chapter 3

His eyes snap open to the sound of echoing laughter.

Was I dreaming?

He's on a train, facing the window. If there's a single place on earth where the vagabond alchemist feels comfortable, it would definitely be the cabin of a reliable train – he must have fallen asleep. Ed leans back into the plush red seats and closes his eyes.

"How much longer do you think we have to go, Al?"

He's met with silence.

Eyes open once again, Ed jerks away from the window and realizes he's alone.

"No way," he breathes.

Suddenly, information floods his brain and any coherent thought is quickly lost in a sea of knowledge: Truth's deal, that feral grin, Al, Tom Marvolo Riddle young and handsome no wait pale and disfigured red eyes red red, Muggles what are Muggles no Gate no magic, 150 points for the golden snitch, Nina as she was pigtails and all, "the wand chooses the wizard", mandrake roots and petrified students, house elves with tennis ball eyes and dirty pillowcases, ghosts that teach and haunt and joke and fume, Ravenclaw's diadem in a room that keeps changing it's important so important why why why, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, that feral grin, "Brother!", Nicholas Flamel and his Philosopher's Stone how how how how how, Harry Potter his lightning scar eyes too green hair too messy brave so brave, broomsticks racing through the sky, owls carrying mail, lightning scar, find the Horcruxes find them find them destroy them, "Mee…stuh…let's…play…", a silver locket hidden in a dank old house, a raggedy man a big black dog sitting in Azkaban wizarding prison, an inescapable whiteness and a towering Gate that cursed Gate, an old castle in the middle of nowhere in Scotland, a serpent so large it travels through the plumbing it's called a basilisk why does he know that, a ring under the floorboards, that grin that awful grin…

It's too much. It won't stop.

The interior of the train is tilting and his head spins as he takes in everything all at once. He's overwhelmed by the minute differences in what should be familiar, but clearly isn't, and overstimulated by the foreign smells and the strange methodical clanking of the train's wheels and the taste of stale air on his tongue. Everything becomes ten times worse when he can make out a disembodied grin float in and out of his vision.

He squeezes his eyes shut and curls in on himself.

Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron,…

His breathing even outs. Ed pats his face while he recites and is oddly comforted by the lack of feeling in his heavy right arm.

Automail's still here.

It grounds him, knowing that the evidence of his misfortune is the same as ever, even if everything else has changed. A permanent reminder of what he's lost, of the oaths he's sworn.

He keeps his eyes shut until he finishes listing all of the elements on the periodic table, when he feels as if the inundation of knowledge has calmed into a manageable stream.

1, 2, 3… He opens his eyes again and surveys himself and his surroundings.

Take things slow.

He's wearing his normal clothes… kind of. His obnoxious stylish red jacket is missing, as is the cropped black cardigan he normally wears underneath. On the seat beside him is a heavy-duty black denim jacket. Instead of his normal black T-shirt, he's wearing a long-sleeved mock-neck that hides the bit of his automail port that normally peeks out. At least he's still wearing his leather trousers and he still has his worn-in boots. And of course, he has his gloves.

He pats himself down and frowns at the absence of his silver watch.

"Right then," he says aloud, in English.

He claps his left hand over his mouth. What the fuck was that?

Ed opens his mouth warily. "Hello?" Pause. "Hello?"

Holy shit, that's going to take some getting used to.

He's unconsciously using an entirely different language and understanding it. Somehow, he can just tell what he's saying and if he likes, he can make the effort to switch back to Amestrian.

This is becoming increasingly more unsettling than he imagined was possible.

I've got to sort this somehow, he thinks. Slowly.

He takes his time to organize the particulars of what he's learned in the last few minutes alone. There's the information about Tom Marvolo Riddle and related to him is information on a boy named Harry Potter, who is apparently Riddle's nemesis (isn't that just sad?) and very limited information on random objects called… Horcruxes? There's the locations of the Hallows – just as Truth promised – which is definitely important. And there are details on the school, Hogwarts, and the events of the last two years, during which there had been conflicts between Riddle and Potter. And lastly, there is the immense catalogue of every spell, plant, potion, creature, knick-knack, and miscellaneous fun fact that Ed thinks he might ever need to know about the wizarding world. Like, when would Edward ever need to confront an actual ghost?

"Cannot fucking believe ghosts are real here," he complains. "Can you believe this shit, Al?"

Oh. Right. Fuck.

He keeps forgetting he's alone, truly alone, for the first time in fifteen years. There's no Al here, no Winry, no Granny Pinako. No Hawkeye either, no Havoc, no Falman, no Breda, hell, not even a Colonel Bastard to make fun of.

No one. He has no one.

Ed slaps his cheeks with both hands to shake him from his stupor.

"Not the fucking time or place. Get a grip, Fullmetal."

It's comforting to hear Amestrian, even if it's his own voice, and calling himself by his ridiculous title almost makes it feel like he's back home, getting orders he definitely doesn't agree with from Mustang.

He sighs, weary before anything's even begun.

First, the watch, he reminds himself. Then, the rest of this dumpster fire.

He searches the cabin and finds a large trunk placed on the shelf above him, with "Edward Elric" stamped next to the handle. He yanks it down and opens it.

Inside, he finds several changes of clothes, all variations of what he's wearing now and all black. Excellent.

"Good thing there's underwear and socks too," he mutters as he takes inventory. "Still no watch."

There's a pouch that Ed opens to find an impossible amount of odd coins of different shapes and sizes. Galleons, Sickles, Knuts, his brain supplies helpfully. One Galleon is 17 Sickles, one Sickle is 29 Knuts. Pouch has an Undetectable Extension Charm. You have enough money in the pouch to last three lifetimes here. You don't have a bank account, but normally wizards use the vaults at Gringotts. The bank is run by goblins and is impossible to rob. Rumors say there's a dragon in there.

"Fucking hell, that's so uncomfortable," Ed says. Anytime he sees or even thinks about anything magic-related, it's like his brain goes on auto-pilot and proceeds to spit out any and all relevant information. For the most part, the endless stream of information is swimming around in his head, moving too fast for him to settle on anything for too long until he focuses on any one thing.

I'm going to have to work on that, otherwise I'm going to look dazed all the time and I'll be useless if attacked.

Moving on, he sorts through the books stashed in the trunk and reads off some of the titles. "These look like textbooks? Why would I have… oh no, they fucking didn't!"

He tears through the rest of the trunk, sending everything in disarray as he looks for evidence supporting his current hypothesis.

There's a note at the bottom, written in Amestrian.

To the little alchemist, it starts.

Ed glares at it in contempt.

You'll be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a third-year transfer. The paperwork has already been completed, so no need to worry about the logistics.

Remember! Riddle and the Hallows, or else.

P.S. third-years are thirteen-year-old's. I figured with your "stature", you'd fit right in. You're welcome!

The note is in shreds as soon as Ed reads the postscript.

