He needed to get to his fireplace, he needed to fix this. He could do this. How could he have let this happen? He should have been prepared for Nash to be a dick, Nash was always a dick. Except now he was going to bring down Hogwarts, and Mal, and maybe Arthur with them. Arthur spun on his heel to head to his rooms but was stopped by Eames's hand on his elbow.

"Mine is closer," he explained, tugging Arthur down the hall.

He blinked at the back of Eames's head, hair neatly combed down and deceptively pinstriped robes fluttering, and Arthur felt marginally better. Eames was here. He was here for Arthur and he wasn't going anywhere. Arthur followed him down the hall.

Eames let them in and stalked through his bed/living room to the mostly empty room Arthur had spied the last time he'd visited. Arthur shut the front door carefully behind him, curious.

"He should be able to hear you from here," Eames instructed, throwing open the window as he spoke.

"He?" Arthur asked, but he wasn't listening. There must have been a cloaking spell over it the last time, because there's no way he could have missed the easel in the corner before. It held a massive painting, clearly unfinished, of… well, Arthur wasn't sure what it was. The colors were as vibrant as the shapes were vague, and he took in the details Eames had started to lay in for one section and was overwhelmed.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten about him already," Eames said, his voice teasing, but then he turned and saw where Arthur was staring he stilled.

Arthur blinked at him. "Eames," he breathed, "you're an artist."

And as if that hadn't been surprise enough, Arthur watched Eames's cheeks and neck flush with color before he turned back to the window, making a big show of opening it wider.

"Eames! Are you… are you blushing?" he asked, watching as he rubbed the back of his neck and looked anywhere but at Arthur.

Arthur looked around the room, taking in the beautifully lit photographs on the walls, some subjects moving gracefully and some oddly frozen in their elegant poses.

"What the hell for? These are beautiful."

Eames finally turned to face him, holding out a handful of owl treats. "You can call him from here," Eames said again.

Arthur took them automatically, gaping at the man in front of him whose face was a placid lake.

"Eames, I knew you took pictures, I've watched you do it for years. But I didn't know you did all this," Arthur said, gesturing to the room, the sweep of his arm including the shelf of surprisingly organized supplies, two or three bulky objects under sheets which might have been sculptures, and a stack of smaller canvases against the wall.

"Just a hobby," Eames said, brushing it off like it was nothing.

"This is incredible," Arthur said softly. "I'd love to see them sometime." He looked at Eames and did his best to appear open and non-threatening, because Eames looked so jumpy.

Arthur turned to the open window and took a fortifying breath of the brisk air blowing past. When he let loose the three short whistles he and Strix had been working on in the evenings, he stepped back to find Eames handing him a quill and roll of parchment.

"Thanks." He set aside his thoughts to focus on what to write to Kensaku Saito, the Minister of Magic.

He should have known by the weight, but it didn't register until he'd written the first word the perfection of this particular quill. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder as he looked at the quill in his hand and he turned to see Eames's eyes on his. He didn't say anything, just stood next to Arthur offering his support. Arthur felt a rush of gratitude that took him by surprise. Eames was here, for Arthur, without him asking or even expecting, really. And it felt good. Amazing, actually. To know that there was someone here who had his back, understood what he was dealing with, and would absolutely help if needed. He gave Eames a wobbly smile and got one in return.

The breath he blew out ruffled the parchment, but the words came easily after that. Each brush of the self inking quill was like a small caress from Eames, and Arthur knew he was never giving the quill back, if only to be reminded of this moment each time he used it. To feel Eames's support behind each word he wrote.

Mr. Saito,

Hogwarts requests your assistance with an urgent matter. Please owl back at your earliest convenience with your availability to meet. You may want to bring a legal advisor with you.

Thank you,

Professor Arthur Levine

Acting Headmaster of Hogwarts

He stood, letting Eames read it over his shoulder.

"That feels weird. I've never written that before," Arthur said, staring at the title below his signature. It was technically true, and had been for a while, but he'd never admitted it, even to himself before. He was always just a placeholder for Dom.

"It could be yours, you know. If you wanted it," Eames said, his voice quiet, no pressure, just stating a fact.

Arthur grimaced before he realized he was doing it and rolled the parchment in a tight spiral.

Strix landed next to him, with a clutch of talons on the sill, his large wings folding deftly into his sides, and he greeted Arthur with a sound halfway between a hoot and a chirp.

