Sirius, due to a distant past overrun with luxury, knows not one, but four different goblin silversmiths who are generally a bit more lenient in crafting goods for wizards, in spite of their being human.
Goblins don't like humans, after all.
And why would they? Wizards, the only humans they regularly interact with, treat them as inferior and perpetuate negative stereotypes about them, when in reality, goblin culture is just completely different from that of wizards.
Different isn't inherently better or worse in most scenarios.
Ed knows that first-hand, given how different things are in Amestris from how things are here, but that doesn't stop Sirius from stressing out about him potentially fucking up during a consultation.
"I'm not kidding, you're going to have to be really careful about this. Insulting a goblin could be really disastrous for the wizarding world and their social practices aren't the same as ours, so you might think something's fine, but it will not be."
Sirius walks Ed through the general do's and don't's of associating with goblins, much of which is fairly logical: don't promise them anything you can't actually give, don't use magic without asking first, don't try to badger them into changing the price of something, etc.
Towards the very end, Sirius says, "And do not, I repeat, do not ever mention the sword of Gryffindor. Or reference it. Or even allude to it."
"Why?" Ed asks, to be annoying more than from actual curiosity.
It works fairly well, because Sirius makes a noise and tenses his hands near his face in a clearly frustrated manner. "You just, they're going to—, agh!" He messes up his hair. "Look, kid, it's a sensitive topic for them and one of those social practices I was talking about earlier is related to ownership. And the sword of Gryffindor, er, stuff? Yeah, the stuff. The stuff about it in the past is a big deal for them because of ownership."
Ed narrows his eyes. "What does that mean?"
Sirius rubs a knuckle between his eyebrows as he screws his eyes shut, muttering to himself about, "Was it Ragnuk the First or was it Ragnuk the Great?"
Remus takes pity on him then, and alleviates him from having to give a half-assed history lesson.
"Ragnuk the First was the King of the Goblins at the time Godric Gryffindor was alive," he explains.
Sirius immediately brightens, all signs of duress disappearing in an instant as Remus continues.
"Gryffindor commissioned a sword from Ragnuk, which he had agreed to. However, disputes arose upon Gryffindor's death, because goblin-made goods generally return to the creator or the creator's family in goblin society. In wizarding society, we're typically able to bestow our worldly possessions to whoever we'd like, but to the goblins, this is the equivalent of stealing."
"It's also because ownership for them isn't given up when an object is bought or offered to another person," Sirius tacks on. "They consider that to be a form of borrowing. It fits into their belief that all things are borrowed and eventually returned, from physical objects to their bodies."
"Uh… who exactly do they think they borrowed their bodies from?"
Sirius frowns slightly. "I think there's some kind of translation error for that, because they call it the door or something, but apparently, it likes to smile."
"Th–, the door can smile?" Ed blinks, startled.
Sirius shrugs. "Like I said, it's a different culture. They're pretty secretive about their beliefs, but one thing they do like is equal transactions. The price of a commission should be an exact representation of the commission itself and the price is pretty crazy when they factor in you're not planning to return it. All pureblood families pay an exorbitant number of yearly fees for goblin-made heirlooms, by the way, it's part of the agreement, but they always say it's worth it, since goblin-wrought silver has properties that magic can't quite imitate."
"What kinds of properties?" Ed asks.
"Stuff like the shine and the quality of it. I've heard from a few people that goblin-wrought silver is so pure it can destroy cursed objects, which, as you probably already know, is a pretty rare quality. Made it more valuable to have a weapon when wizards were still using those in combination with wands."
Ed is barely listening because he's preoccupied with the idea of "equal transactions" — it's all too familiar to be a coincidence.
A door that smiles.
Truth's disembodied grin lingering in front of the Gate.
The language is different, but the ideas are the same.
If the goblins know what Ed thinks they do, they might actually get along terrifically.
Either that, or Ed's about to start a goblin-related conflict in the midst of a budding wizard civil war.
* * * * *
Of the four silversmiths Sirius recommends, Drentier is the only one who "has a sense of humor", according to the man, so that's who they (mostly Sirius) agree to visit first.
The three of them are clambering into the Floo, with Sirius chattering away about what he remembers of the goblin.
"She used to say the funniest things with such a sincere expression," he explains. "She once told my mother that she'd chew off her foot if she ever came back to her workshop."
"I don't." Remus stops himself, pressing his fingertips to his mouth. "Sirius, I don't think she was joking."
"Oh. Oh. Alright, well, in my defense, it was funny to me. The look on the old cow's face!" He sighs dreamily. "That was the best thing that could've happened to me."
"You're doing absolute wonders promoting her work," Ed deadpans.
"I am, aren't I?" Sirius grins cockily and Ed kind of wants to push him out of the fireplace and leave him behind.
He doesn't though, because Sirius is the one holding a fistful of Floo powder and the only one who knows where to go.
Sirius speaks loudly and carefully, "Glulenk Kraftkor."
And then the green flames consume them.
* * * * *
Glulenk Kraftkor is one of the only wizard-friendly goblin cities in the United Kingdom — that is to say, it's the only city wizards have ever been allowed access to.
Everything has been created with human height in mind, which normally wouldn't be the case, but this is the central hub of goblin-wizard interactions (because it's intended to be something of a tourist trap). Doorways are tall enough to accommodate at least three goblins stacked on top of one another, although Remus still has to duck slightly to walk through a number of them.
(Ed is honestly only a foot or so taller than the average goblin, but neither Remus or Sirius point that out.)
What's most startling to Ed is the obvious use of Muggle technology: all of the lights are clearly run with electricity, there are sleek automobile-like carts rushing about on the streets, spreading the smell of gasoline, and there is a distinct lack of ambient magic brushing against his skin at every turn.
It's kind of nice.