"WHO ARE THEY CALLING A TINY LITTLE PIPSQUEAK WHO CAN'T GO TO THE BEACH BECAUSE HE'S SO SMALL HE'LL SINK INTO THE SAND," Ed fumes, crashing down on the seats with his arms crossed. "That fucking asshole thinks they're so goddamn funny! Haven't been to school in, like, a decade! Think everything through my ass, that asshole is fucking with me AND I CAN'T EVEN FUCKING YELL AT YOU TO YOUR FACE!" He shouts the last part in no direction in particularly, but makes sure to avoid looking up, not because Ed thinks Heaven was a Real Thing, but because he didn't want there to be any misconception by others who subscribed to those ideas that he is yelling at god. Bastard may be god, but they definitely belong in Hell, wherever it was.

He realizes then that he sat down on the jacket and pulls it out from under him. Rifling through the pockets, he pulls out his missing State Alchemist watch with a sigh of relief and immediately puts it back into one of the pockets (which are clearly charmed to prevent things from falling out). He also discovers a long, smooth stick. It's stained a reddish-brown and is rather plain at first glance. However, on the bottom of the handle, there's a carving of an empty array.

Yew, phoenix feather, 10 inches. Yew, known for the power it grants the owner in dueling and cursing, often stereotyped to be a wood that leans towards the Dark Arts. Yew is also considered to be the wood of those named "fierce protectors". Fun fact: identical make-up to the wand of Riddle, although the wood comes from a different tree and the feather from a different bird.

"God, stop, please just stop," Ed moans, head in his hands.

He rubs his temples as he waits for the information to fade to a dull buzz in the background. It's getting easier to digest the sudden bursts of information he notices, and he guesses the sooner he gets up to speed with everyday knowledge in this world, the less likely he will be bombarded with it at a moment's notice.

Might as well get reading then.

He slips on the jacket, feeling exposed despite his automail being completely covered, and slides the wand into an inside pocket.

There are too many books to choose from, but since he's going (reluctantly) back to school, he figures the best choice is Hogwarts, A History. He takes it from his trunk, packs everything else away, and starts reading. All of the information is vaguely familiar, but as he reads, whatever Truth did to his brain solidifies everything as he processes it. By the time he finishes the book, a lot of information has settled down in his brain and he can almost think clearly for the first time since waking up.

The reading definitely helps with the processing errors he's running into, so that's at least a good start.

He powers through two other books, Spellman's Syllabary, a fascinating book regarding something called "ancient runes", and The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3, which is completely dry, but a necessary evil. Reading the spell book branches off into a rather extensive network of other "standard" spells Ed hadn't actually learned, but could now reference as needed.

He has realized though, that the information provided is not limitless: some things do not automatically register in his brain. At first, because everything was so new and different, there was no end to the stream of information that completely consumed his train of thought, and he had to take things rather slow. Eventually, he discovered that anything that wasn't "common knowledge" or "necessary" for his survival didn't come to him (un)naturally, such as the entirety of the ancient runes text. (He enjoyed it regardless.)

His hair is falling into his face after who knows how much time has passed and he lets out a small noise of irritation as he rips off the hair tie at the end.

As he undoes his braid, he closes the book, looks up, and is surprised to see he's not alone.

"Who- Who the fuck are you?" he switches to English, trying and failing not to grimace at the ease with which the foreign words leave his mouth.

(Of course, Ed and Al have always read a lot, are naturally curious, and like to learn: they're usually considered know-it-all's. But Ed's never had so much access to information all at once, information that he didn't actually learn but just intuitively knows and understands, and he didn't think it'd be possible, but this entire situation is impossible, so he's learning to deal with it.)

His hair is loose about him, but he abandons braiding it for the moment.

"Oh! Um, sorry, s-sorry, I just, I couldn't find another compartment and the train was, it was starting to move, and you were here alone, and I did, I asked if it might be alright for me to sit, to sit here," the boy rambles, turning paler than is healthy for a human being. "But you didn't, um, yeah, you didn't answer, and I was told I had to be seated, so I, um, I sat in here."

He's dressed funny. Wizard robes, Ed's brain jumps on the thought.

Ed immediately feels bad for being so aggressive when the other boy is clearly terrified. He looks young, probably younger than Ed is (even if he might be t-a-l-l-e-r).

"Oh. Sorry, that's my fault, I get really focused when I'm reading. I'm Ed. And you're…?"

"Right, I'm, I'm Neville. Longbottom. Neville Longbottom. Nice to meet you, Ed-edward."

"Just call me Ed."

"Oh, okay. Okay. Ed."

Neville hasn't stopped stuttering since he's started talking.

"Did I do something to you? Why the hell are you so nervous?"

The boy jumps a little. "No! No, you didn't, I'm just, I'm a coward," he mumbles the last part and Ed scowls, which makes Neville wince.

"Why did you say that," he barks.

"It's, I mean, it's true? Everyone else thinks so too."

"Don't say shit like that about yourself," Ed snaps. He sets his book aside.

"S-s-sorry," Neville stutters, which only makes Ed angrier.

"Don't be fucking sorry! Why are you apologizing? You should apologize to yourself! People in life are always going to give you crap and say dumb shit because they've got nothing better to do, but that doesn't mean you just sit there and take it. Stand up for yourself and take no one's shit. Got it?"

He didn't even notice he had stood up at some point and is glaring down at the other boy, a gloved finger pointed at his face.

Neville nods furiously with wide eyes, clearly scared stiff by the strange boy sitting in front of him. Must be a Gryffindor, he thinks a little enviously, a proper Gryffindor.

Upon receiving confirmation from Neville, Ed gives a little nod in return and plops himself down on the seat. He starts braiding his hair again.

"So, Neville," he says conversationally as he does so, "What year are you?"

"I'm, I'm a third-year."

"Okay, me too."

"Uh, I've never seen you, er, around, before?" Neville hesitates as he says it, the lilt in his voice turning the statement into a question. Ed ignores the nervous demeanor for now and ties the end of his hair. He also forces himself to ignore that Neville seems to believe he's thirteen. He flips his braid over his shoulder.

"Yeah. I'm new."

"Oh! Oh. I didn't know that you could do that. So, you're transferring in?"

"I guess." Ed shrugs.

"How come?" Then hastily tacked on. "If you don't mind me asking."

"Shit happens, things change, it's for the better, and all that jazz." Ed waves a hand flippantly.

He takes the time to scrutinize the boy in front of him for the first time. Round face, brown hair, cute freckles. Fidgety. He's holding a toad in his hands (which would be weird if Ed didn't already know about the kind of animals wizards keep as pets), stroking its warty skin fondly, which just kills Ed inside.

(It's like watching Al coo over yet another stray kitten. "Can we keep this one, Brother? Please?")

"Have you already been Sorted then?"

Sorted into one of the four Hogwarts houses, Ed's brain supplies as he jolts from his reminiscing.

