McGonagall could admit, as she led the colonel and the suit of armor through the Hogwarts halls about ten minutes past lights out-when the only people wandering should be staff members and the restless departed, though of course, she was rather too old, too learned, and too world-wearied to not even consider there might be younger, or more sinister, faces peeking around from darkened corners or huddled beneath enchantments-that, even in her books, the experience was strange. She was glad for her translation spell because they didn't seem to stop speaking. There was a high voice filled with concern and a lower one, eerie in its calm that McGonagall was not entirely convinced of, speaking up above the squeaking of the armor, the thud of footsteps, and the distant cackle of the poltergeist she sincerely hoped would not come any closer. It wasn't necessarily that they were voicing anything more disturbing than genuine worry for Ed; rather that she was just glad there was no lingering layer of pulsating unsurity, no room to doubt.

The building of Hogwarts school worked in mysterious ways that McGonagall could not honestly claim to fully understand, but it had known what to do when the Amestrians were led by two of her students, pale and stricken, into the building the night before. Nobody had slept since: the discussions had spanned hours and she had found out small fact after small fact about one of her students until the image she held of a short, brash, pre-teen with a chip on his shoulder was replaced by a child soldier with missing limbs and more chips than shoulders. And then, suddenly, there was no more to say. Or, more accurately, there was no more anyone was willing to say and, considering everything they had been willing to share as if it were unremarkable, that was the most worrying thought of all. Once the words had ran out as if overtaken by a sudden and dramatic drought, the energy had been replaced with air that settled, heavy and tiring upon them all.

So she led the Amestrians to the room the semi-sentient building had set aside for them in a weird, out-of-the-way nook rarely traversed by herself or any students aside from the Weasley twins (who she knew liked to traverse the school through hidden passages they didn't think she knew were there). She watched the two of them walk into the room but did not stay for long enough to gauge their reactions, closing the door behind them and walking away. She just felt she needed to be gone-it felt like she was intruding, not just on people but rather an odd culture that she was very far away from and the very idea of scared her.

Mustang looked up at the high ceilings of the room the stern, quiet woman had taken them to. Her boney hands had opened the door with little grandeur so he hadn't been expecting much, maybe something small and comfortable but distinctly impersonal.

He could safely say that was an inaccurate assessment of the room.

The ceilings were high and grand in a classical way he didn't think he had seen even once outside of the old, formal buildings in Central where he tried to avoid being talked down to by higher-ups in official meetings. The walls were well-worn, warm-tone, red bricks, covered over with the occasional tapestry or animated painting. There was a character in the threads and the brushstrokes that made him feel he was being watched (which he certainly was) but in a way that indicated company more than creepiness. He noticed out of the corner of his eye, that a tapestry tucked into an odd corner of the room he honestly wasn't even sure of the purpose of, bore a passing yet striking resemblance to Riza Hawkeye. His breath caught and his heart jumped but when he looked back and tried to pay more attention to it, he didn't see any tapestry there at all. There was a counter at the side of the room, an ornate tea set sitting atop it, teapot whistling like it was a music box playing a pre-assigned simple tune, steam rising gently and steadily with no indication that it would soon be cooling down. There was a tray of biscuits beside it. The mantle above the crackling flame of the fireplace had picture frames sitting on top of it but instead of photographs each had a startlingly familiar sketch on yellowish paper inside of it. There was a bed shoved against each side of the room, each looking soft and squishy, covered by a duvet and rather home-made looking quilts and an excess of pillows and cushions.

Al looked at the bed with as wistful an expression as the metal of his face could muster. Mustang didn't miss it. Al's joints creaked like they needed to be oiled as he plodded to the bed and sat down on it, feeling his weight forcing the duvet down but not being able to feel the sensation of sinking or the softness around the body he no longer had. Mustang beelined to the tea and biscuits and Al looked away because the longing for real life began to ache. He laid down on the mattress, pretending the breadth of his shoulders didn't exceed its width. He stared at the ceiling and the stars painted on it, watching it like it was the real sky as weak, wispy clouds passed in front of the lily-white moon. He could see in it, as if it were the actual thing, a face.

