This uses Scott's comic background(because I hated X-Men: Origins and still don't understand why they changed Scott's background when his was the easiest to tell) although he is much younger in this than he was in the comics when Xavier found him. Alex might show up in this since it's still set with the First Class movie but since I'm using Scott's comic background and Alex is Scott's little brother in the comics, I'm not sure…

It starts a while before First Class started, with a different, and earlier meeting between Charles and Erik. It will be slash because I still think Charles and Erik(whether it's the comics, cartoons, earlier movies, or this one) are made for each other, even when they're enemies…

I don't own anything

Lily Potter was halfway to being drunk when the man sat down next to her. The small muggle establishment was crowded, the air heavy, at least to her. The decision to drown her sorrows had been a spontaneous one, one she hadn't second guessed because she couldn't.

It had been two days. Two days since she had been officially been made a widow.

Sirius had downed a bottle of Firewhiskey two days ago and Remus had helped him. She had held off but only just. And here she was, with a glass of regular old whiskey clasped in her hands because she didn't want to go to a wizarding place and get recognized. She didn't want to see the pitying looks or the disappointed ones that she, of all people, would choose this route.

Then he'd sat down next to her and started talking to her. He looked to be barely out of high school but had assured her, with a smile, that he was old enough, even if that smile made him look years younger.

Lily let him speak because he was cute and smart and everything James wasn't. Because she was lonely and heartbroken and couldn't think straight. Because he didn't look at her like she was going to break into a thousand pieces at any moment.

He was already more than halfway to being drunk when he started talking to her and by the time they left the bar together, they both could hardly stand.

He offered a first name-Charles-she did the same and everything after was a bit of a blur.

It was only later that she remembered the fertility potion she'd been taking so that she could conceive with James. It was even later when she panicked about how her child would look and how everyone would know. And she didn't even know the man's last name. If he'd told her, she couldn't remember through the haze that surrounded that night.

She made the decision that no one would know and took another potion, this one specifically designed to make it so her child looked like the son of the man she would tell everybody he was. James Potter's son.


Harry Potter wasn't sure when it had started. It all sort of blurred together after awhile. And the words being spoken to him, and the things he heard bled into one for so long that he could never pinpoint when it has started.

He only knew about the reactions.

His aunt and uncle didn't like him. He'd known that for as long as he could remember. He hadn't known why. They didn't hurt him physically but they did give him the cupboard under the stairs to sleep in and denied him meals when he did something wrong. He hadn't known that there was anything abnormal about this until he'd gone to school and met other children besides Dudley.

The violence hadn't started until it had started. He still hadn't figured out what it was…and he'd asked a question. When he asked his aunt Petunia how he'd gotten the scar on his forehead.

"In the accident when your parents died. Now, don't ask questions!" But his aunt had kept talking, and she'd kept doing it without moving her lips. Bloody-stupid-bitch-had-to-go-and-dump-the-little-ingrate-on-me-had-to-go-and-get-herself-blown-up-

"Blown up?!" Harry had spoken before he could think to stop himself. "You said…" But he trailed off at the look on his aunt's face, at the way that she scrambled away from him, tipping her chair over in the process.

She screeched at him to go to his cupboard. When Uncle Vernon came home, that was the first time that the man used his belt. A steady stream of hatred and freak, abnormal, and several other insults pounded through his head but his uncle never opened his mouth either.


It happened several times more after that and Harry learned not to answer, not to respond to anything they said unless he could actually see their lips moving. But he learned a lot. They hated him because he wasn't normal. The words wizards, magic, and several other words that sometimes didn't sound like words at all swirled through his head in his Aunt's voice, always tinged with fear and loathing.


He went to school and it was worse. He knew the answers to every question the teachers asked before anyone raised their hands. He never raised his hand, at least not after the first couple of weeks, not after he learned that getting better marks than Dudley meant more punishments.

He knew what they all thought of him. The other children, too. Children, he learned, could be just as nasty and hateful as his relatives.


The older he got, the worse it got. He wasn't just hearing his relatives anymore. But everyone. He could hear it when the man across the street slapped his wife for burning his dinner. He could hear Mrs. Figg baby talking her cats. He could hear the nosy neighbors next door and all that gossip they so loved.

He sat in his cupboard with his hands covering his ears in a futile attempt to block it all out, and wished for someone to take it away.