"Not yet. I think I will be once we get there."

"Do you think you know where you'll be Sorted?"

"I don't really care, honestly. It's not that important, is it?"

"Er… it's pretty important?"

"Figures wizards care about petty shit like this," Ed grumbles.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"I didn't catch what you just, what you said just now."

Shit. You're losing your touch, Fullmetal. Undercover, remember?

"It's my mother tongue. It's actually my first time in England." Truth, you fucking asshole, you better cover for me.

"Your English is really good for a foreigner," Neville offers. "You don't even have an accent."

"I, uh, I practice a lot."

It's at that awkward pause in their already stilted conversation that the train follows their lead and abruptly comes to a stop.

"Is this normal?" Ed asks, eyebrows scrunched together as he peers out the window. The train is in the middle of nowhere and the gloomy, overcast day is very quickly becoming stormy and dark.

Neville looks even more worried than he had when he first introduced himself. "No, I've never seen anything like this happen before."

"Should we be concerned?"

"I don't think so?"

"I'll take your word for it."

They sit in silence as the sky outside turns into complete darkness.

They've been sitting for the last three minutes when Ed notices how painfully numb his ports are. He rubs his right shoulder with his left hand and is confused to find that his automail is freezing.

"Hey, Neville?" His breath comes out visibly in little puffs.

"Y-y-yeah?" Neville is starting to shiver. He pulls his odd cloak tighter around himself.

"Wh-why's it s-s-so cold?" Ed's teeth chatter and he tries unsuccessfully to warm his metal limbs.

"N-n-not s-sure," Neville responds, now shaking so badly Ed's not sure it's just from the cold.

A shadow falls over the glass of the compartment door.

All at once, Ed is consumed by the despair that normally accompanies the memories of his failed resurrection, the creature with twisted limbs and bent neck, that couldn't move or speak, but had soulless eyes that tracked his every movement. It's the feeling of dread and anguish that plagued him when he realized he had lost Al.

His breathing is uneven as he pushes himself far away from the door.

"Nev-, Neville!" he stammers, frantically looking for the other boy.

He's not doing much better. Neville has his eyes shut and his hands are pressed over his ears. He's whimpering.

The shadow is, in fact, a gaunt, hooded figure that sways slightly in place in front of their door. Whatever it is, it isn't human; there's an unearthly quality to the way it moves, slow, yet lethal – Ed realizes it's floating. It bears no face, but somehow Ed understands that it's surveying them through the frosted glass. It lifts its hand and Ed recoils at the sight of the blackened flesh, the skeletal fingers scraping gently against the window.

"What the fuck is that?!"

Neville is non-responsive, shaking uncontrollably where he sits, curled into the fetal position.

The creature looms over them not more than two meters away; they are separated from the living nightmare only by the door.

Ed shifts so that he's standing protectively in between Neville and the demon. He can't feel the skin around his ports. Reaching into his jacket, he holds out his wand as he would a knife.

He hasn't ever cast a spell before.

The wand trembles in his left hand.

"St-stupify." Ed tries to sound confident, but he's never been more unsure.

In the moment following his first attempt at magic, Ed threatens Truth one (possibly last) time: if you want Riddle's soul, you better fucking hold up your end of the deal.

A feeble shower of red sparks leaves the tip of his wand.

"FUCK!"

The demon inhales, the raspy sound grating Ed's ears. It hasn't made an effort to enter the compartment, but Ed's not taking chances.

"Fucking shit, fuck! Fuck!"

He abandons trying to use the wand and holds up his fists as if to fight. He doesn't even know if the creature is corporeal.

It twists its head slowly to the other side as it leans forward, its skeletal hand now pressed flat against the glass.

Every muscle in Ed's body tenses, ready to jump at a moment's notice.

Nothing happens.

The figure gives the two boys one last look before it slowly turns and drifts off. The moment it's gone, Ed collapses on the ground next to Neville.

The compartment is still bitterly cold, but the horror and panic that had burgeoned in the demon's presence fades away. After Ed double-checks that the blasted creature is gone for good, he turns to face Neville, who is huddled on the floor in the corner, still quivering.

"Hey, you-," he stops as he shudders. "You alright?"

"Is," Neville begins quietly, "Is it gone?"

"I think so."

"Wh-what was that?"

So, apparently it wasn't a regular occurrence to run into a physical manifestation of evil.

"No fucking clue," Ed replies as he offers Neville his left hand. He accepts it and allows Ed to pull him up from the ground.

"What happened? Where'd it go?"

Ed runs a hand through his hair as both boys settle warily back into the seats. The sky is still a nasty grey color and there's a distant rumble of thunder. They can still see their own breaths as they exhale.

"I'm honestly not sure, but it looked like it had other things to be doing. Let's just count ourselves lucky this time," Ed says. Not that I'm ever that lucky, he tacks on mentally.

Rain begins to fall on the window and the silence is soon filled with the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the glass.

"I told you," Neville says suddenly. His voice is small. "I told you I'm a coward."

Ed eyes the other boy from where he sits, a severe look of disapproval on his face. "What makes you say that?"

"I c-c-couldn't even do anything when that thing was here. I was so scared I thought, well, I thought, you know, I was going to die. And you? You just, you stood in front of it and tried to fight. You stood in front of me, tried to protect me, while I sat there uselessly." Neville focuses on his shoes. He's afraid to watch the weird, but brave stranger in front of him agree with what could only be considered the truth.

Ed takes his time considering Neville's words and tries to find the right thing to say. He's angry the way he seldom actually is, where he can feel the heat of his fury behind his eyes and in his ears. Not at Neville, obviously, but at the people who are clearly doing everything they can to break down the boy's self-esteem and sense of self to nothing.

"Listen up," Ed starts. He waits until Neville looks him in the eye before continuing. "Let me tell you right now that being a coward has nothing to do with being scared about things that are actually fucking terrifying. Being scared of a happiness-sucking demon? That's not being a coward, that's common fucking sense."

He stares at the other boy intently as he says the next thing.

"You can be scared and be brave, Neville. Being a coward is knowing what's right and what's wrong and still doing the wrong thing for whatever fucking reason. So, stop calling yourself a fucking coward unless you think you're the kind of shitty asshole who'd pull that crap."

He watches Neville's stunned expression morph into something uncertain.

"Are you a coward, Neville?" Ed asks.

The unsure look wavers and then changes and settles into something determined.

"No, I'm not," Neville responds, the most confident he's been the entire train ride.

"Good. Don't let me hear otherwise."

The rest of the train ride passes without incident. They didn't find out what happened with the creature until the snack-trolley comes by and the witch manning the cart let them know that the so-called "dementor" was actually on patrol, but had gotten closer to the Hogwarts Express than was permitted.

"Nasty little surprise, but no harm done, right, dearies?"