Maybe he'll get along with goblins even better than he'd anticipated.
Drentier's workshop is only one-and-a-quarter block off from the main street of Glulenk, an ideal location to attract customers without overselling her work as "cheap" commodities for tourists, like some of the trinkets they'd seen on the way there.
The inside is filled to the brim with scrap metal and stray tools and what looks like junk to the average human.
"This is not… not what I expected," Remus says politely, but his meaning is clear: "this place is a shithole I couldn't dream up in my own imagination".
"I like it," Ed grins, taking in the smell of rust and oil.
"You would," Remus replies wryly.
"Drentier?" Sirius calls out, peering about the organized chaos of her workshop.
"I am here," she yells back. "Do not move. Touch nothing! I will come to you."
True to her word, Drentier appears from seemingly nowhere, arising from the scattered junk as if she were a part of it to begin with. She's rather tall for a goblin, standing at a solid three feet, four inches and she has an apron on over her clothes. The length of her arms and the entirety of her face is covered with unnameable substances. Ed thinks there's a good chance that at least 50% of them is dried blood.
"Black," she says, when her eyes land on Sirius. She frowns. "Is your mother here?"
"She's dead," Sirius replies, far too cheerily.
Drentier nods. "She is right where she belongs."
Sirius laughs brightly, but Remus and Ed exchange mildly alarmed looks.
(Sense of humor? Remus implies with a quirk of his brow. It's Sirius, this shouldn't be a surprise, Ed says back through a scowl.)
"Actually, I'm still here with family," Sirius says, nudging Ed forward. "I was hoping you'd be able to help him out."
When she finally turns to glance at him, Ed can physically feel her eyes linger on his lack of arm and his short stature, which only serves to make him irritable.
"Take a picture, why don't you," Ed mutters and Sirius smacks him on the back of the head.
"Be polite," he hisses. "Goblin-wizard relations are in danger!"
"My pride is in danger," Ed snaps back.
"You are not a Black," Drentier interrupts them. "You are not…" she trails off, eyeing Ed with extreme suspicion. "You are asking for a consultation, right?"
"Yes," he says, disgruntled. "I'd like an arm, if that's not too much to ask."
Sirius tries to step on his toes but attempts to do so on Ed's left foot, which results in Ed sticking out his tongue as the man realizes those toes lack the proper nerves to feel anything.
Drentier grunts at the childish display. "Maybe you are a Black after all."
Remus smiles widely in agreement, while both Sirius and Ed protest indignantly.
She tilts her head in the general direction of the mess. "You," she says, pointing at Ed, "follow me. You two, wait here. Touch anything and you will join his mother shortly." She jabs a long finger in Sirius' direction.
Sirius laughs again and Drentier motions for Ed to walk after her further into the store.
She maneuvers herself with practiced ease, while Ed fumbles once or twice over the uneven terrain of the workshop, his balance thrown off by the absence of his heavy automail and the lack of floor where a floor should be — they're quite literally walking over discarded parts.
Eventually, they reach a small corner of the shop free of clutter, set up with a small round table flanked by two goblin-sized armchairs.
When Ed sits down, he's immediately agitated by how well the chair fits him, if only a tiny bit too small.
That's information he's going to take to his cursed grave.
"So, you ask me for an arm," Drentier starts once settled in her own chair, getting right down to business. "Why?"
"Why do I want an arm? Let's see, hm, why would I want two functioning arms, rather than just one?" Ed asks sarcastically.
He really should learn to bite his tongue. The glower on Drentier's face makes her dislike of him all too obvious.
"No, why do you want me to make this arm? This is not a hospital."
"I'm aware," he says, biting down on his cheek before he says anything too rude. He clenches his teeth and lifts the leg of his trousers. "My arm was like this —" he raps his knuckles against his existing automail "—and you don't go to the hospital for this."
She's barely paying attention, leaning forward and gazing at the interlocking plates of his leg with marked interest. "Who made this?"
"A friend," Ed answers brusquely.
"How is it attached? Magic?"
"The ports screwed into my body, the limb attaches by wire to my nerves."
"So the wires make it move," she says, putting a finger to her chin. "Interesting design. A bit morbid in my opinion. Very Muggle, as well."
Ed knows it's morbid, it's screwed into his body. "Do you think you could do the arm or not? I'd be able to at least draw out a diagram for it, if you're willing."
Drentier grunts, her lips forming a tight line across her face. "It is not a matter of capability, boy. I can make anything I want. The question is whether I am willing to do so for a human like you."
"Like me?"
"I have never seen this before," she states, gesturing towards his leg — Ed's getting real tired of hearing that. "Where did Black find you?"
"Hogwarts, I guess. Technically?"
She blinks. "He did not drag you out of Azkaban?"
I forgot about that; his hearing is coming up soon—
It's Ed's turn to be surprised. "Wait, you don't care that he's, well, that he's an escaped convict?"
Drentier smiles and it isn't exactly pleasant, but it isn't quite menacing either. Maybe it could be called fond, if you squint and tilt your head. "That boy is stupid, but he is not a murderer. I cannot change the small minds of the Ministry, but I do not have to believe their lies either. Most goblins do not."
"Guess I made the right decision to come here after all," Ed says.
"We shall see," Drentier replies. "I have not agreed to your request, after all."
He decides to take a gamble.
"But I think you will," Ed says, leaning forward.
"And why is that?" the goblin asks, skeptical.
"Because I'm all about equivalent exchange and I hear you're more or less the same," he says.
Drentier blinks and then her lips pucker like she's sucked on a lemon. "I do not know what you are talking about, but I think you should leave now." She gestures back towards the scattered junk they'd passed to reach this corner earlier.
Like that's going to stop Ed from pushing the issue. "Actually, I've heard you do probably know something about it. You've heard of it, haven't you? You find yourself in front of the Gate of Truth, awaiting judgment only a god can give."
