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Erik would have been hard-pressed not to notice Charles Xavier. For one thing, they arrived at the same time— in early October, when the term at the Tituba Salem School was already well underway. There had never been a transfer student at Durmstrang, not in Erik’s experience, but he didn’t know if that was true of Salem, or if that was the only reason for the murmur that went around the large dining hall when Headmistress Caligari introduced him. He stood up when she indicated with a graceful gesture of her hand, and didn’t smile when the whole of the school focused on him.
“Erik Lehnsherr,” he said, as clearly as he could. It felt odd to be standing here bare-headed, in robes that didn’t match anyone else’s. He had always liked his Durmstrang uniform (although he found its coloring dull), but he wasn’t used to standing out from everyone around him.
“Erik is transferring here from Durmstrang,” the Headmistress continued over the next wave of whispering, “And I expect all of you to make him welcome. We have another transfer as well— Charles Xavier, previously of Hogwarts.”
It wasn’t just whispers this time. Erik’s head snapped around along with everyone else’s to focus on the boy who glided slightly forward, out from behind the Headmistress’s long shadow so that everyone could see him. He wasn’t particularly imposing, compact and pale, wearing a simple, neat uniform with a green tie under his robe— Erik surmised that this must be the uniform of Hogwarts, although he had never seen it. The chair in which he sat was only slightly less arresting than his eyes— it was hard to decide which to focus on. The chair was a strange, twiggy contraption, as if multiple broomsticks had been broken up and then joined together again to form a floating wicker contrivance. The eyes were blue, as blue as the endless sky Erik had spent the summer staring at, arching unnaturally bright over the dark cliffs of Durmstrang.
The piercing caw of the crow that sat on the Headmistress’s shoulder made Erik jump, and effectively silenced the swell of excited conversation in the room. “That’s enough,” she said crisply. “Neither Erik nor Charles are to be bothered with questions. They are new to our school, and I expect all of you to help them settle in. As they have missed the sorting ceremony, I have consulted with the other professors as to their Houses. Erik Lehnsherr.”
He saluted sharply before he remembered that it wasn’t the custom here, and scowled to keep himself from blushing at the sharp sound of it.
“You will be sitting with House Bearglove until next year’s sorting ceremony,” the Headmistress continued, unperturbed. Apparently collective sentiment rose above Erik’s ferocious expression, because at her words cheers broke out among the tables— presumably from those of House Bearglove, marked out by green and tan robes.
“Charles Xavier, I think House Foxcrest will be a good place for you to start.”
Erik automatically looked across the hall and found himself meeting the other boy’s eyes once again. The next round of cheers seemed muted to his ears somehow, far away and unimportant, and he knew he should move, he was supposed to be doing something—
Charles looked away, his cheeks slightly pink, freeing Erik to stumble over his own feet in his haste to take the chair someone waved him to.
*
Being in different houses didn’t seem to make as much of a difference as it had at Durmstrang, though the organization of common rooms and dormitories was similarly separate. The strange sprawl of the building, with its hodgepodge of American architectural styles, was confusing after the austere castle he had been used to, and Erik was always getting lost. Theoretically the horseshoe arrangement of the school, built out from, into, and sprawling over the cliffs surrounding the harbor called Tituba’s Cauldron, should have made it much easier . . . theoretically.
Erik stomped down yet another corridor he was certain he had never seen before, lined with very stiff looking portraits, all of whom tittered at him after he had passed but immediately froze back in their original poses when he rounded on them. Cursing to himself in German, he grabbed a door, yanked it open, tripped over the doorsill, and fell right into the lap of one Charles Xavier.
Charles made a noise that amounted to “heeeep!” and Erik had most of the wind knocked out of him by one of Charles’ knees that had somehow ended up wedged in his solar plexus. For an excruciating and incredible two minutes he lay there, entirely helpless to do anything but gasp for air with his face pressed against Charles’ chest and Charles somewhat awkwardly patting him on the back.
“Breathe, slowly now, there’s a good chap, little by little,” Charles was saying above him, and Erik briefly, fiercely wanted to die. His ears were burning, his heart was pounding (or maybe that was Charles’ heart, pressed under his ear?), and the moment he had enough air to breathe he struggled up. There was a single moment where he was on his knees, one hand was on Charles’ thigh, the other on the leather padding over Charles’ arm, and he was looking up into Charles’ face. Charles had two freckles on his nose, he noted, and his mouth was very red in the morning light slanting low through the square-paned windows beyond. His eyes were darting across Erik’s face, and it would be very easy to—
Erik cleared his throat and pushed himself the rest of the way to his feet, mumbling, “Sorry, so sorry, wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Quite all right,” Charles said graciously, and embarrassingly Erik knew that sort of reply was entirely typical of him. “Were you looking for something? Usually there’s not much of anyone in this wing.”
“Lost,” Erik managed, and then swallowed and recovered his composure a bit. “Where are you going?”