Ed buys a chocolate frog for himself and for Neville, making a face at the assortment of pumpkin-flavored snacks as he does so. (Who likes pumpkin?)

"Right," he says sarcastically, but the witch doesn't notice or blatantly ignores his attitude, just gives them a smile and a wave as she continues merrily down the train.

Ed spends the rest of the train ride getting to know Neville. There's no longer any discomfort or awkwardness after the talk Ed had given Neville and the boy isn't stuttering anymore. Ed finds that Neville's true personality is great: the boy is witty and kind and passionate about Herbology (which Ed only really knows the basics of, so he's content to let Neville rant about the complexities of the subject that most people ignore). His one downfall is that he's plagued by horrible anxiety that Ed guesses stems from his overbearing grandmother (and extended family in general) and some teacher from school named Snape. As he gets to know what Neville is like under his exterior, he's reminded of Al, who's always been the favorite of grandmothers and children and animals, who's sweet and considerate of others without ulterior motives. If Neville grew out of his nervousness, forged that uncertainty in him into a core of iron, he'd be so similar to the Al who's beaten Ed ruthlessly in every relentless spar while also being the most good-hearted person Ed knows.

In the back of his mind, Ed's also repeating the memory of hot, sizzling red sparks erupting from the end of his wand. He can feel the ghost of that strange tingle on his fingertips. There's nothing comforting about the raw power magic seems to entail; it's completely foreign from the familiar crackle of electricity that accompanies his usual displays of alchemy, enveloped in the comforting scent of a storm.

It's unsettling, Ed thinks. That spell didn't even work right and it felt that strong.

Ed knows the repercussions for lawless alchemy; he shudders to think what follows a misuse of magic.

As the train nears its stop, Neville opens his trunk and begins looking for a change of clothes. Ed tracks his movements around the compartment without a thought.

"Are you not going to change, Ed?"

"Why do I need to-," he stops short as he remembers that this school required its students to wear uniforms. Okay, but he hadn't had any appropriate robes in his trunk. Not that he'd wear a uniform anyhow; he hadn't worn one while serving in the military, so there's no way he's going to cave and wear one for school. "Nah, I didn't bother to buy any. I don't do uniforms."

Neville shakes his head in disbelief and then suddenly, he laughs. "Will you let me speak at your funeral?" He pretends to be solemn, wiping away a tear that isn't there. "I've only known the guy for a few hours, but I warned him, I swear I did."

Ed snorts. "Neville, that's the ballsy-est thing you've said all day. Keep it up."

Neville flushes, but grins at Ed and then gets to work putting on his robes. Ed leans back in his seat and yawns, before stretching his arms overhead. He systematically cracks the knuckles on his left hand and then twists to either side to crack his spine. Lastly, he jerks his head left and right, cracking his neck.

The Hogwarts Express pulls into the station and Edward Elric stands, hands smoothing over his travel-wrinkled jacket.

"Ready."

* * * * *

There's a gigantic man waiting outside the train.

"Firs' years! Firs' years o'er here! Firs' years, and, er, what's that, Edg-, no, Edward Elric!" The man struggles to read Ed's name off a scrap of parchment in the dim light.

Ed gives Neville a cocky salute before following the mass of literal children that flocks to the giant's side. They had already said goodbye's as they left the train, with Neville certain he'd see the other boy around soon.

He's definitely a Gryffindor, Neville thinks, before reflecting for a bit on the new kid's penchant for reading and love of discussing any and all topics. Maybe he's a Ravenclaw, he muses. I hope he's a Gryffindor, though.

In the meantime, Ed approaches the giant. "Sir? You called my name, I'm Edward Elric."

The man's face is mostly hidden by a thick mane of hair and an impressive beard, but Ed can practically feel the brightness in his eyes and the friendliness in his smile.

"No need to call me sir! You can jus' call me Hagrid."

"Then you can call me Ed," he offers, the corner of his lip quirking up in a ghost of a smile.

"Nice to meet you, Ed. I'll be takin' you and the firs' years to the castle once everyone's here."

"Great," Ed says, and means it. "Thank you, Hagrid."

"'S not a problem, Ed." Hagrid beams at him one more time before turning and bellowing at the mass of students still filing off the train. "Firs' years! Firs' years this way!"

Soon enough, Hagrid rounded up the seemingly endless stream of eleven-year-olds wandering around the station and herded them, as well as Ed, towards the edge of a lake, where countless wooden boats floated patiently.

"Four to a boat," Hagrid announces, before sliding into one all by himself.

Ed isn't keen on getting in, but clambers into one nonetheless, all while wondering how the other students were going to arrive. Neville had definitely walked off in a different direction from the lake and Ed imagines wistfully that the other students get to go to the school in a completely normal fashion. At this point, the three first-years who are also in this boat "ooh" and "ah", despite there being nothing interesting happening. They're literally just sitting in a dinky little boat on a pitch-black lake.

He has to stop the impulse to transmute his arm into a blade when the boat lurches forward without warning and without assistance from anyone or anything.

Magic, he reminds himself, irritated. Completely illogical, fucking unreasonable, MAGIC. His fingers, flesh and metal, clench the sides of the tiny magic boat and watches as they are steered to follow Hagrid.

Eventually, a medieval castle appears in the darkness, sitting upon the rocky edge of the lake. It's lit by the pale light of the moon and while there's a swell of noise as the first-years gape and gasp and fawn over Hogwarts, the sight of his new prison reminds Ed of everything he didn't sign up for and he has to bite back his desire to snarl.

Cannot fucking believe what that shithole is making me do.

He's so caught up in his renewed anger at Truth for enrolling him into school (which he hasn't done in years) and the prospect of actually being surrounded by magic, that he barely notices any of the castle as the horde of students arrive in a corridor where they are instructed to wait. Ghosts pop out of the walls and the paintings move but nothing is interesting enough (especially since he already knew everything about the school) to pull Ed away from his current dilemma: maybe this is the time to run…?

Ed doesn't run. More accurately, he doesn't have the time to run, because an older witch walks up to the group and begins talking about what comes next. He's not really listening, doesn't really care one way or another, because he's fully grasping that he's a prisoner of his own making, when he hears, "Mr. Elric?"

"Yeah," he says, actually paying attention now. "I mean, yes. Ma'am?"

"Where are your robes, Mr. Elric?" The disapproval is all too clear in her tone and her eyes and her mouth, which is set in a stern line.

"Don't have any," he answers. "Professor McGonagall." He adds, figuring he should make use of what he already knows. He also uses the completely polite voice he's only ever used with military brass who control his access to certain necessary resources. (He learned from the best; cough – Mustang – cough.)

Without changing her expression, Minerva McGonagall manages to look more severe than she had several seconds before.

"We will continue this discussion at a later time, Mr. Elric. As it is, we will be late for the Sorting."

