Disclaimer: All original characters and such belong to Marvel.

Summary: Erik knew that to be the face of a movement, he had to have a certain presence, a certain image. In finding a seamstress, he also found a friend - an elderly woman from the old country. After prison, he goes to find her again, for reasons practical and emotional. But ten years is a long time.

Chronology: Mid-DOFP

Pairings: none

Rating: T for violence

Author's Note: Mostly this evolved out of a discussion about where Magneto could have possibly gotten his costume, a Tumblr post with tags jokingly asking if he can sew, and further encouraged by Hugh Jackman's comment to Ian McKellen in the blooper reel about "where should I look for you, shopping for capes?" But then my brain kept going and it got more serious than I'd expected.

Needle

She had known about his abilities, and yet she'd always left a key out for him, hidden under a brick that edged the small flowerbeds on either side of the back entrance to the shop. Under cover of darkness, Erik casually slipped behind the building and dropped to one knee to pry up the brick and remove the key. It was entirely unnecessary, but nonetheless a gesture he appreciated, a sort of formality that said he was more than a common criminal, perhaps almost even a guest. He unlocked the door, then replaced the key in its hiding place. With slow motions and a hyper-awareness to all sounds he was making, Erik eased the door open and slipped inside, holding his breath. The green cloth hung in the window - the signal they had arranged to let him know when he could stop by the little shop without fear of intrusion or running into other patrons. He had barely dared to hope that it would be present - it had been ten years.

Sliding the door shut behind him, working it back closed within its frame inch by agonizing inch, he tried to get his eyes to adjust more quickly to the supreme darkness inside the back room of the store. He could vaguely make out the shapes of the shelving units on the walls, as well as some of the larger machinery sitting in the middle of the room. He blinked, shuffling forward slowly, hands out to feel the magnetic fields around the many metal objects in the room, using the sensations to make his way through the room like echolocation. But his foot bumped against a box and he stumbled a little, cursing under his breath. He stood there stiffly, willing himself to not so much as allow a muscle to twitch. He held his breath, straining to hear any kind of noise in the adjoining rooms. No doubt the woman and her husband were sleeping, and he didn't wish to wake them or startle them or give them any cause to think that there was a real intruder in their home. He simply wanted to make his way to his usual hiding place, to leave the usual signal and wait until the early morning when the woman woke and found his message and he could see another friendly face for the first time in ten years, have a friendly conversation, not have to worry about getting punched in the face, and refresh his image as the face of a movement. He would make a statement to the world, and with all the pieces he needed to properly sell the brotherhood, to recruit more good mutants to the cause.

When nothing happened, when he heard no noise and saw no movement, he let out a soft breath and eased forward again with tiny, measured steps. His eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness enough to make the movement easier, and he began to rely less on the sensations from the metal to guide him.

Perhaps that was why he did not notice the rush of movement until there was a body shoving him hard into the wall and something sharp pressed tight into the skin at his throat. He froze for a moment, stunned into submission.

"Who are you, and what the hell do you think you're doing in my workshop?" growled a female voice.

He blinked, trying in vain to focus in the dark, though his face was shoved into the cement wall. The voice...it was female, but it was not the voice of the woman whose acquaintance he had made after the Cuba incident, when he was first working out an aesthetic for his position as the head of the brotherhood and he had quickly realized that the image he wanted to project was beyond his own abilities. He knew the voice of the woman whose skills had saved him, and this voice was far too young. He had the correct address, the signal was placed as it should have been...so what had happened?

"I..." he started to say, but as his heart rate slowed, he realized that the sharp object at his throat was metallic. He breathed easier, realizing he had the upper hand, and his voice leveled out and deepened almost to a purr. "I'm looking for Inge Schulte."

"You have the wrong business," the woman replied, her own voice deep and warning.

"I don't think I do," Erik said simply, reaching out with his powers and assessing his options.

"I'm calling the police."