“Down to the Quidditch pitch,” Charles said, and Erik cursed himself for a fool. Of course that was where Charles was going. His face had been mashed against the bright blue and yellow colors of what was obviously a Quidditch uniform, complete with bracers on Charles' arms and legs, and the bristles of a broomstick stuck up from some kind of carrier on the back of his chair. There was also another long stick with a net basket at the end, clearly some sort of sports equipment but nothing Erik was familiar with. “I played back at Hogwarts, you know, and Professor Ponkapoag said I could here. Would you, ah, care to come with me and see what practice is like? Did you play at Durmstrang?”
“A little,” Erik said, falling in next to Charles’ chair gratefully. “I was a . . .” he reached for the unfamiliar term, “Beater.”
“That’s marvelous,” Charles said warmly. “I was a Chaser, myself.”
“What is this . . . stick?” Erik asked, indicating the strange implement sticking up from the back of Charles’ chair.
“That, my friend, is in fact called a stick,” Charles’ laughter wasn’t the cruel sound that had driven Erik to rage back in Durmstrang, and it wasn't the mockery of the portraits. It warmed from the inside, invited Erik to take part. “They prefer American-rules Quidditch here, not International Quidditch. So there’s no Snitch, and the Quaffle is much smaller. We pass them back and forth using the sticks to throw and catch. Of course there are a lot of other differences too— less fouls, for instance, which can make it rather brutal at times, but I find I’m enjoying it. You need a faster eye, and—”
The walk to the pitch— “Field, actually, that was my mistake, they call it a field here—” seemed like it took mere seconds to Erik. The rest of the team was already in the air when they arrived outside. Professor Ponkapoag’s big frame was evident among them, incredibly graceful and strongly reminiscent of a bumble bee in her black and gold house robes as she swooped among the players. She shouted instructions and encouragement as she wove up and down and in and out, perfectly at home in three dimensions.
“Xavier! You’re late!” she shouted as she zoomed overhead. “Grab your stick and get up here! Lensherr, you’re welcome to stay and watch practice from the bleachers. Move it, Xavier!”
“That’s it for me, then,” Charles shrugged and reached behind him to free his broomstick, letting it go to float in the air while he retrieved his stick.
Erik fidgeted, unsure of what to do. “Can I . . . help?” he tried.
Charles gave him a grin that outshone New England's autumn sun. “Hold it steady for me?”
Erik braced the handle end as Charles competently transferred himself from chair to broom, one hand braced on Erik’s shoulder as he secured each leg in place. “Oh! My helmet!”
The helmet had been hooked over Charles’ chair, but the jostling of freeing broom and stick and Charles had knocked it loose, and it had rolled a few feet away. It was Erik’s chance, he saw that in an instant, his only chance to wipe out a month of stumbling over his own feet around Charles, a month that had culminated in today’s most embarrassing instance.
He raised his free hand and concentrated on the words. Wingardium Leviosa, he repeated to himself, concentrating on the shape of the helmet, the metal frame that supported the hard shell, Wingardium Leviosa! On the second repetition he gestured sharply, commandingly. And by his order the helmet rose jerkily into the air, then flew over, straight as an arrow, to smack into his waiting palm.
He gently set the helmet over Charles’ waves of brown hair, buckling the clasp under his gaping jaw.
“That was incredible,” Charles breathed. Erik’s fingers brushed against his cheek, and lingered; Erik stared at them as if they belonged to someone else. Charles’ cheek was soft under against the pads of his fingers, smooth. “Erik, that—”
“Xavier! Face-off, NOW!” Professor Ponkapoag roared from downfield.
“Later, my friend, we’ll talk later,” Charles promised, and then he was away.
At least it gave Erik a chance to recover, he thought, as he slumped on the bleacher’s uncomfortable bench. Although watching Charles swoop daringly after the ball, or body-check an opponent with a bruising crash, was breathtaking in an entirely different way.
*
After that Charles sought him out, as the days grew shorter and colder, as the trees dropped their splendor of orange and red and gold and showed the grey branches beneath, then one wholly magical morning took up a mantle of white. But although they were often together, they were seldom alone; Charles was popular among the other students, had started a study group, and was increasingly involved in his Quidditch team. He pulled Erik along in his wake, and Erik went but held himself somewhat aloof, memories of the disaster at Durmstrang holding him back.
Instead he watched Charles, and hoarded memories: Charles explaining basic Potions theory to one of his new proteges, Alex. Charles sweaty and pink-cheeked and exhilarated after practice. Charles gesturing expansively with his fork over dinner. Charles with snowflakes caught in his eyelashes as the sleighs came back from a trip to Salem Town. Charles offering his favorite among the silver-antlered reindeer a carrot afterwards. Charles in front of the fireplace in the Bearglove Commons, looking so comfortable as he drowsed in the flickering golden light that Erik couldn’t bear to remind him that he had to return to the Foxcrest dorm.