The face shifted and if Al had his human body still he might have thought he had been drugged or poisoned or had already began to dream, because it shifted to the distinct portrait of his brother, grinning in that sly way that made Al simultaneously nervous and endeared. His portrait on the dark blue ceiling was so lively so, instead of continuing to lay there and wallow, he stood up to leave.

He hadn't realised how long he had been staring at the ceiling until Mustang looked over at him blearily from the other bed, teacup discarded on the bedside table, dregs just sitting at the bottom and seeming almost serpentine, like an omen in waiting.

"What are you doing?" Mustang's voice was raw and vulnerable and it sounded more alien to Al, in that moment, than any of the English they had heard before the translator spell had.

"Can't sleep, I'm going to sit with Ed for a bit,"

"You don't know where the infirmary is," Mustang pointed out, quietly cynical, "and it's not like he'll be able to hear you," but even as he said it he was shifting the duvet and pulling on his stiff military jacket. It looked rather odd paired with his soft, loose pyjama bottoms.

"I know," And they left together.

It was like the castle wanted them to find the infirmary. Their footsteps bounced around the walls, the only noise aside from their hesitant chatter coming from the science-defying portraits lining the walls. The corridors turned this way and that, forking whenever seemed most inappropriate and making the building feel incredibly labyrinthian but not once did the sporadic layout give them pause. At each fork and bend and twist and turn both Amerstrians felt this instinctive pull that dragged them the same way without discussion or doubt.

It wasn't until they were there, standing before a clearly labelled door, that Al began to feel any sort of doubt or apprehension. Ed was his big brother and Ed was dangerous and Ed was strong and Ed was Ed. Ed wasn't vulnerable and Ed wasn't lifeless-at least he hadn't been since times Al didn't care to dwell on. Did Al really want to see his brother so thoroughly robbed of himself?

Mustang didn't let him dwell for long. He opened the door. The infirmary was cold and it was evident that Ed wasn' alone in that there were a few bodies just lying like statues on unyielding hospital beds but there wasn't a single wisp of actual life in the room. The lights were off but flickered steadily to life once the door was opened, making it clear that everything in the room was that disconcertingly sterile white Al saw all too often having Ed as a brother. It was the least magical-looking part of Hogwarts they had seen as of yet and, as odd as it was for two men so concerned with science, it also made them the most uneasy.

Al pulled up a chair to Ed's bedside and Mustang did the same, having to look for him beforehand and trying not to feel as though they were intruding when they stumbled across the petrified bodies of unfortunate strangers. Neither of them spoke at all. It had never been more evident how much empty space in conversation Ed filled. Mustang dozed off eventually, sitting up uncomfortably in his chair, and Al fetched a spare blanket from a cupboard and draped it over him. He wasn't really aware of the passage of time until the sunlight began to creep in through the papery blinds that barely covered the only window in the room.

And that's when it happened.

A nurse-like woman made eye contact with him, though he couldn't tell what she meant by it, as she levitated a stretcher into the room. On top of it lay the immobilised body of the bushy haired girl with the buck teeth that had spoken to him and Mustang the night before. He jumped up to his feet and made an unfortunate clattering noise as he bumped into the cart sitting by Ed's bedside.

"I'm sorry," he told the air at the unfortunate girl's bedside and the aging woman smiled at him pityingly.

"She'll be okay," She told him as though she was entirely unfased by his presentation, "And so will he," She nodded to Ed, "We're well on our way to the mandrakes maturing," And Al nodded even if he didn't know what that meant because she sounded optimistic and he honestly didn't care how-he just wanted his brother back.

A/N

I'm sorry it's been a while, I've started sixth form recently and honestly this chapter was just really difficult to get written though I don't think I could explain quite why. I am also sorry that this is definitely shorter than most in the fic.

I've been on a bit of a TV (or streaming TV I guess) kick recently and it kind of distracted me from actually writing these things, sorry.

Anyway, thank you so much for reading and interacting with this, I'll try to do better about updating because apparently I'm just kind of fucking useless with schedules lol.

All the best,

We'reAllABitOdd