The moment he says the word "Gate", her demeanor changes drastically and Ed realizes her dislike is mild in comparison to her fury.
"You have dared to take knowledge that is not meant for you," Drentier snarls, her lip pulled back to show her sharp teeth.
"It's not yours either," Ed says stubbornly, wholly unafraid. "It's mine too."
"Wizards do not understand or believe in the Gate or the laws! They think we make-believe when we have proof."
"What proof?" Ed asks. There's really only one answer if this is what he thinks it is.
"It is an old and ancient magic unlike that which is done with your silly little sticks," Drentier answers, looking fully ready to destroy him with her glare. Or maybe she's planning to chew off his other foot — it's hard to tell.
"Let me guess, a magic that uses the flow of natural energy found in all things," he recites.
She scowls at him. "You know of the Transformation?"
"Where I'm from, we call it something else, but yeah, I do. If I had my other arm, I could even show you."
Drentier shakes her head slowly, her anger still apparent, but less explosive. "We speak of different magics then. There is no need for arms or whatnot to perform the Transformation."
"I don't think we are. Talking about different things, I mean. This transformation you're talking about, what would you need to do in order to pull it off?"
Her eyes narrow. "I think you have come to me saying you are looking for one thing, yet you are asking for another. I do not know who you have spoken to that has revealed such information, but I am beginning to think you know nothing about what we are speaking of and are fishing for answers. It is ill-advised to try to steal secrets from goblins, boy. We do not forgive and we do not forget."
Ed snorts. "I'm not trying to steal anything I don't already know, I'm just trying to figure out the Truth. Or if you know the Truth, I guess would be more accurate."
"A stupid question. What kind of truth? There are many that hold true in this world."
He clings to that phrasing: this world. Does she know of others? Do other goblins?
Here is the dilemma: the last time Ed's drawn a transmutation circle was the day he tried to bring his mother back to life. He hasn't needed to ever since and he's not excited to start, but the look on Drentier's face says she's in the midst of making up her mind to call whatever form of law enforcement goblins employ.
"I'll show you," he says. "You have any chalk?"
She digs through her apron pockets and procures one grubby stub of chalk, which she places gingerly in Ed's open palm.
His circles are still perfectly round, in part due to muscle memory taking over as he draws on the table top. The table is made out of wood, meaning he'll need to adjust the alignment of the runes to account for how breakable the material is. (This is precisely why Ed prefers metal and earth — durable, quicker to change shape, and able to withstand enormous stress from transmutation.)
When he's done, he presses his hand to the edge of the circle and watches his transmutation come to life. The table bends and warps until it's no longer a table, but now a wooden statute of Drentier, complete with a scowl and wrinkled brow.
"You really do know the Transformation," she says simply, as if she weren't ready to kill him for lying moments earlier.
"What, like it's hard?" he scoffs in return.
She frowns. "It is hard. Mr. Flamel was the only human who understood what the Gate requires and even he was incapable of performing a proper Transformation."
"You knew Flamel?"
Ed's been informed (by the two most recent editions of Al-Kimiya by Anam Mikhail, the only decent source of alchemy research, in his opinion) that Flamel and his wife, Perenelle, died not too long ago, after having destroyed their philosopher's stone.
"Every goblin knows of Mr. Flamel. He lived a long life and had achieved his own version of the Transformation before asking to be taught." She shrugs. "We still refused. It is why his bastardized stone could do so little."
That gets his attention.
"You know about the philosopher's stone?"
She nods.
"Like how to make one?"
She nods again.
Ed is leaning forward, overeager and unable to sit still. "How do you do it?"
She shakes her head. "It is a price only a monster would pay and it is information you cannot afford. There is nothing you could give me that would be equivalent to such knowledge."
"Then how the fuck did you learn about it?" he demands, frustration boiling over.
Am I really this close to the truth, just for it to slip through my fingers?
"It is something of a burden, passed down from goblin to goblin," Drentier answers solemnly. "I think the Muggles have a similar concept. Original sin, I believe they call it. It is an accurate description."
"How the fuck did this start! Someone had to have found out about, about the Truth! The fucking Gate!"
"It is a part of goblin beliefs, a part of who we are and why we are. It is how we learned the Transformation and why we protect these secrets from outsiders who will not understand the demands of the universe. It is too much for them to believe. We have been called a cold and calculating people for centuries because they cannot and will not understand us."
"Have you ever even seen it?"
"Seen it?"
"The Gate," Ed says, desperately. "Have you ever seen it?"
"I have not," she says, quietly, "The Gate is not meant to be seen. Although… I am beginning to understand these injuries." Her eyes glance over his shoulder and leg. "You paid a price I cannot fathom," she says, quietly. "Was it worth it?"
"No," he says, every ounce of frustration and desperation bleeding out of him, leaving him numb and cold. "Not the first time."
The ensuing silence roars in Ed's ears, a sensation of being washed over by overwhelmingly loud static drowning out his surroundings.
Alchemy — his kind of alchemy — exists here after all.
Truth and the Gate leave their mark upon every reality, whether the occupants realize it or not.
"I am sorry for your loss," Drentier says, after a while, "but I can assure you, a stone would not make it any easier."
Ed's not sure if she's referring to his limbs or if she knows the kinds of situations in which a person would visit the Gate in the first place. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because in thousands of years of goblin history, not one goblin considered the exchange worth it," she replies, matter-of-fact. "And all goblins are raised with the knowledge of the Gate and its consequences."
"So all of you are capable of alch–, of performing transformations?"
She makes a noise indicating her disagreement. "Potentially, yes. But in reality, many do not care to study and it is not an easy feat. This" — she gestures towards the wooden statue — "is something even I do not fully understand how to do. The average goblin would be more or less the same. We who are capable of transformations typically are limited to the creation of raw materials, which we then manipulate with traditional goblin techniques that have been passed down from parent to child since the beginning."