And then there was the one time when they had been in Foxcrest’s snug den of a Commons, when Darwin and Alex and Hank and Sean had run off to find snacks to fuel their inexhaustible appetites, and a pensive Charles was tracing a hand over the edge of a letter he had received from Beauxbatons Academy.
“From my sister, Raven,” he said softly, though Erik hadn’t quite dared to ask. “It was decided that we should be split up, after the . . . well, after everything that happened. She went to France, I came here. I’m trying . . . I think I can get her transferred here, if I can meet certain conditions. But it’s hard, being apart. Especially with the hols coming on, you know? We were always together, before. It’s going to be hard, being alone.”
Erik’s throat felt thick, and he reached without thinking to put his hand over Charles’. “No,” he said roughly, “I will be here, too.”
Charles looked up at him, and slowly his fingers curled around Erik’s. “You’re not going home over break? Back to Germany?”
Erik shrugged and looked away. “No need to go back,” he said, “I am also alone.”
“Oh, Erik,” Charles turned his face back with a touch. “You’re not alone. I promise you, I—”
And then Sean and Alex burst through into the den, tangled in some bizarre competition to vigorously ruffle each other’s hair. Hank and Darwin followed behind with a staggering armload of pilfered boxes and snacks, and the moment was gone.
*
On the last day of the term, Charles was busily engaged in helping with packing up and seeing everyone off on the clipper ships that lay tied in the harbor, but Erik had other plans. By now he knew his way around the Salem School as well as anyone, and he’d been preparing since that night in the Foxcrest Commons.
He found Charles sitting in his chair on the wharf, watching the cabin lights of the last clipper fade into the distance as it mounted into the sky. The teachers, too, were gone; most had likewise left for the holiday break, with a skeleton staff to maintain the school over the coldest days. Greatly daring, he rested a hand on Charles’ shoulder, and Charles turned to look up at him.
“Come,” Erik said, “I have a surprise.”
Erik walked ahead this time with a lantern, knowing that Charles was following in the shadow cast by his greatcoat, perfectly trusting and content to go where Erik asked. He led him through the hallway of portraits, all blessedly silent, and up through the strange uneven room where he had first fallen into Charles’ lap, until he reached a trap door set above. He turned to Charles consideringly. “You can do this, yes?”
Charles’ chair handled stairs with fluid ease, but never more than that; Charles smiled slightly, looking down and fingering the green-and-silver tie he still wore sometimes, and then his chair floated upwards without a word, without so much as a gesture, into the darkness above. Erik followed much more mundanely with his lantern, climbing the ladder hand over hand into the Owl Tower.
The light of the lantern didn’t spread far enough to give more than an idea of a shadowy space, with only the occasional quiet voices of the owls giving hint of their presence in the rafters.
“Erik?” Charles asked.
Erik brought his wand up, pointing the ironwood shaft towards the rafters. “Evanesco generalis,” he said, and the darkness around them was gone, the owls on their perches seemingly floating in mid-air beneath the blaze of the stars, Charles staring around him in wonder at the snow-blanketed rooftops of the Tituba School below.
“This is beautiful, Erik,” he said, “what a lovely supr—”
“Wait, it’s not done,” Erik said, and sent the lantern floating to hover over a pile of rugs, blankets, and cushions, innocuously floating in thin air like a magic carpet. “Sit there, and open this.”
Charles accepted a package from him that was wrapped in waxed paper. “What is it?”
“Stollen.” Erik hunched over the other part of his surprise, making certain it was ready. “Like in your Britain. A type of fruitcake?”
“You made this? Erik Lehnsherr, you have been holding out on me, I had no idea you could bake,” Charles said with delight, and Erik smiled at the sound of rustling paper. He set the silver cauldron in front of the carpets, and whispered to it softly, “Incendio.”
The fire came gently, just as he had practiced, flaring blue and purple and pink and orange, dancing across the white sugar loaf suspended over the cauldron. Immediately the sweet smell of sugar and rum and spices drifted up, and he huffed in satisfaction.
“Feuerzangenbowle,” he explained to Charles’ expectant silence. “Kind of . . . fire-tongs punch? My mother used to make it. That last year— she even let me have some. It was the first time.”
He didn’t have to say that it was also the last time; Charles knew, in that strange way he had, and he accepted a steaming mug from Erik and pulled Erik to sit beside him. Erik went willingly, his own mug warm in his hands, and let Charles rest his head against his shoulder as the stars wheeled around them.
“Charles,” Erik said carefully, “I should tell you—”
“There’s no need, my friend,” Charles’ voice was soft in the stillness; his body was warm, tucked against Erik’s side.
Erik frowned down into the darkness of his mug, not knowing how to begin to say what he wanted to— about himself, about Charles, about the many demons that haunted the past for both of them. “What do you know about me?”
“Everything,” Charles said, softly. This time it was his fingers, turning Erik’s face gently; his pale face illuminated in the flickering light as he drew Erik down, his lips dark with wine. “I know everything.”