Warnings: Child abuse, past death, violence, experimentation, non binary characters
Year 1
Part One: Blood is Blood
Chrom Ylisse has known his place since he was born and he relishes in it, It suits him, he thinks, to a point. His place is with his sisters, right square in the middle with a weapon in hand. Maybe it would Godric's sword, or the falchion passed from generation to generation as was bid. Either way, he is a warrior, and that, in all its certainty, carries him as much as his name.
The only problem this leaves him with, however, is his lack of magic.
Well, not lack. He has it, his mother would have been displeased if he didn't. But wands dislike him. The wards on the house tinkle at him and he's sure that is bad. His accidental magic was small, almost forgettable.
He had wandered their grand halls for years at a young age, pretending he's not crying because the fear of being a Squib and helpless in their world is foul. Even if he can fit into the Muggle world (which he doubts, considering his family has been pure of blood for generations), he still won't have counters to anything else.
That, of course, was the day that he saw Lissa, still young enough to not have been ensnared by everything ladylike that had taken Emmeryn, fall from a tree. And before Fredrick even could turn he had flown across the halls to the courtyard and saved her.
She had laughed off her fear later, of course, and Chrom had clung to her for hours. Until he'd been reminded that it was his magic.
Then he had cried and was not ashamed of it. He had been too young to feel shame.
His father had been alive to quell it.
But that doesn't matter now.
Now, he is eleven. Now he is marching off to Hogwarts, as the first Exalt had during the time of the founders when the first had called to one of the old gods left in the land to battle another. His falchion is in his trunk, towards the bottom where the featherlight charm is the strongest so no one, not even the elves, can sense it and take it away. It is his and will come when called anyway.
So there.
He pushes his trunk closed and snaps each bit until it sits smooth and still. Chrom brushes cobalt bangs out of his eyes, regretting his refusal to go to the barber now. But he will bear it.
"You can't wear one sleeve anymore."
Chrom grunts and flicks something at Lissa's face. It's supposed to sound deep, adult, but he's still young enough that it comes out higher than it should.
Not that she notices, dodging the chocolate wrapper with a squeak of annoyance. "Seriously?"
He grins at her and sweeps over. When he next looks back, his trunk is gone and Lissa is darting from him, squealing in dismay. Seven years old and still trying so hard to be good, to be great.
Trying to be the adult.
Chrom, as always, pushes the concept away. His sister's still a baby. She doesn't need to do anything adult. They don't need to do anything big and scary and dangerous outright.
Especially not her.
To prove it, he chases her down the great halls of Ylisse Manor, their shoes loudly clapping on the floors and into the dirt. She makes it to her favorite tree – the tree she fell from of course – and Chrom grabs her by the waist, fingers dancing over the thinnest part of her soft yellow dress. She spins, grabs hold, and then they tumble, her pigtails bouncing unfurled from the ties as she reaches for his vulnerable armpit and succeeds just long enough that her weight hurts on his stomach.
Then Frederick, bless him, picks the pair of them up with a single hand each like the bodybuilder (Chrom loves Muggle words and for some reason saying that one makes Frederick flush and Emmeryn won't quite tell him why.) he is and the young man sets them gently on the ground on both feet.
"Breakfast is ready," he informs them, lips quirking steadily upward.
Chrom feigns anger at the interruption, his ribs are grateful instead as he shuffles along down the suddenly longer marble. Lissa skips beside him. She's singing something, a Muggle song he figures because of all of the Ylisse family, she can blend in the best.
Emmeryn is already there to eat, head girl's badge gleaming and bright in the lights. She beams at them in her soft, controlled way and looks back at her book. The food arrives as the two of them slip into their cushioned chairs. Frederick follows last, as always, shutting the door behind them. He stands stiffly at attention for moments, watching the plates divvy themselves up with the same wonder he tries to tamp down so hard and bury.
Chrom, as always, wonders why.
He never asks because that is a rude thing to do.
But eventually, the older man, practically a brother, sits down in his own chair and joins them.
"Everything is prepared," he tells them, eyebrows writ stern. Preparations have been made for Lissa with the Weasleys-"
"I can be here by myself, you know," Said Lissa interrupts over her food, glowering at him without much heat.
Frederick raises an eyebrow and ignores her. They've had the argument so many times it's not worth repeating. "Auror Potter will be here within the next hour. He has to take his children in separately as well. So we will need to be ready in the next hour."
Emmeryn pats her lips, green hair carefully out of danger as always. She looks ready for anything and even at eleven Chrom wishes-
If only I could be that perfect, that composed, that kind…
-he was as good as her, as prepared and composed. As forgiving.
He's not though. He can only be himself.
Chrom pushes the thoughts away again and focuses on his toast, marmalade, and the last of the lamb. When she talks, he smiles and answers and the bundle of nerves that had been in his chest since his first sparks of magic throbs with anxiety.
Harry Potter is not what people expect him to be, even almost two decades later.