It's true even in Ed's world that alchemy can be done by anyone, but not everyone actually does alchemy. There's a certain amount of studying and logic involved that isn't appealing to the majority of the population. For a rather large amount of people, it is a science that seems unknown and therefore borderline frightening, because they don't understand it.
The people who do learn how to perform alchemy typically specialize. Based on Drentier's explanation, it wouldn't be a leap in logic to assume the goblins had chosen to specialize in refining raw materials, rather than on the manipulation of shape or state.
He'd like to know whether he's right about that or not, but can't figure out if it'd be rude.
"Are you going to tell anyone else I know about… you know?" he asks instead.
"If a person were interested, they would have to know about the Transformation and the Gate to begin with," she replies. "So it would be unlikely."
"Are there really no other people out there who know about the Gate?"
Drentier shrugs. "It is not a common belief, nor a common magic."
"But if Flamel already popularized alchemy amongst wizards, why do you all try to keep it a secret still?" Ed asks, furrowing his brow.
She scoffs at the question. "As I have said before, Mr. Flamel was not skilled in Transformations, he was skilled in his own version called alchemy, but it was limited in comparison to the things Transformations could accomplish." She hesitates. "His 'elixir'… I am not sure how he accomplished such a thing without seeing the Gate or understanding its consequences, but that is all the more reason I do not wish to know such burdensome things."
"Is it that bad? The price…"
"You are young but you do not seem foolish. Heed my warning when I say it is truly a price no rational being should be willing to pay."
"But Flamel did?"
"I am not sure what Mr. Flamel paid," she repeats. "But something tells me his ways were simple, just like his alchemy."
"Still," Ed points out, "you said goblins who use transformations are just sourcing raw materials, right? That's not too complicated either."
"Maybe not for you, but for many, it is. It is why it is such a guarded secret. The metal is pure, transformed directly from our own mined earth and smelted with what you would call Fiendfyre. This is what makes our work unique and valuable, there are no other living beings who can find metals as pure as ours and who have learned to command Fiendfyre for their own purposes like we have." She puffs up her chest. "It is metal unlike anything you will ever see or own again."
He's only partially paying attention until the very last sentence and then he's sitting upright, perfectly attentive. "Wait, does this mean you're making me an arm?"
* * * * *
Drentier agrees to make the automail with the provided specifications and informs him he can have it in three days.
"It is very fast," she says, displeasure made quite apparent with her glare alone. "It will cost you extra."
"How much extra?"
"I will make the arm," Drentier says, her arms folded and her lips pursed, "but I would like the leg in return."
"What! I can't just give you my leg, are you insane?"
She scowls fiercely. "I will not leave you without a leg! You pay for the arm and you give me the leg. In return, I will make both. Arm and leg. Brand new, with the silver, like you asked."
It's a tempting offer. He's not fully sure why she'd like his leg to begin with, but going for an extended period of time without any maintenance could lead to issues.
(Who knows, maybe he's even grown a bit taller in the last year.)
"Why wouldn't you want me to just pay for the leg?"
"It is already equivalent. The leg is new information, new technologies I have never seen. I will learn new tricks with the old leg and you will get a new one without paying. It is fair, would you not agree?"
"Fine," he grumbles. "But I'll give you the leg when I pick up the arm, okay?"
"It is a deal," she shows her teeth in what must be a grin (but might be a grimace) and Ed can't help but do the same.
They shake hands.
* * * * *
Remus insists on contacting Madame Pomfrey and somehow manages to wrangle her into monitoring the replacement of Ed's limbs, which he begrudgingly admits is the smart thing to do, even if he dislikes the idea of it.
He has absolutely no idea what sort of explanation Remus had given for the man's involvement in Ed's life, but the first thing she says when she steps out of the main Floo in Glulenk Kraftkor and sees Ed without an arm, standing next to his werewolf professor, is, "Figures."
"Madame Pomfrey," Ed says, with a polite nod.
"Hullo, Poppy. Thank you for coming on such short notice. Mr. Elric here, has, er, landed himself into something of a… a situation, I suppose."
"That he has, hasn't he? Although I can't say I'm surprised, he never did seem the type to sit still."
Ed scowls. "I'm perfectly capable of hearing you talk about me, seeing as I still have my ears."
Pomfrey stares at him and Ed feels said ears heat up in embarrassment.
"Uh, thank you. For coming. Ma'am."
"Wouldn't want you to lose your arm more permanently than you already have," she replies dryly, although Ed doesn't think she's upset with him. Hopefully. "Now, where exactly is this procedure taking place?"
If Remus had been unimpressed with Drentier's workshop, Pomfrey is outright furious at the thought of carrying out a somewhat medical procedure in an admittedly grimy metalworking shop.
"It's outrageous," she mutters for the fifth time, glaring at a leaking barrel of oil. "Completely outrageous."
Fortunately, she keeps her opinions on the cleanliness of the workshop to herself once Drentier is within earshot.
"This," the goblin says, holding onto a carefully wrapped bundle of cloth, "may be the best work I have ever done."
She presents to them an immaculate right arm and left leg, crafted with extreme care and attention to detail. The silver gleams and when she demonstrates how the joints work, everything moves exactly like the real thing would.
Ed hates to admit it, but Drentier could give Winry a run for her money.
"You're replacing the leg too?" Remus asks, eyebrows raised.
Pomfrey glares at him. "A leg was never mentioned to me."
Ed laughs awkwardly, shrugging. "I guess, uh, it slipped my mind."
"We will have words, Mr. Elric, and they will not be pleasant."