Ed can tell McGonagall was completely ready to tear his head off, had she not needed to stick to whatever predetermined schedule there was. She's absolutely terrifying, of course, but this is a hill Ed is willing to die on. He may not have his red coat, but there's no way he's going to start wearing ties and sweater vests, magic school or no magic school.

There's no more time to think about potential excuses for his lack of "proper attire", because they're in the Great Hall and are subjected to the eyes of hundreds of other kids.

That's what they are, Ed thinks a tad bitterly, they're kids. Actual kids, not a "kid" like me.

(Ed hasn't referred to himself as a kid since the day he lost his limbs. He still thinks of Al as one though, because Al deserves to be.)

The first-years (and Ed) stand at the front of the Hall and watch as McGonagall places a rickety stool directly center-stage. There's a ragged old hat on top.

The Sorting is the one thing Ed didn't really know about, even after all that reading, as apparently, it's some centuries-old secret and rite of passage that every English witch and wizard should experience as a surprise (and isn't that annoying as all hell). He's actually curious what the Sorting will be like.

The entire Great Hall is quiet as everyone watches the hat in anticipation of something, anything, to happen. The hat sits innocently upon the stool.

And then it's not just sitting there, it's singing.

Ed grooms his expression into one that betrays no emotion. This was the great trial that these magicians raved about in history books? Pathetic.

Once the hat stops singing, McGonagall steps forward again and begins calling students forward to wear the hat, which then yells out which House they belong in. The list is alphabetical, but the E's pass by, and Ed's still standing at the front of the Hall.

Once the last first-year has been called, an ancient wizard with bizarre robes stands up and begins introducing Ed to the rest of Hogwarts.

So, this is Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

The students around him are buzzing with something, possibly excitement, at the news of a transfer student, which Ed chalks up to transferring being a rare occurrence.

When McGonagall gestures toward the hat, Ed walks up to the school, careful to keep his expression neutral.

He sits down and McGonagall sets the hat on his head.

Well, well, well, aren't you something else?

It's only his years of military service that prevents him from jumping in alarm.

What the literal fuck is happening?

That's quite a mouth for such a small child.

BASTARD, I AM NOT A FUCKING CHILD AND WHO THE HELL IS SMALL? I AM OF AVERAGE HEIGHT! AVERAGE HEIGHT, YOU HEAR ME!

How could I not, the hat says wryly. You're essentially screaming. At a hat.

Ed's face contorts into a scowl.

Don't you have a job to be doing, you shit-rag.

He can hear that the hat is laughing at him and the disembodied laughter does nothing to calm him down. If anything, it reminds him of the reason he's here in the first place.

Mmm, I appreciate the comparison, little alchemist.

Ed stops breathing. The voice isn't right, it's clearly different, but the tone of the words makes it sound like the hat thinks it's better than him, which feels like a five-inch needle directly to his spine.

Not to worry, little alchemist, your secrets are safe with me.

Don't call me that! Fuck. If I had known you could read minds or whatever I wouldn't have agreed to do this.

You hardly had a choice now, did you? Sent against your will and all.

Ed grumbles.

I can see you have had quite a life already. Only fifteen and already in this so-called military of yours. Suffering so much loss.

The image of his mother flashes in his mind, followed by Al as he'd last seen him, a seven-foot-tall metal armor. His ports ache.

And through it all, you have demonstrated bravery, a thirst for knowledge, and an inconceivable amount of ambition. You wish to restore your brother and yourself to your original forms? And on top of that, you seek to kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Quite ambitious indeed.

How the fuck are you doing this? Stop looking in my head if you know what's good for you.

The hat ignores him and continues to talk. Ed curls his lip back, baring teeth.

But more than anything, I sense loyalty. I can see a loyalty to those you love and swore to protect, a loyalty that will likely get you killed.

You don't fucking know anything, shut the fuck up!

To have come all this way, just to save one little girl.

Ed is furious, so much so that the fingers on his left hand are numb from being pressed into a fist for too long. He barely registers the crowd of intrigued students watching him from the tables below.

Fuck you. Fuck you! FUCK YOU! STOP LOOKING!

Loyal to a fault.

An image of Nina asking him to play flashes unwillingly in the forefront of his mind.

Stop talking, stop looking, shut up, shut up, shut up!

Tell me, little alchemist, are you prepared to die for the sake of Nina Tucker?

The hat sounds so much like Truth in that moment that Ed stills, a feeling of dread pooling in his gut.

Will you die to save her?

He's torn. He has other promises to keep, but he'd made this promise as well.

Would you?

I wouldn't die for her.

The hat seems surprised, but Ed continues before it can interrupt him.

I won't die for anyone. But I'll fight for any of them.

Faces and names come to mind at the thought. He can practically hear the way they say his name, usually exasperated, but overwhelmingly fond.

Then it's quite clear where you belong.

Then get on with it, asshole. I can't stand you.

The hat laughs again. Little alchemist, it starts.

DON'T. DON'T CALL ME THAT!

Little alchemist, you belong to…

"HUFFLEPUFF!" The hat shouts aloud. One of the four rows of tables bursts into applause and cheers, but Ed doesn't give a shit about that right now.

He rips the hat off his head and glares at the odd folds and tears that composes its face.

"If you ever, ever pull that shit again, ever think to do what you just did, ever talk about what you've seen to anyone, I'LL FUCKING TURN YOU INTO TROLL UNDERWEAR. UNDERSTOOD?"

He swears the hat is smirking at him. Ed tosses the hat onto the floor and stomps down on its shit-eating grin once, before going to join the Hufflepuffs, who are now sitting in stony silence. The entire Hall, in fact, is silent. Not that the Fullmetal Alchemist notices.

"Stupid, fucking piece of cloth reading my god-damn mind and trying to act all high and mighty like SOME OTHER BASTARD I KNOW, cannot believe the amount of bullshit I'm putting up with right now, this dumb school and its dumb Houses and its dumb hat that reads FUCKING MINDS!" Ed mutters as he looks for a seat.

There's an empty spot at the end (thankfully) of the Hufflepuff table and Ed sits down with a huff.

Dumbledore gets up at that point and after saying some useless pleasantries, begins to make some introductions to changes in staff.

"Professor Remus Lupin will be in charge of Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. And our very own groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, will be taking over Care of Magical Creatures following the retirement of Professor Kettleburn."

There's polite applause and a few cheers.

At this point, Dumbledore also casually mentions that the "dementors" from before will be hanging around in search of "serious black", which sets off another wave of whispering amongst the students. Ed feels like he should know what the "serious black" is, thinks it sounds really familiar, but can't quite explain why he feels that way when he's too busy obsessing over what the hat had said to him.

Will you die to save her?

Am I going to die here?

"With that, I only have one thing left to say: lettuce eat!"

Ed physically restrains himself from slapping his hand against his face.