He was only eight when it got worse than just hearing things he wasn't supposed to. Dudley and Piers were chasing him and Harry could see what they were planning. Pictures of the beating Dudley wanted to dole out.

Harry's mantra changed course then. He wanted-needed-this to stop too. Without knowing what he was doing, he made it happen. He lost himself, stumbling as he did so, plunging into something he didn't fully understand.


Dudley and Piers froze mid-run. Harry stood and watched as they frowned, stared at him a moment, and then wondered off. He tried desperately for several minutes to convince himself it hadn't been him that had caused that.

It didn't work.


His relatives were afraid. They were terrified of something, of the strange things. Harry lay on his cot in his cupboard, his back aching from his uncle's latest attempt to beat whatever it was out of him and, for the first time, he reached out with it.

Dudley was upstairs, dreaming that he was caught in some movie that he'd watched earlier in the day about witches and flying monkeys.

His uncle was asleep as well, his dreams even less pleasant. Harry cringed when he realized that Vernon was dreaming of the beating he'd given Harry before heading to bed. Only, in his dream, he went further. Harry saw his own dead body at his uncle's feet.

The utter hatred that welled up in Harry was a new thing and he wanted-desperately-to cause his uncle the type of pain that he'd caused Harry. He didn't know how he did it, all he knew was that his uncle's dream shifted and the dead Harry from his dream got up off the ground. Beaten and bloody, he attacked Vernon.

Vernon woke up screaming.

Afterwards, Harry threw up everything he'd managed to eat that day, the lingering feelings still present. He wanted to jerk away from them. From that horrible hatred.


He was barely nine when Vernon decided he'd had enough. Dudley was chasing him again because apparently that silent command had only worked for the one time and Harry hadn't tried it again. It was scary. It had terrified him and he didn't want it.

But he was already in enough pain that it hurt terribly just to run and Dudley didn't intend on stopping this time until he had broken something. Harry wasn't aware of what he was doing until it was over.

For a moment, he wasn't in his own head anymore but he wasn't practiced, didn't know what he was doing, so he tore through Dudley's mind violently. Dudley stopped, fell, screamed, and then went silent all within the space of seconds.

When Dudley got back up off the ground, he was not the same boy he had been when he'd been running.


They called it brain damage in confused voices. Dudley was rocking in the hospital bed, mumbling gibberish and the doctors could find no wounds, but were insistent on the fact that it was brain damage.

Harry thought he might be sick again.

Vernon dragged him back to the house and when he was finished with Harry, he was sure he had at least one broken bone. He was thrown into the cupboard with the last lingering thought from Vernon that he wasn't going to be let out alive this time.


Erik lehnsherr sighed but the smirk didn't leave his face when he stepped out of the car and stared a moment at the mansion before him. "Of course." He shook his head at the sight of the place, and wondered why he was surprised.

He hesitated briefly before starting towards the door, for a moment considering getting in his car and driving back the way he'd come. But he'd driven all the way here and the need hadn't left yet.

And there it was. That incomprehensible need to see the man who owned this mansion that had cropped up in him on several occasions in the year or so since he'd met Charles Xavier in a bar. It still confused the hell out of him.

This time, however, when he'd tried to get in touch with Charles, the younger man had not been at his apartment just a few blocks away from where he taught at the university. He had been further surprised when he had been informed that Charles had taken a leave of absence. Raven had been the one to give him this address.

Now, Erik was a bit angry and he refused to give name to the emotion that fueled the new anger. It most definitely was not hatred. Worry maybe? Erik shook his head and knocked on the door. Though, he had to admit that it was unlike Charles, at least what he knew of the man. Charles was certainly devoted to his work.

Charles opened the door only a minute later and smiled brightly at the sight of him, which never failed to surprise him either. That another person's eyes could light like that at his presence, like they were happy to see him…

"Erik! It is great to see you! Come in." He allowed Erik to pass him and closed the door.

"Raven said you were here…and that you'd taken a leave?" Erik raised an eyebrow and Charles shrugged but didn't lose his grin.

"I just needed a break. You know, I do not think I have even taken a vacation since I started work."

"That is not a surprise," Erik answered wryly. "In fact, when I spoke to one of your colleague friends, he seemed shocked that you had taken off. In fact, he seemed downright concerned."