"Hey, big guy," Arthur said. He gave Strix a treat and stroked his downy chest feathers with the back of one finger. "Need you to take a message for me. It's for the Minister of Magic."

Strix fluffed up his feathers proudly, and stood, beak raised with a regal air, offering his leg and the metal tube for the message.

"You should wait for a reply, and then bring it straight back," Arthur instructed, fitting the message securely.

Strix gave him a look that told Arthur exactly how he felt about being explained something he already knew, and gave a small nip to remind him who was the expert owl and who was the new owl owner. Arthur chuckled.

"Yeah, alright. You already knew that. Just nervous about this one, it's important."

Strix hooted his understanding, a low and comforting sound that was big in the open room. He accepted one more treat and one last feather stroke from Arthur before taking off.

"I'm glad you two are getting on," Eames mused as Arthur watched the wide wingspan disappear to a speck. Arthur shrugged.

"He's pretty amazing. I don't know why anyone would want anything different." Arthur moved into Eames's space, taking a small handful of his robes, marching ants and all. "He comes over to my place sometimes after I'm done with classes for the day. And I'll let him spend the night if he wants. We talk a lot."

Arthur tugged Eames closer. "I feel like I've known him forever, you know? And yet there's so much I don't know about him."

Eames made a small, non-committal hum.

"I trust him," Arthur continued, smoothing his hand over the robes on Eames's chest, shamelessly feeling up the man underneath. "But I'm not sure he trusts me."

There was a heavy pause as Arthur kept petting him, letting it sink in. "I feel like I could tell him anything and he wouldn't judge me. I hope he knows the opposite is true, too."

"Owls do a lot of confessing around you, do they?" Eames asked, a smirk not quite hiding the raspy wobble in his voice. But he put his hands on Arthur's hips, keeping him close.

"Well, confessing is a strong word. I feel like sharing information freely is more accurate to our relationship." Arthur gave him a half smile. "For example, I would be willing to tell you that I sometimes hate being a teacher. And that I became one because Mal was, and I didn't know what else to do. And that I had a really hard time not looking at more of those memories." He swallowed. "And then you could tell me that you stole one from me. No confession needed."

Eames stiffened and moved away and Arthur dropped his hands, letting him. Eames's face, instead of being angry, which Arthur would have expected, even appreciated, was blank. Arthur kicked himself mentally while at the same time reminded himself over and over and over that this was important and needed to be done eventually.

"Let's get one thing straight, right now," Eames said, his voice even. "I did not steal anything from you. I would never steal anything from you. But those thoughts are not yours. I never thought I'd agree with that weasel on anything, but when Nash said those should belong to the people, my first thought was, "They already do." So don't you dare get all high and mighty and accuse me of stealing from you."

Arthur felt a crackle of indignation run through him.

"Well I think I would remember if I stole them from anyone. I don't even want the damn things! They're a headache and a liability and a pain in my ass!" Arthur shouted, unable to keep his voice from rising.

Eames, for all the walls he'd thrown up between them, shouted back. "If you didn't want the damn things, then why didn't you just get rid of them, huh? Why didn't you destroy them right away? You obviously want to. You could have gotten that note, opened the cupboard, and vanished them into oblivion, or turned them into tea cozies, or a nice hat rack! But you didn't! You didn't because-"

"Because they were hers!"

The words were out before Arthur knew he was going to say them. The truth of the statement rippled between them and Arthur deflated.

"I didn't because they were hers," he repeated. "I couldn't. She died thinking they were the best part of her. And it's not true, and it'll never be true, but I couldn't just let everything she'd worked so hard for, everything she'd traded her husband and her children and her life for, get turned into… into a hat rack."

Arthur's voice broke on the last word, and he blinked, hard. His throat worked, and just when he thought Eames was truly gone, he crossed the space between them and wrapped his arms around Arthur, hugging him fiercely, almost violently. Arthur hugged back, his toes curling into the floor to ground himself, and his nose pressed into the square of soft skin under Eames's ear.

He breathed in, the soft, warm scent of this man, the one who hadn't quite let him in, but who Arthur knew had given him more of himself than he'd given most people for a long, long time. And Arthur took it-great handfuls, without feeling guilty, and wanted more. He would wait, forever if necessary, because Eames was hugging him, consoling him on losing the only person who'd ever loved him, when no one else had even said, "I'm sorry for your loss". Arthur would hold on to that for as long as Eames would let him.