Pomfrey's cleaned up a table for him to lie down on (with reluctant permission from Drentier), and once he's sitting on top of it, he pokes a finger into the slight gap between his leg and his port, screws his eyes shut, and presses the release.
It's not painful to remove the automail per se, more uncomfortable than anything.
Putting it back on is a bitch though.
As nice as they are to look at, the arm and the leg still feel awful to connect to his ports, even with Pomfrey weaving her magic to bring the right wires together. There's the added awkwardness of Ed having to explain what needs to fit into what without being able to see some of the things he's describing and Remus is lingering in the background with worry lining his face.
The sound that slips out of Ed's mouth when everything finally pops into place must say it all.
"Are you quite certain there isn't another option out there for you?" Pomfrey asks, frowning as Ed holds in another grunt of pain.
"Quite," he wheezes.
His entire body is tingling.
He squeezes his fist.
It moves perfectly in sync with his brain.
Ed spends the next few minutes testing the reaction time of his new limbs while Drentier, Pomfrey, and Remus look on.
"Enough," Drentier says firmly. "I will feel insulted if you continue any longer."
"Sorry," Ed says, somewhat sheepishly. "Just haven't had one made by anyone else before."
Ideally, Ed would spar with Al in order to make sure everything is working as it should, but Al isn't here and showing off his fighting skills doesn't seem like a very good idea in front of present company.
Remus takes Pomfrey outside to wait while Ed pays and hands off his old leg.
"I do not ever wish to see your face again. You ask too many questions," Drentier sniffs and then shoos him out of her shop after pocketing the sack of Galleons he hands her.
"I get that a lot," Ed replies, grinning, "but you're probably going to see me anyway."
"Leave," she shouts from her entryway. "Do not return!"
"Yeah, okay. See you later!" He waves happily as he walks out.
Remus sighs and the thought that "Edward Elric is insufferable" is 100% running through his mind. "Must you antagonize the one person capable of helping you in this particular scenario?"
"Remus, it's like you don't even know me."
"It's Remus now, is it?" Pomfrey interrupts. "When did this happen?"
In all honesty, Ed can't really pinpoint when Lupin turned into Remus — probably around the time Ed moved into Grimmauld Place and realized calling Sirius' better half by his last name just seemed rude. And well, despite his temper, Ed has manners.
But right now, neither Remus nor Ed can look Pomfrey in the eye and answer her very simple question, because there are a lot of real and metaphorical skeletons in that closet.
"Uh…"
Pomfrey raises a hand and shakes her head. "I don't need–. No. I don't want to know. In fact, I heard nothing and I wasn't even here today. I'll see you both when the term starts. Do try to stay out of trouble until then."
She waits for both of them to offer weak promises before giving them both nods and walking briskly off for the nearest public Floo.
"No nonsense. Straight to the point," Ed comments. "I like her, but she terrifies me sometimes."
"Me too," Remus says. "Although I imagine that's the point."
He turns to face Ed. "Let's go home."
* * * * *
They celebrate the reinstatement of his automail with Amestrian food, although Sirius and Remus don't know what they're given to eat; they simply dig in and enjoy it, while Ed reminisces upon the scent of hot food covering Granny's worn wooden table.
Sirius marvels at the craftsmanship of Ed's new arm and Remus mentions their slip-up in front of Pomfrey — and the three of them end up chatting and drinking and eating late into the night.
When they've eaten everything laid out on the table, Sirius and Remus bid Ed a good night and they head off to Sirius' bedroom, while Ed finishes cleaning up and heads for an empty study on the top-most floor.
He only makes one stop — to his room — to slip the Horcrux into his pants pocket.
Ed hasn't transmuted anything in so long, he already knows this is going to feel like a rebirth, of sorts.
He counts the minutes, the seconds, that tick by on his pocket watch as he waits, making sure to cast as many silencing charms as he can layer on the walls of the room as he does.
When it's just shy of two hours later and he's certain neither Sirius nor Remus are awake to hear it, Ed stands in the center of the cluttered study and presses his palms together.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The crackle and heat of alchemy against his fingertips travels up his arm and he drags his hand over his new automail, manipulating the silver of the plates into a long, sturdy blade.
He places the ring on the floorboards, none too eager to even touch the thing because being near it makes him feel insane. Like, wanting to put the ring back on his other, flesh-and-blood hand insane.
"Goodbye and good fucking riddance," he mutters and then he's pressing the tip of his blade into the metal ring.
Crack!
An inhuman screech pierces the silence of the night and Ed yelps, clapping his hands over his ears as he watches, horrified, as the ghost of something twisted and mangled rushes out of the broken metal, reaching for him with half-formed claws.
"I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you!" it screams, moans, as it lashes out at Ed, not a single blow landing on him.
It crashes into Ed, who throws up his arms to brace himself, but finds that the phantom shred of Riddle's soul has melted out of existence.
His fingers are trembling and he can feel every beat of his heart in his throat and ears.
But it's done.
He's done it.
"One down, five to go."
* * * * *
Fred is faking loud, obnoxious sobs from behind his hands when he spots Ed stepping through the entrance to Ranklebury's.
"How could you abandon us in our time of need?" he laments, moving his hands away to fling an arm across his forehead dramatically. "The audacity!"
"You need to douse yourself in calming drought," Ed responds, settling into an empty armchair.
The others had decided to postpone their second meeting until Ed "recovered" from his sudden "cold".
"We've already tried that when we were younger," Ginny says, "it actually makes this" — she gestures to all of Fred — "worse, if you can believe it."
Ed most definitely can believe it.
"So, what, you know everybody already?" he asks her, looking about the circle as he does.
"Yeah," she says, "seeing as a third of the group has been related to me since birth, unfortunately."
Fred gasps. "I can't believe I voluntarily asked if you could join only for you to insult us like this."
"Yeah, Ginevra, everyone else would be ecstatic to be our sibling," George says.