He is not rippling muscle and towering height. Rita Skeeter had gotten out one last book and revealed many of his secrets. Secrets like a cupboard under the stairs and bodily harm, like words called freak and having the wrong prescription for his glasses for so long it'd needed correction. He is close to Frederick in height and he has some meat on his bones, but it's not enough. His faded scar is still pale white and standout against dark skin and Indian features, his father's features.
The eyes are green as the killing curse that killed him twice, Chrom sees that last of all every time.
It must hurt to see that color now that he knows what it is, he thinks. His tact keeps him from saying it and instead he merely dips his head with all the manners he has.
"Don't do that," Potter grumbles when he lifts his head. "Makes me feel like a lord or something."
Chrom laughs. "But you're like one!"
Potter is an old and familiar friend. He has done everything he can for them, everything and more. Chrom vaguely knows why, but still.
"Not as much as you," the man teases and in that mischief filled smile, Auror Potter is now just Uncle Harry. "Your blood goes back generations."
"Doesn't matter," Chrom juts his lips into a pouting frown. "Blood is blood but people are people."
Uncle smiles in that soft way that's full of pride. "You have been listening."
"Of course!" Chrom lifts his head high. "I've had years to hear of it."
Harry laughs. Not at him, Chrom hopes, but at the seriousness there. "Could be worse things to hear about. The peace and equality of all people isn't so bad to hear about."
"It's not so bad," Chrom echoes as his sister rushes into the room with Frederick shadowing her every step. He frowns. "Where's Lissa?"
"Last minute packing additions," Frederick responds promptly and then turns to Uncle Harry. His stern expression seems no different from usual, but the switch from Uncle to Auror is very telling. "Something has… come up."
Emmeryn beckons her brother and Chrom goes to her as the two men talk. Despite being barely out of school, Frederick's rigidity feels right in hand with the serenity that comes from the Head Auror he works for.
"Do you remember reading about the Fell Dragon?"
Chrom's eyes sparkle and his hands ball up into fists. He has always loved dragons, even though they were savage and wild and mean. Some were supposed to be smart. Like Naga the Divine, who accepted their prayers and answered with life the next sunrise.
But the Fell Dragon is pure evil, they say, and his worshippers like the Death Eaters, the Knights of Walpurgis. He is death itself, the cold rattle in the cradle of the earth. A thousand or more years ago, their ancestor had sealed him away, binding their strength to the founders of a great school and the Fire Emblem.
And ten years ago, he had broken free.
Over a year of bloody war (he'd been only a toddler at the time, and he still knows none of it) later and he had been stopped, somehow. Sealed or dead, it was hard to say. No one quite knew how it had been done, but Father had done it and mother had helped.
Father had died at it, whatever he had done. He had died a hero and also a violent monster, for some reason. Perhaps it's because that's what aurors are and do.
Chrom nods, eager for more, for any scrap of curiosity to be sated. "Yeah! What about him?"
Emmeryn smiles timidly at the edges. "We believe his Survivor has chosen Hogwarts."
The words take a moment to sink in.
A single child had survived the final battle. Older than Uncle Harry had survived Voldemort, but still young and therefore heavily burdened and vulnerable, would be a target from the second he was recognized. He would probably be lonely.
"I understand," Chrom tells her, blue eyes gleaming with joy. "I will look after them to the best of my ability."
A formal speech, but it's the truth and it soothes the creases on his sister's face. She hugs him tight, with so much pride.
Chrom isn't sure if he deserves it, but it makes him happy to have it. So he has it.
Mother's coat is too big, of course, too heavy with all the protection layered on it, but being that it's all he has of her, Robin doesn't care. It has its uses.
The cow didn't, there's the pity.
Robin bites the inside of his cheek and the voice laughs particularly hard. It sounds like crying, though.
Grima cries often. Like a small child.
Grima is a small child with death in its coiling skin and they know it. They hate it. They hate humans with the same intensity that Robin hates one person. One awful person.
Well, two. If Stephen Ylisse were still alive, he'd consider hating them. But then, they'd had no idea. People never had any idea if they didn't read far back enough and people never did.
He shivers in the chill of the room but doesn't light the fire. He will be summoned soon so there's no point in doing so.
Thin limbs dangle over the small bed. He's always been thin, no matter who he feels like that day, he's always been thin and small and helpless and-
Robin shudders harder than necessary as the small wooden door opens. Big dark eyes pierce the gloom of the glorified broom closet and Robin makes herself open her hands.
"Mor-Mor," he says, deep voice cracking in the now bare room. Not that it'd had much to start with. No moving posters, plenty of books, dagger after dagger, strange objects that skirted between toy and elaborate paperweight. "Is grandfather calling?"
Morgan, bless them, has learned to walk fast enough on stubby legs without aid. They peer out from their own curtain of soft blue and reach her legs. "Mum-day!" they say in reply.
"It is," Robin agrees because this child always knows.
Made from us, part of us, ours and no one else's.
Robin agrees in silence. Morgan is a baby. Morgan is small and helpless and sweet and everything Robin themselves is not no matter what they feel like on the inside, it's never enough. Grima understands the importance of this and despite their enraged outburst over how and why and who had caused them, they agree that Morgan is beautiful and must be kept so.