* * * * *

No one talks to him while he eats and Ed is fine with that. It might be that they're afraid of him after his display of anger shortly after his Sorting, but it's more likely the fact that Ed has disgusting eating habits and chews his food like he's going to die tomorrow and this is his last meal. Al isn't around to make excuses and apologize for him either.

Once the feast is finally over, Ed follows the rest of the Hufflepuffs to their dormitory. On his way out of the Great Hall, he spots Neville with the rest of the Gryffindors and he gives a little wave before chasing after the guy who introduced himself as one of the Hufflepuff prefects.

The door is at the end of a corridor decorated with giant ceiling-to-floor tapestries and paintings. It's actually the face of a giant barrel, one of many stacked in a pyramid.

"Password's easy," Mr. Prefect says with a handsome grin, "Just ask nicely."

Apparently, the door will pretty much open for anyone, which Ed considers a serious security risk, until Mr. Prefect explains that it's become a Hufflepuff tradition to say and do miscellaneous things while "opening" the door, so that any students from other Houses will try to do the same, without realizing the important part is the "please" and "thank you". He laughs as he recalls he'd once seen some pranksters try to break in, but had copied Leo Davies (currently a seventh-year), who had sang and danced to the entirety of "It's Raining Men" when he had opened the door.

With that, Mr. Prefect asks the door very respectfully to allow them entrance, thanks it once it does so, and then waves them inside.

It's a warm, cozy, cottage-like room, filled with potted plants and knick-knacks carved out of wood and set with magically glittering stones. There are countless comfortable velvet armchairs and sofas, all different jewel-tones, and a million cushions of various sizes and designs are scattered about the dark wooden floor. There's an impressive fireplace, complete with a merrily crackling fire. Somehow, they've enchanted lights to twinkle like fireflies in the air around the common room. The stone walls are almost completely hidden by ivy, only interrupted by tall wall-length windows that are decorated with moving stained-glass, depicting mythical creatures.

Ed feels terribly out of place, not for the first time. He's used to crappy military quarters, with minimal furniture and bare, peeling walls.

"It's nice, isn't it," Mr. Prefect comments.

"Yeah. Nice," Ed parrots, unsure how to feel about living here for an indeterminate amount of time.

"You'll be living with Justin, Ernie, Zach, Archie, and Elliot," Mr. Prefect continues, pointing them out. The students in question freeze, looking terrified. He beckons them over and they do, albeit hesitantly.

"This is Ed, he'll be rooming with you guys from now on."

The five other boys introduce themselves meekly, but Justin Finch-Fletchley gives the impression that he's not pleased with this development at all. Ed ignores it and says it's nice to meet them, even if it's not.

"Er, I'll show you to the room? Boys' dormitory is that way," Archie Williams says, lifting a hand to point out a corridor off to the left.

"Thanks. I'm dead tired," Ed responds. He's exhausted. He's been awake for what feels like days, what with all the Truth negotiating and subsequent reality-hopping that occurred.

The other boy laughs nervously and then starts walking, with Ed and the rest of his new roommates following behind him.

The room is a little less "enchanted" than the common room, which Ed is deeply grateful for. It's still warm, still cozy, but there are simple wooden four-poster beds with mustard-yellow curtains surrounding them. The beds are covered with thick embroidered quilts and there's a colorful rug on the floor. There's also a sturdy wooden nightstand to the right of each bed. At the end of the room, there's a large window with a cushioned sill, so that a person could comfortably sit upon it.

It reminds him of the houses in Resembool, which makes Ed painfully nostalgic for what would be home. (If he hadn't burned his down.)

"That one's yours," Ernie Macmillan says, pointing to the bed on the left side of the room, closest to the window. His trunk stands at the foot of the bed.

"Great. Thanks." He walks over to it as the other boys awkwardly set about getting ready for bed. It's mostly silent in the room, but Ed ignores it and focuses instead on what he needs to get done so he can pass out. Ed doesn't bother to change (he can't, anyway, with the other boys milling about) and pulls out his toothbrush and walks into the bathroom attached to the dorm room.

He figures he'll shower in the morning (when no one else is awake) and clambers into bed after brushing his teeth and washing his face. He yanks off his boots (his automail foot hidden by the socks he's wearing) and leaves them neatly to the side.

"Night," he says, more to be polite than anything, and he pulls the curtains around his bed shut. He can't hear a thing after he does so; the curtains must be spelled to keep out noise.

Once he's sure no one can see him, he takes off his jacket, puts his wand underneath his pillow, and folds the jacket before placing it at the foot of his bed. He debates taking off the gloves as well, but decides against it after thinking about any surprises his roommates might spring on him while he's asleep. The gloves stay on.

And then he's out like a light.

* * * * *

As soon as the curtains are pulled shut around the transfer kid's bed, Justin turns to the other boys: "What the hell is his deal?"

Elliot Lee winces and anxiously presses a finger to his mouth. "Shhh! He'll hear you!"

Ernie nods his head in agreement, glancing towards the bed in question.

"Curtains, remember?," Zacharias Smith says dryly as he rolls his eyes. "Why not be upfront about it anyhow? Everyone was dying to know about him during the feast."

"He didn't even bother to change," Justin crinkles his nose.

"He said he was tired, remember?" Archie says defensively. "We can talk to him tomorrow. It's probably weird for him too, being at a new school and everything."

"Fine," Justin concedes. "Still think he has a problem," he mutters under his breath. Archie shoots him a look, but doesn't comment on it.

Elliot and Ernie begin chatting animatedly about what they did over the summer holidays, while Zach takes advantage of the lull in conversation to slip into the bathroom before they're all fighting over it, as is the norm. Both Justin and Archie talk about which subjects they've chosen as electives, the two boys pretending to be nonchalant about their choices, but coming off as if they care too much about what the others think about them (which is perfectly typical of thirteen-year-old's).

As the boys slowly get into bed and turn out the lights, they all have the same thought in the back of their minds.

Maybe third year would be eventful for Hufflepuff with their newest addition; Merlin knows Harry Potter and his problems aren't the only things happening at this school.

* * * * *

Ed wakes from a nightmare with his gloved fist pressed hard against his mouth, a scream caught in the back of his throat.

"Shit," he breathes, trying to calm his racing heart. "You're fine, Fullmetal. It's fine."

He desperately wishes Al were here. Al, with his calm demeanor, who was the ultimate voice of reason. Who would understand what plagued Ed when he closed his eyes due to their shared trauma.

This, on the other hand, is all brand new and he has no one by his side who could understand why sleep tortured him.

He'd dreamt of a snake-like man, with red eyes and pale skin, of the Hallows he seeks to find, slipping through his fingers like smoke when he reaches for them. A ring cursed in a way that is a little too close to home, a wand held in hands too big to pry them from, a cloak tucked away in plain sight.

The subject matter of the dream hadn't been what startled him awake; it was the way the disjointed images had elicited the gun-to-your-temple sensation he'd only ever felt around Truth.