Her last syllable still hung in the air as the metal knitting needle flew from her hand and wrapped around her neck, tightening so it bit into her skin and she gasped for air and her hands scrabbled uselessly at the improvised necklace. Erik turned around leisurely to face her, sweeping one hand to the side casually to flick on one of the smaller lights. He had to quickly hide his surprise when the low light illuminated the woman's face, for she wasn't a woman at all - she was merely a teenager. A young girl with long tawny hair and walnut brown eyes in a pale face. Another casual flick of his hand and the metal eased its grip on her neck and she gasped frantically, the intake of air rising in pitch until she was able to fill her lungs. She pried her fingers under the metal, but to no avail. She looked up at him as she struggled, her gaze frantic. As she stared at him, something seemed to click and her eyes widened and she stiffened, her hands stilling on the metal wrapped around her throat. Slowly, the fear in her eyes was joined by a slow rolling hate, like thunderclouds filling the sky.

In the same instance, Erik was looking back at her, his own mind working slowly. Despite the surprise of finding her there instead of Inge, something about her was oddly familiar. He cast around in his memory as he took a slow step towards her, seeking to keep his position of power clear while he scrambled for information he knew he had.

Then it clicked. An old woman on her sewing machine. Her elderly husband smoking a pipe as he worked at a piece of leather. And a tiny girl sitting at the edge of the carpet, patiently turning small scraps of fabric into clothing for her dolls.

Inge's granddaughter. How had he forgotten? He studied the girl staring back at him, her knuckles turning white from where she tightened her fists around the metal and yanked. Ten years was longer than he'd imagined when it came to children. This girl had been barely seven when he'd last seen her, and now she was taller than her grandmother.

"Anneliese," he said simply.

She looked startled for a fraction of a moment before she spat back, "Murderer."

He told himself the word didn't sting a little deep somewhere, and he kept it well hidden from her. He wondered what she knew, and how, and had a moment of panic that he smothered as soon as it arose, wondering and then praying that Inge and Bertold hadn't turned against him in the time he had been gone. He supposed that he shouldn't have assumed they would stand by him, given what he had done - it had been flashed across every television screen and newspaper in the country. But the signal had been placed as usual...unless it had been meant as a trap? He allowed the cold doubt and worry no room in his body. He tsked at the girl softly. "Come now, I think your grandparents raised you better than that." He looked around the workshop area, just in case Inge had been waiting in the dark to surprise him. He raised a hand to loosen the metal from the girl's neck. "I need to speak with your grandmother. I realize it is late and I apologize for that, but it is the only time I could travel safely. I can sleep out here in the workshop and speak to her in the morning."

Anneliese stared back at him, her eyes having gone cloudy and blank. "Don't bother."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"She won't speak to you."

He felt a little chill. Perhaps they had changed their views of him. "Why not?"

"She's dead," the girl said flatly. "Last year."

There was no sound inside the room, and the whole space felt cold as they stood there, looking at one another. A minute could have ticked by, or five. Everything seemed empty.

"I'm sorry," Erik said at last.

"Me too."

He hesitated. "Bertold?"

She shook her head. "Four years ago."

"I am...so sorry."

She sneered. "So you're sorry about them, but not about the president?"

Automatically the metal tightened around her throat again, though not so tight that her airway was constricted this time. She gasped at the motion, trying to ward him off with her hands as he stepped closer, grabbing her arm and forcing her to focus on him. "You know nothing," he said viciously. He jerked his head in the direction of the back window. "Why the green cloth then, if it's just you?"

"She told me to!" Anneliese gasped. "Oma told me to! She made me swear to leave it there should someone need help! She didn't explain why, she just made me swear it!"

"That was our signal," Erik said. He looked around the room for a moment, taking stock of the fact that all the equipment seemed to be in place, before he returned his gaze to the teenager. "If they've passed on, who owns the shop now? Who runs this place?"

Anneliese raised her chin defiantly. "I do. It's mine."

"You're a child," Erik scoffed.

"It's held in trust by a neighbor until I'm of age! It is mine and I do all the work here, even as I finish school!"

He shook his head, smiling a little to himself in disbelief.

She narrowed her eyes and uttered a short string of German curses under her breath.

He regarded her thoughtfully. "You run this shop? You can do everything here that your grandparents did?"

"Of course," she said shortly, glaring back at him.

A smile slowly creased his face, and Anneliese regarded him suspiciously.

Erik waved one arm and more lights came on, and then waved the other arm and a number of the sewing machines sprang to life. Another flick of his fingers, and the metal circled around her throat twitched warningly.

"Congratulations," he said coolly, gesturing at the bolts of fabric. "You have an order to fill."