We're in alignment so much more lately.
Robin ignores this too and picks up their child, who seeks to be like them, already questioning and batting away the ideals the world wants. "Is grandfather calling?" he repeats because they hope not because Father never touches Morgan. Barely acknowledges them. And it will stay as such.
"Huh-uh." Morgan spits on the floor.
Robin laughs and hugs them tight.
Not good enough but sorry.
The door doesn't swing shut. "It's time." Aversa never announces herself, but no one announces themselves to Robin that actually lives here. "Come on, before Henry wets himself."
Morgan giggles again and Robin dips his head and obeys.
It is better than being made to, again.
The scars, curved like smiles, ache on his cheeks and forehead and skin.
"Mum-day," Morgan tells Aversa. Robin watches her shrug.
"Concealer then?" The older woman has always been beautiful to everyone who serves them. She used to use her beauty once, but in the past year, that had changed. Robin wants to ask, wants to comfort her without hesitation, but it seems wrong. Like someone will hear.
Like a certain beetle.
Robin thinks on the question and shakes his head. "Everyone will know eventually. Into the breach as it were." Because he was going to get stared at anyway for not wearing the right uniform no matter what, for refusing to respond some days, for having Morgan despite being so young.
You didn't birth them. Who cares?
They will. Blood Magic is still connected to blood.
Humans are as stupid as always.
Robin says nothing, trembles again. He grips Morgan tighter to his chest.
"Where's Father?" he says instead. "Will he see us off?"
"Already gone to work," Alversa replies. "Henry… may have rewritten his schedule to make him think he was late."
Robin makes a face and schools it back. "I see..."
"It's his first year too." Alversa doesn't touch him directly, merely adjusts his hood. "He's a little excited. It's better than the crows."
Robin doesn't disagree. He merely braces himself for the hug he doesn't want to feel and the excited love he gets for nothing.
It hurts, of course, but the pain is most welcome now. He doesn't know about the other side of the coin quite as well.
The Hogwarts Express is beautiful and red in the gleam of the sunlight. Autumn is fresh and new and full of wonder and it hasn't even officially started yet. Chrom holds a wiggling Lissa against him alongside his trunk as they move free of the barrier alongside Harry Potter. The crowd still parts and whispers for him.
"Next Minister coming through I bet."
"Are those the Ylisse?"
"Oh, gods they are beautiful. It is such a shame-"
Harry clears his throat and the three siblings pause in what must be awkward unison. He makes a motion with his head. Chrom turns away from the onlookers and whispering. He knows exactly what they're going to say and doesn't want it. They can keep their pity.
His jaw drops as he looks towards the train again and it doesn't mean to. But it does.
There is a small figure with white hair wheeling a carriage awkwardly with both hands. A small child sits upon it, likely no older than three. There's another white-haired boy tagging after a taller, pretty girl as she scans compartments.
They're leaving the two of them to struggle on their own.
Chrom, without hesitation, sets his sister down and goes to help.
It's a good thing he does because then the poor guy trips. The too-big gloves come loose as they fall.
Chrom feels his magic tingle and he's caught the other before he's actually thought about it. Hazel eyes, wide with confusion, stare up at him and there's a sick, weird throb in his chest.
"You okay?" he says, hearing his voice stay smooth and not doing too great at it. "That's pretty heavy, huh?"
He watches the other wet their lips and struggle to find words. "I have a lot of books," they reply in a soft, warm voice. "But thank you. You are very kind."
Chrom doubts it but doesn't say so, merely helps him back up and in doing so, comes face to face with a pair of large eyes and a small nose and a mouth shaped in an O.
"You!" shouts the child and Chrom jumps. The lungs.
Almost as loud as Lissa.
The boy turns away and pulls the child close, murmuring things in a language old and far away. It's the language Emmeryn does her drafts in so teachers can't correct her spelling.
This is a Plegian child.
An old rival family, devoted to the darkest arts imaginable. They were fierce and determined and stubborn with pride and ambition. Slytherin after Slytherin and devoted to the faith of Grima. The ones that weren't like that were stubbornly powerful in their own right. Fredrick had often complained about every single one.
And right now, the longer he looks at this boy, the less Chrom cares.
"Thank you, again," the other says. The scars on his face stretch as a faint smile twitches their lips. "My name is Robin. This is Morgan. Is this your first year too?"
"It is." Chrom doesn't know where the confidence comes from but it's warming his whole body. "I'm Chrom."
There's a pause as the boy shuffles his hand free, still without gloves, and hefts the child to one side. "Nice to meet you Chrom."
Despite everything, the pale looking palm is warm. And on it are Grima's six eyes, burnt red on his upraised skin.
"Nice to meet you too," Chrom says without stuttering and the strength with which he means it is almost sickening.
A/N: Did somebody say childhood friends! AU? Cause I don't write these enough and they're quite a bit of fun. Combined with Hogwarts! AU, we're just asking for it, honestly. Anyway, please read and review, it really helps me out! See you next chapter!
Challenges: Epic Masterclass FEA 6, Diversity Writing M20.