When they finally drew apart, Arthur had himself under control again, but he was relieved to see that the blank slate Eames had drawn over his features from before was gone. In its place were the forehead wrinkles and eye creases he'd grown so fond of, the ones asking if Arthur was okay and wanting him to be. Arthur nodded, and Eames brushed a kiss over his forehead.

He sighed into Arthur's hair, the warm air gusting over his scalp. "I took mine," he admitted, and pulled away to reach into his wide sleeve and withdraw the tiny glass bottle. The slow swirl of blue twinkled merrily, but Arthur would bet those thoughts were anything but. Mal's spidery script, proclaiming it "Eames" was smudged, as if a sweaty thumb dragged across the words could erase it from existence.

"I didn't look at them," Arthur said, keeping his eyes on the bottle. "But I really wanted to."

Eames scoffed. "I think I'd be able to tell if you had."

Arthur didn't know what to say to that, so instead, he reached for the bottle, slowly, and took it from Eames's hand. To Arthur's surprise, Eames let him, and with a renewed sense of purpose, he let his wand slip into his hand and pointed it at the vial. "Millinus", he muttered, transforming the bottle into a wrought-iron hat stand, even though it didn't match Eames's living room/bedroom decor, because he didn't know a spell for a wooden one. Eames would probably have been able to do it better, but Arthur added extra filigree in the hopes he would like it anyway.

It didn't seem to matter, because Eames wasn't looking at the hat stand. He was looking at Arthur, his face soft, a small smile on his lips.

"Darling," he said, and Arthur blushed, the tips of his ears heating up first. He set the stand carefully on the floor, clearing his throat and opening his mouth to say… something, when Eames kissed him. The small sound Arthur made was swallowed by Eames's mouth and Arthur was melting, dissolving under his hands, his tongue, and he kissed back for all he was worth.

I'm sorry for this whole mess, he tried to say with each brush of his lips. I… care about you. I want you to care about me.

Eames seemed happy to oblige, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, until he thought his head might float away. The world narrowed and Eames's mouth was on his, his hands were clutching at Arthur's back, and Merlin's beard, Arthur was so far gone for this man.

Which was why this might break his heart.

He pulled away from Eames reluctantly. "I think… I think I need you to tell me."

Eames looked resigned and he nodded dully. He took a step back and looked around the room, as if noticing for the first time that he had inadequate seating for anyone other than himself.

"Uh." He gestured towards the front room and Arthur went, sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed that took up half the room. Eames fussed with the fireplace, crouching to light it with his wand in several small bursts, trying to get just the right amount of heat and light. And stalling for time.

"Eames…" Arthur prodded.

"Just. Just give me a minute." Eames said to the flames. "I've never actually told anyone this. And I'm just a bit hesitant to lose you and my job in the next five minutes, so just…" He trailed off and Arthur bit his lip.

"Did you kill someone?" he asked, keeping his tone even, non-judgemental.

Eames turned to look at him. "I don't think so. No, not to my knowledge, not directly anyway."

Arthur nodded. "Use an unforgivable curse?"

Eames looked affronted. "No! Merlin's shorts, what do you take me for?!"

"So what, then?"

Eames rose and sat next to Arthur on the bed. He had his wand in his hand, turning the light wood over and over in his hand, as if he'd forgotten he was holding it. His thumb stroked the round knot at the base absently, worn smooth by wandmaker and years of use.

"I was a thief," Eames admitted. "A good one. I used magic, sometimes, but mostly I just stole everything that wasn't tied down. Bit of forgery too, mostly art."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, and Eames let him process.

"Did you steal from wizards?" he finally asked.

"Wizards, muggles, the occasional animal, you name it," Eames said, his voice tight with anxiety but trying to make light of it. "I had lots of experience."

"Why?" Arthur finally asked.

Eames shrugged, but his fingers tightened on the thin wood in his hand. "Started as a bit of fun with my mates, just a lark at first. See what we could nick from the shops, the thrill of it. Then my dad got laid off, and my mum…" His voice faltered a bit and Arthur curled his hands into fists to keep them from reaching out to Eames. He couldn't have been further away if he were on the moon.

"My mum was having a hard time making ends meet at home," he finally continued. "And my dad wasn't, uh, handling that very well, and I started to bring home what I could to help."

When it was clear he wasn't going to continue, Arthur swallowed. "That was nice of you, to help your folks out like that."