"I'm pretty sure you've been trying to adopt Ed into the family since Christmas and he's never been excited by it," Ginny replies, to which George snorts and says, "Who says we need to adopt for Ed to join the family? Freddie could just — ouch! Merlin, was that necessary?"
George rubs his arm while he glares at Fred, who's flushing a dark crimson.
"I think it's time for some reading," he announces.
"Finally," Ginny cheers. "I was beginning to think this was like Mum's knitting circle." She makes a face. "Too much talking for my liking."
The youngest Weasley's presence is something of a blessing and a curse to the still unnamed Muggle-books-book-club.
Luna is thrilled to have an "ancient and all-knowing" companion in their midst and Neville also finds it easy to talk to the fellow Gryffindor. In a surprising turn of events, or perhaps, in an absolutely predictable turn of events, Blaise and Ginny get along like they've been destined for friendship since three lifetimes ago. The twins complain about her hanging around "their" friends, but only ever in good humor, with wide, delighted grins spread across their faces.
Ed thinks Ginny is an excellent combination of cheeky wit and unapologetic self-confidence, which she freely admits did not come to her naturally.
"I had a rough go of it my first year," she says, completely misunderstanding the difference between "rough" and "outright terrible". "Didn't help that everyone knew about it." She snorts. "People this year were either afraid of me or pitied me and quite frankly, I couldn't figure out which was more likely to get me to hex them by the end of term."
It's another one of those "open secrets" that Ginny Weasley had been possessed by a cursed diary the year before last and had almost died — lucky Harry Potter was around to save the day (as per usual)!
According to Ginny's very brief description of the thing, the diary had once belonged to a "Tom" whose memories had at first provided a sense of comfort to someone feeling alone, but insidiously began taking control as time went by.
"Felt like it was… alive, I suppose."
She doesn't say much more than that and George is quick to segue into another topic without being too obvious about it, but that's really all the information Ed needs to connect the dots: the diary was most likely a Horcrux.
He'd have to interrogate her to really find out, but he's not about to re-traumatize a kid who's been possessed by the thing, even if that kid acts like she's perfectly fine and well-adjusted after the fact.
Despite the misfortune that had befallen Ginny (and the Golden Trio, technically speaking), Ed can't help but think of the positive: that's likely two Horcruxes out of the way (Ginny explained Harry stabbed through the journal with a basilisk fang, leading to another round of questions in Ed's mind about how much the boy actually knows) and only four more to deal with.
He sets that information aside for a later time.
Right now, he has six wizards in front of him who are in desperate need of a Muggle education and he'd rather eat his own automail than let them go without it.
* * * * *
By the end of their second meeting, all of Ed's friends have an incredibly basic understanding of electricity and what it can accomplish.
"Can't believe we used to think dad was off his rocker for liking this stuff," Fred mentions. "Just think, it's basically wandless magic!"
"We could achieve so much more," George says, somewhat longingly.
"I think you've achieved plenty," Ginny replies. "Mum's still trying to figure out how you've bypassed her trace-tracker, since even Charlie hadn't been able to do it."
"Mum knows about that?" Fred asks.
"Mum knows about everything, Fred," she replies.
"I have to get going," Blaise says, standing up and brushing off his trousers. "Are we meeting at the same time next week?"
"Careful there, Blaise," Neville laughs, "people will start to think you're actually eager to spend time with us."
Blaise smiles ruefully. "Well, they wouldn't be incorrect. So, same time and place?"
"You're alright for a Slytherin," Ginny remarks, grinning. "Kind of a surprise since you hang around Malfoy."
"And you're not bad for a Gryffindor," Blaise responds. "And Draco is… a bit complicated. Although I suppose he's changing too."
George tilts his head thoughtfully. "He was holding back a bit towards the end of the year, now that you mention it. Did he have an encounter with our resident Hufflepuff?" He looks to Ed.
Ed shrugs.
Blaise coughs. "Yes, perhaps something like that happened."
As a group, they hadn't really spoken about their Hogwarts houses or their prejudices, mostly because they individually knew how Ed would feel about the whole thing, so now, there's an uncertainty hanging over them as they try to figure out how to proceed.
Luna is the one to break the silence.
"I think the same time would be alright, Blaise, but would you all care to visit my house? The flowers are blooming and I'd love for you all to visit them."
Ed snorts. "Visit them, not you?"
"Oh, don't worry, Fullmetal, I'll be there too," she says. "I also live there."
Fred and Neville laugh at her sincere delivery.
"That sounds nice," Ginny says. "I'd like to see some flowers."
"I agree," Blaise says. "I think a change of scenery could be refreshing."
"We're fine wherever," Fred says and George nods.
"Me too," Ed adds.
"Sounds like we're all going to the Lovegood House," Neville says with a smile.
"Looking forward to having you," Luna replies.
* * * * *
Remus and Sirius inform Ed that they think it'd be best if he stays home while they go to Sirius' hearing.
"Dumbledore will be there," is all Remus has to say for Ed to eagerly agree.
"Fine by me, I'll see you when you're a free man."
"I'm already a free man," Sirius says. "That was kind of the whole idea behind escaping."
"I change my mind, I hope they take you right back," Ed says.
Sirius laughs and Remus just shakes his head while smiling.
"It never ends with you two, does it?" he sighs, but he's blatantly biting back a smile and his eyes are lit up with something warm and soft.
"Never," they answer in unison, before glancing at one another and grinning.
Well, grinning until Ed shoves Sirius with a loud "ha!".
Ed waves goodbye from the Floo, swears to destroy the Ministry single-handedly (all pun intended) if Sirius returns anything less than an innocent man wrongly convicted, and watches the pair leave before getting to work.
The hearing is mostly for show — according to Dumbledore, which means Ed is taking that information with a grain of salt — but that doesn't mean it isn't something to celebrate.