"Fuck," Ed groans softly. He parts the curtain slightly, just so he can see out the window to the left of his bed.

The moon is still high in the sky and it can't be later than three or four in the morning. Ed assumes the rest of the boys are sound asleep.

He leans back with his back pressed against the headboard and pulls off his gloves. Rolling up his sleeve, he stares at his arm with despondency. He trails his fingers over the grooves in the metal and eventually grips his shoulder, where automail meets flesh. Ed sits like that for a while, breathing through his nose with his eyes clamped shut and his fingers roaming over the unfeeling metal of his right arm.

Both his arm and leg are unforgiving and indifferent. They are simultaneously a punishment and a blessing; they will never let him forgive himself, but they've also saved his life more than once. His automail is the cursed cornerstone of who he is and who he will become in time. He's grateful for it when he's wallowing in his loneliness: he can't won't die before he returns Al to his real body.

Eventually, he forces himself to get out of bed (gloves and jacket pulled on, of course), put on his shoes, and go exercise for a bit to clear his head.

Should probably practice "magic" before classes actually start anyway, he thinks ruefully as he makes his way out of the castle.

The night is blissfully cool and Ed decides to head towards the distant outline of the Quidditch training pitch.

(When Ed read about Quidditch in Hogwarts, A History, he had had to set the book down for seven minutes just to collect himself. Flying. Flying on brooms. Just. What.)

He stretches himself out on the grass of the pitch, hidden from view by the hedges that border the entire thing. Not that anyone was awake to see him in the first place. He goes through a series of his usual workouts and physical therapy exercises before he decides to switch gears and attempt to figure out how to use his wand.

Holding what equated to a decorated stick in his hand makes him feel foolish and childlike, which he despises, but he needs this stick to like him or something, because otherwise he really will be fucked the next time anything happens.

The wand chooses the wizard, right?, he thinks to himself, before he starts talking to the wand.

"It's just you and me, buddy, so maybe don't pull shit like you did yesterday, okay?"

He figures it is his wand so it should understand Amestrian (if it could even understand language – ha!) and it's dumb, but talking to it makes him feel like he has something on his side in this foreign land. Maybe even something – someone? – he can call a friend, an ally. He knows the stick is inanimate, but he had also felt that thrum of something almost alive and overwhelmingly powerful in his hand when he had cast that spell yesterday.

"Just you and me."

Ed takes a deep breath. Something simple.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he says clearly, with a swish and flick.

Magic. It's a foreign sensation to Ed, yet reminiscent of the crackle of electricity that accompanies his clapped hands, like the smell of ozone and the wash of energy of a lightning strike present with every act of alchemy he's ever performed. The wood in his hand practically sings, an unearthly warmth surging from his own person to the wand.

And he watches as the rock he's pointing it at rises steadily, floating about a meter off the ground before it drops, because he can barely contain his excited shout, two triumphant fists raised in the still night air.

Perhaps he's not as alone as he'd feared.

* * * * *

Ed spends the rest of the late night/early morning practicing perfecting first- and second-year spells and wandwork, pushing his limits and throwing himself into his re-education. It's grueling, but it's exactly what he needs to distract himself from what awaits him in the future.

Like how he's going to kill deal with Riddle. Like what is a Horcrux, because it's apparently important and related to his target, but he doesn't know, or isn't allowed to know, anything more than that.

At least, as Truth had promised, he knows exactly where the Hallows are, even if that does little to help him obtain them. There's a ring set with a certain stone buried under the rotting floorboards of an abandoned shack, there's a wand made of elder wielded by the Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and there's a cloak that makes its wearer invisible in the hands of one Harry Potter.

Ed had cursed Truth for fucking with him by imprisoning him in a school of all things, but when he had realized that two of the three objects he was looking for were currently at Hogwarts, he had changed his tune to cursing Truth for making their desired toll fee near impossible to get (and for implying he was thirteen).

Yes, Ed knows exactly where the Hallows are, but it's not like he can just ask Dumbledore to hand over his wand and ask Potter if he'd give up his literal invisibility cloak. From what Ed understands, it'd be the equivalent of asking Colonel Bastard to give up his gloves. So, the direct approach is clearly not the way to go here, but Ed's nothing if not resourceful; he'll figure something out (he better).

When the practice pitch slowly develops shadows, that grow as the sun rises, Ed tucks his wand behind his ear as he would a pen and rushes back to the castle to shower before anyone notices.

The other boys are still sleeping, judging from the untouched state of the curtains surrounding the beds. That works out perfectly for Ed, who grabs a change of clothes (a near identical outfit, with the exception of a thicker black turtleneck sweater rather than another T-shirt) and strips in the bathroom.

He allows himself three minutes to stand underneath the burning shower, mind completely blank, before scrubbing his skin and washing his hair.

As soon as he's clean and dressed, Ed exits the bathroom, only to run right into Ernie as he does so.

"Shit," Ed leans over the other boy and extends his left hand, "You alright?"

"I'm, er, I'm fine," Ernie replies, staring at Ed's hand.

He raises an eyebrow. "Haven't got all day."

"Oh! Right, right, sorry," Ernie says, grabbing Ed's offered hand. "Thanks," he says sheepishly.

Ed shrugs, then walks over to go through his trunk. He hears the click of the lock behind him.

Ernie isn't the only roommate who's woken up. Zach sits up, blinking blearily at Ed, before he collapses back onto his bed. Archie lets out a, "Five more minutes, mum," and then proceeds to burrow himself into his blanket. The curtains around Elliot's and Justin's bed remain closed.

Ed grabs a leather-bound notebook and fountain pen from his trunk before leaving to go eat breakfast. He's (always) starving.

When he arrives at the Great Hall, he finds the entire room empty.

"What the hell…" He pulls out his watch and checks the time. It's nineteen minutes 'til seven o'clock, meaning Ed has a little less than fifty minutes to wait before food is served.

He sits at the end of one of the tables and takes advantage of the solitude to begin jotting down his thoughts and considerations about his objective. He's fairly sure his chicken scratch is enough to keep prying eyes from deciphering his shorthand, which Mustang had once equated to reading the future from the alignment of stars or from tea leaves: you have no fucking idea what is right in front of you, because it's useless, so you do your absolute best to bullshit about what's there. But he makes sure to write in Amestrian shorthand anyway, just to have an added layer of protection to the somewhat sensitive information he was made privy to.

He's been scribbling furiously for what seems like an eternity, when his train of thought is interrupted.

"Wrong table, shrimp."

"WHO THE FUCK IS A SHRIMP? WHO HERE IS SHORT, SHITHEAD? WANT TO SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME?" He's standing before he thinks not to, and becomes ten times angrier upon discovering the boy who spoke towers over him. "I'M A PERFECTLY GOOD HEIGHT, FUCKWAD."

The boy in question looks like he's trying not to smile. He schools his face into something closer to boredom before he replies to Ed, but his eyes give him away; he's delighted.