Eames snorted. He snorted, like it was the funniest thing Arthur had ever said. And if he'd seemed distant before, it was nothing compared to how he was now. Stung and confused, Arthur turned towards Eames. "Wasn't it... nice of you?"

Eames's thumb pushed the knot on his wand so hard his nail bed turned white and Arthur was convinced he would snap it in half. "It was the most self-serving thing I've ever done. Or, started doing, I guess. It wasn't like it was a one-time thing. I finally had a way to show them I was worth keeping around, I wasn't going to let that go anytime soon."

He took a deep breath. "So! The things I brought home started getting bigger, more elaborate than what we could eat or even keep around. I mean, where does one hang famous works of art in your two-bedroom rat-hole flat?" He forced out a laugh and shook his head. "I'll never forget the whooping I got the day I brought home a sofa that was probably worth more than our rent for a year. 'Don't you know we already have a sofa, boy? Can't you see it every day, or do your eyes in your mush face not work properly?'"

The cockney accent Eames had affected as he imitated his father took Arthur by surprise. He felt like he'd opened a manhole cover and was forced to face a depth that he'd never previously been aware of and spanned he didn't know how far. He had no idea what to do or say. So he did what he would have wanted, and what he'd been aching to do since they'd sat down. He reached for Eames's hand.

It took a moment for him to let go of the wand, and Arthur wondered if he should back off, but when Eames finally allowed Arthur to take his hand, he intertwined their fingers and held on for dear life. Arthur watched their fingers, Eames's thick, blunt ended ones and his own thinner, paler ones.

"What did he mean by that?" Arthur asked.

Eames's frustrated huff made Arthur look up at him, where he watched Eames's face morph in a constant flux, his nose growing softer, rounder, then flatter and sharper, his cheekbones becoming more prominent, then fading away. His jawline changed, his facial hair darkened, his eyes flashed so many different colors Arthur couldn't keep track. He stared, fascinated, at the way Eames could imitate so many features, but still be so very Eames at the same time.

"Wow," Arthur breathed without thinking, and Eames's eyes flicked to his, settling into his own, familiar form with a blink of surprise.

"Yeah, well, that's not exactly dear old Da's opinion," he said, his mouth twisted wryly. "Metamorphmagi can present their abilities as early as the hour they're born. I was a late bloomer, I guess I can be thankful for that at least. Still, a bit of a shock when your presumably normal two-year old goes to throw a tantrum and their whole body turns red. Or when I wanted something and my eyes would actually get physically larger. Or when I met my aunt for the first time and tried to copy her."

"But Metamorphmagi are so rare… you think they'd have been proud," Arthur said.

Eames gave him a small, sad, heartbreaking smile. "They were Muggles, darling," he said. "They thought there was something wrong with me. They couldn't wait to get rid of me, actually. I made them uncomfortable."

"So what happened?"

"I got my letter, boarded a train, and never looked back. They requested a memory removal spell and it was granted, so I suppose they never looked back either."

"Merlin's...a memory removal...wait, you mean to tell me that you stole sofas and famous works of art before you were eleven years old!?"

Eames's cheeky grin was all Eames. "Told you I was good."

Arthur snorted. He couldn't help it. He knew that Eames's foray into thievery didn't stop when he got his letter, he'd admitted as much. But if this was the secret, the one he'd kept so hidden so well, and which didn't pain him as much as the admission that his parents didn't want him because he wasn't a Muggle, well, Arthur could live with that.

"Is that everything?" he asked, because he had a feeling Eames might not tell him otherwise.

Eames hesitated and Arthur was amused. He managed to keep a straight face.

"My name isn't really Charles Eames. I changed it when I got in trouble with the Ministry and I needed to lay low for a while."

"But... is that what you prefer?" Arthur asked, trying to wrap his mind around calling Eames something other than Eames.

"Most definitely," Eames said, and Arthur breathed a little easier.

"And?" he prompted when Eames didn't say anything else.

Eames looked worried. More worried than he had before. "I'm not really a teacher," he finally confessed. "I forged my teaching certificate."

Arthur was smiling. He couldn't help it. "Can I kiss you now?" he asked, but he wasn't really asking. He scooted across the bed, until his thigh were pressed alongside Eames's. He used their joined hands to tug Eames closer.

"Just kissing?" Eames asked, the tease not doing much to cover the relief in his voice or the grateful way he looked at Arthur.

Arthur smiled. "Should I be dreaming a little bigger?"

"Always," Eames murmured to his lips.