’t evoke safety.

The crooked smile on Severus’ face told him their thoughts had likely drifted in a similar direction—since the Eliksirs professor had just brewed him the potion that ensured a dreamless sleep.

“Besides,” continued the Divination teacher, unaware of their mental detour, “Roy never wanted anything from me. Not that I wouldn’t have given him anything he asked for. Anything he desired, as long as it was within my reach.”

The woman’s words hung with heavy ambiguity.

If it had been any other woman, Roy would’ve known exactly what she was offering. But he knew Sybill well enough to be sure there was no flirtation in her voice, and her offer held no hidden meanings.

Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t sure that, if he had wanted to, the woman wouldn’t have welcomed him into her arms.

And so he smiled.

And Severus still scowled, disgusted.

But it was a disgust founded in embarrassment—born from inexperience. Not fiery outrage or outright hostility. Something deeper. Like curiosity and respect. The kind Roy had seen in Alastor’s eyes, which only made him want to tease him more.

Alastor, with whom he felt he had developed a thread of cooperation and understanding.

Maybe not friendship, but trust. Respect.

Someone who, Roy hoped, understood him—and shared his desire for change.

And who was the first person Roy had misread.

He didn’t allow his smile to falter even for a second. Nor did he let his momentary distraction be noticed.

So he gave the Divination teacher his most charming smile.

“Dear Sybill. Your company is all I could ever ask for.”

“Or maybe…” Severus spoke again. In his usual arrogant tone, a note of amusement appeared. Roy had a bad feeling about this. “Maybe she could help you with the investigation. I’ve heard your so-called lead ran cold.”

“Brilliant idea, Severus!” Trelawney cried. “We could lay out the tarot and divine with a crystal ball! And of course, we’ll ask the stars! I’m sure the stars and the moon won’t stay silent about the werewolf’s story!”

“I truly appreciate it, dear Sybill,” Roy smiled politely, catching a glimpse of a very pleased Snape out of the corner of his eye. “But for now, let me investigate a few more aspects on my own.”

“Are you sure that—”

“Sybill, my dearest. Didn’t you once say the stars know everything, so we must ask the right questions?” Roy gently interrupted her. The woman blushed under his gaze.

“Yes. Roy! I didn’t know you had such deep understanding of Divination!”

“Just a good memory and a brilliant teacher, Sybill. And that’s precisely why—for now—I must thank you for your offer of help. You see, I’m not sure we can even ask the right questions yet. I suspect that the man we’re looking for might not even be a werewolf.”

“That’s a bold conclusion, considering everyone confirmed his lycanthropy,” came another voice. They turned to see Professor Flitwick approaching with McGonagall.

“Indeed,” Mustang nodded. “But we’ve managed to track his trail, and there’s no sign that he underwent a transformation. We found witnesses who saw him in human form during the full moon.”

“Appropriate potions can prevent transformation,” Snape muttered.

“Appropriate potions, Severus. The kind that only a handful of wizards can brew. Ones that require special ingredients. The Ministry chased those leads for a week. That’s why I dared to draw other conclusions.”

“Quite interesting,” Flitwick murmured. “You’re saying the man can use his physical body in magical combat to that extent, and still not be a werewolf? Oh Merlin! I already wanted to duel him before—but now I’m even more intrigued.”

“I thought your dueling champion days were over?” Severus grunted toward the Charms professor.

Filius Flitwick chuckled warmly.

“Indeed, they are. But I could never resist the challenge this mysterious man presents. I daresay I once knew all notable figures in our circle.”

“I’m not sure that would even be possible,” McGonagall said, her lips tightening into a thin line. “After all, we don’t know when he’ll be caught—or if he’ll be friendly. Mr. Crouch was very firm in stating the man is hostile.”

“Mr. Crouch holds quite a few radical convictions,” Roy smiled gently at her. “I’m confident that once I finally meet our mysterious warrior, his perspective will shed much more light on the matter.”

McGonagall gave him a sharp look.

“You can’t go through life thinking you’ll be able to charm everyone, young man,” she scolded.

Severus next to him let out a wet snort, choking slightly on his own saliva.

“Of course that’s not the case, Minerva. But I believe a calm conversation can accomplish far more than hurling accusations like curses in a bar brawl.”

“You said you suspect it’s not a werewolf,” Flitwick interjected, taking one of the seats at the table. “Why?”

Roy repeated everything he and Alastor had uncovered. He also shared what he personally suspected, then got dragged into a discussion about the possibility that the man they were looking for might be a Squib. Roy wasn’t quite sure how he ended up defending Muggle combat skills so passionately.

Eventually, in the opened doors to the Great Hall, appeared Albus Dumbledore, beaming with delight as he announced the arrival of the students.

McGonagall stood up and, bidding them all goodbye, made her way to the back rooms, where she was, as always, to meet the first-years.

Meanwhile, Albus addressed the remaining teachers, mentioning the Triwizard Tournament and the need to prepare the students for respectable behavior in the coming month before the big announcement. He reminded everyone of the recent shifts in school philosophy and cracked a joke about the young Weasleys surely not having wasted their summer—prompting a chorus of nervous chuckles among the staff. Naturally, he also stressed the need for increased vigilance after the disturbing events of two weeks ago.

As he spoke, his blue eyes rarely left Roy—who, despite his relaxed smile, couldn’t quite ignore the subtle tension creeping into his shoulders.

Albus Dumbledore had always observed him. As a teacher, as an amnesiac, and as a young man and wizard. But since last year, that gaze had grown significantly more intense, and the glimmer of calculation behind the kindly demeanor left no doubt as to its purpose.

Albus Dumbledore played chess. He had his board, with its carefully placed pieces. Roy didn’t know who he was playing against, or what strategy he was pursuing. He had his suspicions, of course. But no certainty. He still didn’t know enough about this world.

But he did know one thing.

To Albus, people weren’t just people—they were pawns, or pieces, depending on how useful they were.

And Roy knew something else too: no chess player likes it when a piece suddenly moves on its own.

So at first, Albus had offered support, but didn’t grow too attached. Roy, after all, had just been a passing stranger. A lost soul the headmaster had taken pity on. Someone who wasn’t even a pawn.

Someone who, quite accidentally, fell into the world of politics and became a pawn, then a piece… and then, faster than anyone could react, a queen.

Which—perhaps—wouldn’t have been so unsettling to the old headmaster...

If not for one fundamental mistake the old wizard had made.

Roy might not remember who he was—but he was absolutely sure of one thing:

He wasn’t a pawn.
He wasn’t a queen.
Not even a king.

Roy was a player.

And Dumbledore, like everyone else in this world, had realized that far too late.