"You're obviously not an average height for a thirteen-year-old," he drawls. His amused tone makes Ed want to strangle the kid.

(Ed mostly wants to strangle Truth for sticking him in with kids two years younger than him.)

There are no other people in the hall, so Ed doesn't bother to stop the flood of insults and profanity that the s-h-o-r-t comments evoke, but if anything, the boy seems entertained by the abuse easily and provokes Ed intentionally.

"BASTARD," Ed finally snarls, slamming his fist against the table as he sits back down.

"It's Blaise Zabini, actually," the other boy responds, taking a seat across from Ed. "And I was attempting to let you know you're at the wrong table, before everyone else comes in and notices."

Blaise taps the green crest on the front of his robes with a smug smile and Ed realizes he isn't sitting at the Hufflepuff tables like he is supposed to be. It's nothing to be embarrassed about, but Ed can feel the tips of his ears heat up as he watches Blaise smirk.

"Fuck you, bastard," Ed growls. He gathers his things and gets up from the table.

Blaise rolls his eyes. "No need to throw a temper tantrum, I was simply trying to help the lost child find his way back." He snorts. "You're really something, Elric. Never met a Hufflepuff who'd dare to even look in a Slytherin's direction."

Ed scowls. "What does me being a Hufflepuff have to do with anything?"

"Haven't you heard? Hufflepuffs are notorious for being utterly boring, completely ordinary, afraid of their own shadows," Blaise says. "You get the idea."

"Fuck you, man, you haven't ever met a Hufflepuff like me."

"Quite right. You're the shortest Hogwarts student I've ever met."

"BASTARD, I SWEAR-,"

"Not so loud," Blaise scolds, a smile on the corners of his mouth.

Ed gives him a fierce look as he leans towards the other boy. "FUCK. YOU," he yells.

Blaise smiles fully at that.

"You're fucking unbearable," Ed continues. "I refuse to be in your presence any longer, bastard."

Blaise arches an eyebrow. "Yet here we are, squabbling like old lovers over the breakfast table."

"We are not squabbling," Ed squawks.

"Whatever tickles your fancy, dear."

Ed lets out a yell of frustration before marching away from the Slytherin, who loses his composure watching the blonde mutter to himself as he leaves.

Once he settles down on the end of the correct row of tables, Ed goes back to scribbling in his notebook, just to have a reason to ignore Blaise, who he can feel glancing at him every so often. Eventually, other students begin to drag themselves into the room and the food magically appears as it did the night before.

Ed is in the middle of devouring a stack of pancakes and several sausages when a piece of parchment pops into existence in front of him and every other student currently eating breakfast.

It's his schedule for the year, he notes, scanning the timetable with interest.

Double potions and charms on Monday, followed by History of Magic, Herbology, and Astronomy on Tuesday's. There's transfiguration and double Defense Against the Dark Arts on Wednesday's and Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures on Thursday's. His Friday's are free.

The Hogwarts schedule leaves Ed plenty of time to do research, plan the best way to take down the wizarding world's most prominent villain, and avoid dying or being found out.

He finishes wolfing down the last of his pancakes and checks the time. Classes don't start until nine, and it's only 08:13.

Speaking of research, it's time to check out the library, Ed thinks eagerly.

He's gone in a flurry of black leather and braided hair.

* * * * *

From where he sits at the Slytherin table, Blaise Zabini eyes the (short) blonde figure as he rushes out of the room.

"Merlin's pants, did you guys see that?!" Pansy Parkinson over-exaggerates her excitement, squealing and jumping in place as she mockingly covers her mouth with a perfectly manicured hand. When she has everyone's attention, including Blaise's, she drops the act. She smiles, showing all of her teeth. "Blaise was checking out the new kid."

Draco Malfoy glances at Blaise, his mouth turned down in disapproval. "Really, Blaise? The new kid? Are you that bored?"

Blaise returns Malfoy's look coolly. "Fresh blood," he says, affecting indifference.

"MUDblood," Theodore Nott corrects, wrinkling his nose.

Blaise can't really object to that assessment, given that the Elric kid hasn't worn robes since the moment he arrived and he was using a Muggle quill. But he's never been very close with Malfoy and his posse, doesn't feel the need to talk to them and lingers at the edge of their social group only for appearance's sake rather than for friendship. He isn't about to tell them about his entertaining interaction with the boy earlier that morning; that was something just for him.

"Even mud has its uses," he says instead. He takes a sip of his tea.

"It really doesn't, mate," Nott responds. "It only makes things dirty and it's a pain-in-the-ass to clean."

"Not very Slytherin to not make use of every- and anything," Blaise says. He knows it will rile the other boy up, but he feigns innocence at the comment.

"Better than ogling a Hufflepuff with mud for blood," Nott grins smugly. Blaise ignores him in favor of finishing off his eggs.

Malfoy and his lackeys snicker, but Blaise couldn't care less.

The opinions of six stuck-up thirteen-year-old's hardly matter in the end and Blaise plays the long game.

* * * * *

At the same time that Blaise is insulted for even looking in Ed's direction, Dumbledore also watches the transfer student race out of the Great Hall from his place at the front table.

"Minerva, did you happen to explain the expectations of dress at Hogwarts to young Mr. Elric?"

"Of course, I mentioned it, Albus, but the boy had claimed he hadn't any robes with him and I could hardly question in him in front of the other first-years when he was already singled out. Or have you forgotten why he's here?" McGonagall chides Dumbledore in a hushed tone.

All of the professors were informed of Edward Elric's circumstances when they had received his application to transfer. The boy had been homeschooled prior to applying, but he had recently lost his only surviving parent to illness and had no other relatives to turn to and not enough money to sustain himself forever as his own legal guardian. With an incomplete education, it was unlikely that the boy would find paying work even if he were of age.

Orphans aren't as common in the Wizarding World following Voldemort's disappearance thirteen years prior, but Dumbledore isn't one to deny entrance to Hogwarts, no matter how late a person is getting started. After all, everyone deserves the chance to learn.

So, yes, Dumbledore knows exactly how Edward Elric ended up at Hogwarts this year, but after observing the boy lash out at the Sorting Hat last night, he can't help himself from wondering if Edward is hiding something. Something concerning.

He'd have to keep an eye on the boy, on top of waiting for any developments on Sirius Black.

"Thank you for the reminder, Minerva," he replies, a twinkle in his eye.

Her face twitches, and he's fairly certain she's tamping down the urge to roll her eyes at his cheek.

He butters his bread and offers it to her.

"Toast?"

McGonagall returns to her own breakfast, a touch exasperated.

Dumbledore observes Harry from afar, considering the Elric boy as he does.

Would the addition of this unknown variable ruin years of planning? What role might this unexpected arrival fulfill in the impending battle between good and evil?

He takes a bite of his toast.

Time would tell.