The kitchen is the most lived-in part of the house at the moment, because that's where they spend most of their time, whether they're actually eating or just enjoying each other's company (and simultaneously annoying the shit out of one another).
(It's also one of the few places Walburga Black doesn't seem to notice them making noise in.)
Ed lets himself fully focus on baking, trying not to think of anything as the time passes. If he starts thinking too much, he just ends up thinking about goblins and Gates and Horcruxes and Truth and tenses up until he's more rigid than a corpse and has to force himself to relax.
So, baking.
Measuring out ingredients.
Mixing them together.
Preparing the pans and preheating the ovens.
It's all routine, all set up for success as long as you follow the recipe.
It's a tiny amount of stability that he could really use right now.
By the time he's finished his seventh batch of biscuits, Ed realizes he's been mindlessly baking for over four hours.
The front door slams open with a bang.
"I'm free!" Sirius shouts. "I AM AN INNOCENT MAN ONCE MORE!"
Ed goes out to greet them. "Did you guys really apparate just so you could have a dramatic entrance? There's a perfectly functioning Floo, you know."
Remus walks in on unsteady legs. "Sirius insisted he apparate, I side-alonged and—" he presses a hand over his mouth and visibly gags "—and I realize I indulge too many of his whims."
"Oh, you're fine, it wasn't that bad. We didn't even get splinched," Sirius says, waving a hand dismissively. "More importantly, have you heard, kid? I'm an innocent man!"
"Not that innocent," Ed snorts. "Congratulations, though."
"A free man, then," Sirius amends.
"I guess I can't argue with that," he sighs.
"Something smells nice," Remus comments.
Sirius starts walking into the kitchen and lets out a startled yell. "MOONY! ED! Someone's, some! Someone's robbed us. Wait! No! Someone's, reverse-robbed us!"
Ed's baked goods are spread out on the kitchen table and counter, piles of small, fluffy-looking cakes and colorful biscuits (that are actually frosted for once) littering the majority of the flat surfaces in the room.
"Actually, that was me," Ed says. He pulls on the end of his braid. "Uh, congratulations, Sirius. I mean it." He tries to smile a bit, but feels his face get hot and turns it into a scowl. "You shouldn't have been blamed, but with your luck, I guess it was bound to happen. Uh. 'S good that everyone knows that now and that the rat bastard got what he deserved."
Remus is grinning, but Sirius is not.
Instead, the man is gaping at the baked goods and then staring at Ed with shock.
"Oh. Oh, curses."
"Sorry, is it, uh, do you not like it?" Ed asks, frowning. He never did get around to asking what kinds of sweets the man actually likes.
"No!" Sirius shouts, startling Ed. "I like it so much I'm going to cry and that is decidedly not cool," he says, eyes watering slightly. He points an accusing finger at Ed. "This is the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time. Agh! Do not! Do not do this to me, you! You're getting soft, brat!" He grins, eyes still a bit watery. "Thanks, kid."
They eat more sweets than is recommended by any reasonable mediwizard, but none of them care.
It is a day worth celebrating and Ed wants to remember that even when things are shit, good things can still happen too.
* * * * *
The Lovegood's house is a stone tower on a cliff overlooking the ocean on one side and surrounded by a tall sea of sunflowers on the other.
Ed is actually the first to arrive, meaning he is the first to notice the endless yellow blooms scattered about. Luna is sitting near the edge of the sunflowers, flipping through yet another issue of The Quibbler.
"Oh," he says quietly, looking around.
Luna looks up and smiles brightly. "Fullmetal!"
"Hey, Loony. The flowers really are nice."
"Do you know what they stand for?"
"Literally? Or figuratively? I don't know either one, so I guess that doesn't make a difference"
They're standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the field now, the salty breeze causing the flowers to bend and sway gently.
"What's the difference between the literal and the figurative to a wizard," Luna replies.
Ed swears she's too old to be thirteen sometimes. "Well, what do they mean?"
"There's a lot of contention on the meaning of material objects," Luna explains, "but I've personally accepted sunflowers as representations of not only the sun and the warmth it brings, but also as symbols of loyalty and friendship."
Neither of them look at the bottle cap pinned proudly to the front of Ed's jacket; the only splash of color in his entire wardrobe.
Ed wants to say something, but can't find the right words. It's too big of a feeling to translate into language, something that swells inside his chest when he thinks about it, turning it over and over in his head: warmth, loyalty, friendship.
"Thanks."
It's all he can manage.
"I have some books on flower language, Muggle and magical. I'll lend them to you sometime, Fullmetal," Luna says and she smiles at him. "Come inside, let's have some tea while we wait on the others."
* * * * *
The Muggle Books Book Club goes as well as it usually does, except today they're sitting and laying on a large picnic blanket right next to the sea, eating biscuits and drinking tea courtesy of Luna, as they finish up their book on electricity.
They, meaning everyone except for Ed, manage to turn the conversation into one about Quidditch, which naturally turns into a conversation about the World Cup that is quickly approaching.
Most of them are planning to go.
Again, that means everyone except for Ed.
"Dad actually got tickets this year and we're all going," Fred says excitedly.
"Not to mention he's letting Ron take Harry and Hermione," Ginny points out, before turning to Ed. "Are you sure you don't want to go? We really do have more than enough tickets, what with Dad getting all of these gifted ones from the Ministry."
"I'm sure," Ed responds, a little too fast.
"Do you not like Ron?" George asks. "I'm his brother and I'll admit he was a complete git that one time, but he's alright if you give him time."
"No, he's fine," Ed lies. "Just don't like Quidditch."
"How would you know if you've never given it a chance?" Blaise says.
"Yeah," Neville joins in, "you should go, Ed. You might even like it."