"He is overreacting. But it is always good to see you, my friend." His smile slipped after a moment, and a frown formed on his face. "Have you made any progress in your quest?"

"Not yet," Erik answered shortly, unwilling to get into another conversation, or debate about his intentions.

Charles opened his mouth to respond but stopped, his gaze shifted to something past Erik. Erik followed his gaze and, once again, Charles Xavier surprised him. A small child stood in the doorway leading to the hall they were standing in, one tiny hand gripping the frame.

He was clutching a blanket in the other. His dark red hair had fallen across his forehead but not enough to conceal the fact that he had his eyes tightly squeezed shut. Charles held up a hand before Erik could voice his surprise and walked swiftly over to the child, kneeling before him.

Erik witnessed what he guessed was a silent conversation before he heard a timid, shy voice speak up. "I couldn't sleep."

Several more seconds of silence before Charles picked the boy up. The child clung to him like he would a parent and Charles turned briefly to Erik. Charles voice sounded in his head. If you would wait for me in my study, I will explain everything in a moment.

A 'moment' turned out to be a little over half an hour and Erik was all ready to tear into Charles but stopped when the man finally returned. Charles was still smiling, but it was strained and Erik could see wariness and concern shining in his expressive blue eyes.

"What is going on here, Charles?" He settled on, keeping his voice level.

Charles sat down and gestured to the chair across from him. Erik followed suit after a pleading look and Charles sighed, sinking deeper into his seat.

"I found him on the street. He had been there for a while, and had nowhere else to go. I could not leave him there." He paused. "He is like us…only he cannot control his mutation. Powerful blasts that emit from his eyes whenever they are open."

Erik's eyes widened slightly. "He can't turn it off?"

"No, he cannot." Charles sighed and ran a hand over his face. "He was….terrified when I found him and only let me near because of my own gift."

"But how did you find him?" Erik pressed.

Charles hesitated. "Do you remember a couple of months ago when I told you of the connection I felt? The presence."

"Yes," Erik answered, recalling that night. Charles had been drinking heavily, and had told Erik about it in a drunken slur, explaining further the next morning when Erik had pressed him about it.

"There is a connection," Charles stared off a moment. "This person, mutant, he has been calling to me for quite some time. I can feel the connection."


"It has gotten stronger. I know more now. The one reaching out for me is a child, nine years old, a mutant…"

"And you thought it might be this child?" Erik tilted his head towards the door.

"I was grasping at straws, perhaps. Scott is the same age and a mutant…but the presence is still there and it is not Scott. Still, I could not very well leave Scott, blind and on the streets to fend for himself."

"Of course you couldn't," Erik said, a fondness in his voice that he had not displayed for anyone else in years.

Charles stood abruptly. "How long will you be staying?" There was an actual tone of hopefulness to his voice.

"I am not sure this time." His last lead had turned into a dead end and he didn't know where to look from there. Not yet, anyway.

Charles bright smile came back. "I think that I should get some sleep. Tomorrow I will have to deal with the legal matters involving Scott being here. It truly is good to see you, Erik."



It was the last cry, loud and forceful, that woke Erik with a jerk. He lay still for a moment but only for a moment. The voice was still calling out in his head and Erik stood. Charles. Erik followed that voice down the vast hallway of the mansion until he got to the room he was sure was Charles' and opened the door without knocking and switched on the light.

The sight before him was a familiar one. Charles was twisted in his sheets, a grimace of pain on his face. Erik had often found Charles like this, on the rare occasions that he stayed with the man.

In fact, Erik sometimes wondered if Charles ever slept without nightmares, most of which were not his own. Erik wondered briefly whose nightmare Charles was having now. Isolated as the mansion was, it could have been Scott's, or his own. That had happened before.

Then again, Erik knew that Charles' reach was vast when he brought down his barriers. Erik strode quickly over to the bed and leaned over Charles, gripping his shoulders tightly.

"Charles." He squeezed. "Charles, wake up." He repeated the command in his mind, projecting the thought in a way that Charles had taught him only a couple of months after they had first met. In a way that he said he could hear even if he were actively trying to stay out of Erik's head. It worked, as it always did and Charles jerked in his grip, automatically trying to draw away from him until he caught Erik's eyes.

"Erik…" Charles reached up, and fisted a hand in his shirt. "Erik, I know where he is."