"Okay, now you're all ganging up on me and I don't like that," Ed says, still in good humor, if not a touch defensively. "I just don't see the point of organized sports."
"What kind of boring things did you do growing up then?" Fred asks.
Neville grimaces slightly and Ed appreciates it, but he still answers the question. He thinks he's okay with it, for the most part — they're just trying to get to know more about him and he should let them.
He trusts them.
"Mostly run outside barefoot in rural farmland. Poke things with sticks when I shouldn't've. Pick berries."
Oh, and also studying and training to reanimate my dead mother. Casual stuff, you know.
Fred gapes. "You're a bloody yokel!" He turns to George. "How did we never realize he was a yokel all this time?"
George just shakes his head, unbothered.
"Are you calling me a hick?" Ed demands. "Because you're absolutely right."
"What's a hick?"
"What's a yokel?"
Blaise has a look of understanding. "Oh," he says, polite as ever, "you're a peasant."
Ginny sprays the tea she'd been sipping from between her fingers and Neville covers his mouth to hide the fact that he's laughing.
Ed scowls. "And you're on thin fucking ice."
By the end of their discussion on the nuances of derogatory language, Ed's friends have managed to wheedle him into going to the World Cup with the Weasleys, if only to "encourage cross-cultural exchange", as Blaise so nicely puts it.
"Mostly," Fred says, "it means we think you need better hobbies."
"Agreed," the rest of them laugh.
"You're all awful," Ed says, but he's smiling too.
* * * * *
It takes a decent amount of time to prepare (especially during the period of time Ed only had one arm), but with little else to do stuck inside the house for the duration of summer, Sirius and Ed are ready to start renovating the Black ancestral home within a few short weeks.
Which is actually not quick enough for either of their tastes, because Walburga Black regularly screams abuse at them from her spot on the wall and Kreacher is still all too eager to let her do so.
They're both in agreement — the first thing to go is her portrait, even if that means removing the wall she's stuck to.
With a growing list of supplies in hand, Ed figures the costs of renovation will be a hefty little fortune all on its own.
Luckily, between the two of them, Sirius and Ed have enough funds to live at least seven lavish lifetimes and still leave a substantial number of Galleons behind, which is great, since Sirius also wants to get rid of nearly everything in the house and start anew.
Unfortunately, between the two of them, they don't have an ounce of knowledge about interior design or architecture. Sirius suggests they go ahead and tear down a few walls, his mother's wall in particular, but Ed points out that's likely to cause structural damage and bring the roof down on their heads more than anything.
"How'd you want the place to look?"
"Like the Gryffindor common room, probably," Sirius says, scratching the back of his neck as he surveys the peeling wallpaper and dark wooden furniture. "It'll look more like home, you know?"
Most likely the only good source of memories he has, Ed thinks absentmindedly.
"You forget I've only seen the common room that one time and I was in a bit of a rush," he says instead. "Describe it for me."
Sirius rolls his eyes and groans. "Really wish you and Moony would move on from that, it's not even a good prank."
Ed scowls and gestures to get on with it.
The man sighs, but complies with Ed's wishes. "Warm-colored wood. Red when possible. Gold here and there. As you already know."
Ed ignores him and begins adding to the list of supplies and creating a new list for furniture. "Let's aim for that, so when we inevitably fail, we'll at least have something of a theme to work off of."
"That's easy enough," Sirius agrees. "We just need to replace everything." He raps his knuckles against the black marble of the dining table.
"Right," Ed says dubiously. "Easy."
* * * * *
It is not easy to renovate a house, magic or not.
Ed and Sirius do everything themselves — as neither of them really want to lose the (inconsistent) protection of the Fidelius by inviting workers into the house — and end up swearing at the building and sucking on bashed fingers as they literally tear the place apart, piece by piece, with a mix of wand and Muggle tools.
Inwardly, Ed knows he could safely transmute the house with a single clap of his hands and be done with the structural changes they'd agreed on in seconds. But 99% of him rejects the idea viciously; he may trust Sirius a fair amount for someone he hasn't known very long, but he can't say he'd trust Sirius to keep his alchemy a secret, because Sirius probably couldn't keep a secret even if he were dead.
Ed's seriously doubting the man's ability to even keep the automail secret, although that information getting out wouldn't be the end of the world.
But his alchemy needs to stay under wraps, since demonstrating a "magic" unlike anything the wizarding world has ever seen is going to lead to questions and possibly anger the goblins, who seem really touchy about the secrets of "Transformation" — those are both some of the last things Ed wants to deal with in this alternate reality. He's already sacrificed his relative anonymity to the Golden Trio and they've proven to be a pain in his ass in such a short amount of time.
So, no alchemy for house renovations.
Unfortunate, but necessary.
With those self-imposed restrictions in place, it would be nice if Remus could help out, as he's usually the logical person in all of their interactions, but he's just started preparations for his next year of DADA curriculum and is up to his ears in textbooks and articles doing research.
The biggest problem right now is figuring out a decent method for tackling all of the objects Sirius had once mentioned could be cursed (and there are a lot of them).
Despite the results of his hearing, Sirius has yet to be fitted for a new wand, meaning Ed is the one walking around casting detection charms and marking which objects should be handled with extreme caution on their crude layout of the house while Sirius starts removing furniture from the approved rooms.
It's in the second-floor library that Ed runs into a bigger problem.
A few of the books don't read as "safe", so he's marking them down when he hears an odd noise.
Something is rattling around in the cabinet of the writing desk — which isn't showing up as cursed in any of Ed's detection spells — and he knows that can't be normal.
"Alohomora," he says, magicking it unlocked.
He pulls it open, only to stumble back when something grey and shiny spills out of the tiny drawer, shapeless until it's suddenly solid again, towering over Ed in an all-too familiar form.
"Brother. How could you?"