FIC: Amortentia (Top Gun Harry Potter AU, Iceman/Maverick, PG-13)

[carlyinrome]

TITLE: Amortentia
RATING: PG-13
FANDOMS: Top Gun Harry Potter AU
PAIRINGS: Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Tom "Iceman" Kazansky
SUMMARY: Pete Mitchell is a new recruit to the MACUSA Auror Office, and his new partner is a blast from his past.

Pete Mitchell had gone through his childhood with a chip on his shoulder. When he was five years old, his father, an Unspeakable with the Magical Congress of the United States, had disappeared. Of course, due to the nature of his job, no details were ever given to Pete or his mother. She had just faded away after her husband’s death, and at ten years old, Pete was an orphan being shipped off to live with distant relatives.

Ilvermorny became home. Maybe Pete wasn’t the best student, but he wasn’t a bad student; he just had to try harder than some people, and usually he did. His professors were kind to him. The other students were friendlier than his no-mag cousins, and he loved magic and he loved playing Quidditch. By his third year, he was on his house team, a Thunderbird chaser.

And a crush. He had a crush, too, of course. On his tutor, Tom Kazansky. Tom was a couple of years older, and everything Pete wasn’t. He whizzed through advanced classes, earning his O.W.L.s without breaking a sweat, Pete was sure. He was a prefect and the captain of the Wampus Quidditch team; he was also a chaser, and when they went head to head? Extraordinary. Tom challenged him in a way no one else could, and at flying, the thing he was best at.

But Pete had ruined it.

They were in the library one night near the end of the school year, working late to get Pete ready for finals. Tom had been quiet all night, more reserved and fidgety than usual, and finally he belted out, like he’d received an electric shock: “You know, I’m leaving soon.”

Pete looked up from his potions book. “What?”

“I—I’m graduating. I just … I wondered if maybe you wanted to … maybe we could trade addresses. So we could keep in touch, since we won’t—since I won’t get to see you anymore.”

Pete felt his heart flutter. And then he felt a stone of worry condense in his gut. He could just imagine Tom showing up to his aunt and uncle’s house, seeing the way they and his cousin treated him … Tom couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to be treated like garbage by the people who were supposed to love you the most. Tom never talked much about his family, but Pete sure they were perfect—doting parents, adoring siblings, probably even a white picket fence.

Pete buried his nose in his notes. “I, um, I really need to concentrate on this, Tom. Which conversion am I supposed to use?”

The next day, Thunderbird and Wampus played for the title. It was storming, the sky choked with slate-colored clouds, rain coming down in sheets, lightning sizzling in the upper atmosphere. Thunderbird went up early, and held the lead for most of the game, but the final minutes found Wampus leading by sixty points scored late and all right in a row, the last one on a turnaround error that was completely Pete’s fault. The weather was getting to him; the score was getting to him; last night was getting to him. Pete watched the last goal with a sinking feeling, and felt rage bubble up in his veins, and he might have done something stupid had a bludger not knocked him right off his broom. He began to fall, his stomach dropping, fear shooting through him, and then, all of a sudden, it stopped. He felt something pull him up, felt himself held by strong arms, and when he regained his bearings, he found himself on Tom Kazansky’s broom, with Tom behind him, holding onto him. Tom flew them to the ground so Pete could retrieve his broom, just as they announced over the loudspeakers that the Wampus seeker had caught the snitch, sealing their victory.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked. He was soaked with rain, his blonde hair slicked back, and he looked concerned and he looked beautiful.

Pete felt anger and frustration flood through his veins, and he felt tears run down his face. Pete pushed Tom, pushed him with both hands. Tom stumbled, looking at him with his brow creased, confused and clearly hurt. When he was close enough to push again, Pete did it.

“I don’t need your help!” he screamed. “I don’t need you swooping in to catch me like—like some fairytale prince, and I sure as hell don’t need your pity or your stupid, perfect face and your stupid, perfect grades, and your stupid, perfect life! Leave me alone!”

Horribly, he had. The next time Pete saw Tom it was from afar and only for a moment as Tom graduated and left Ilvermorny forever. Pete hated what he had done, hated that he had pushed away one of the best parts of his life, but he’d done it before he could fuck it up another way, and maybe that was for the best.

***

Three years later, Pete was sitting outside the Auror Office at MACUSA. After Tom had left Ilvermorny, Pete, disgusted with himself, had gotten another tutor, and put his head down. He hadn’t graduated with all Outstanding O.W.L.s, but he’d done pretty well, and he’d not only gotten an interview for an auror position at MACUSA, he’d gotten a second interview. This would be his third and final interview, and it was with the Head Auror himself, Viper Metcalf.

The office door creaked open, and a rough voice barked, “Mitchell! Come in.”

Pete entered the office; the door promptly shut itself behind him. Viper was sitting behind his desk, sharp eyes regarding him.

“Mr. Mitchell,” he said, and extended his hand.

Pete shook it, then took a seat before the desk. “Good to meet you, sir.”

“We’ve actually already met,” Viper said, and Pete’s face must have given away his panic at the social faux pas, because Viper laughed. “I don’t blame you for not remembering. You were about two feet high at the time.”

“Sir?”

“Your father introduced us. I knew him, Pete. He was a good man.”

Pete smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Viper regarded him. “We’ve already discussed your coming to work here, son. Some of my colleagues are a little hesitant to take a chance on you, but frankly it’s my call, and I’m making it in your favor. You want to be an auror, Pete?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here’s your chance. Welcome to MACUSA.”

He stood, came around his desk. He shook Pete’s hand again.

“Thank you, sir,” Pete said. “I won’t let you down.”

“I believe that. You look ready and eager; are you willing to start today?”

“Yes, sir. Lemme at ’em.”

“Come on. I’m pairing you with the best of my young bucks; he’ll show you the ropes. I trained him personally.”

They left the office. Standing outside was a young man in the unofficial auror uniform, which was dark suit pants, dark shoes, an Oxford open at the collar, and a black leather jacket. His blond hair was combed away from his face, and his clear, pale eyes registered Pete and his jaw clenched a little, but only for a moment; then he straightened his spine attention straight and they both waited for Viper to speak.

“Pete Mitchell, Iceman Kazansky. He’s your new partner.”

***

Pete followed Tom down the hall, away from Viper and into the belly of the Auror Office. Aurors moved in and out of rooms, almost always in a hurry; interdepartmental memos, brightly colored paper airplanes, zoomed through the air. Tom had to duck one.

“You went to the academy?” he asked. “You’re ready to go?”

“Yeah, Tom, I’m ready.”

Tom stopped. Looked at him for a long moment without speaking.

“It’s Ice now,” he said. “Nobody calls me Tom anymore.”

“Okay. Sorry. Ice. I’m ready.”

Ice nodded. “We’re going to activate a trace on a dark wizard from the fugitives list. It’s a tricky spell and it only lasts for two hours, so we’re going to have to move fast after that.”

“I’m ready,” Pete said again.

Ice nodded again. “Good.”

He led Pete into a room with several long tables in the center, a cauldron upon every one. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with glass bottles of potions ingredients labeled in the same steady hand. Ice started collecting things from the shelves: baneberry, bulbadox juice, angel’s trumpet.

“Start heating that cauldron,” Ice said. “The brass one.”

Pete did as he was told, and after a minute, Ice came over with his ingredients.

“Remember how to juice baneberry?” he asked.

“You were my tutor,” Pete deadpanned.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

Ice left him to it. He stood close, preparing the angel’s trumpet, his knife strokes controlled, precise. Pete tried not to think about how close he was. He could smell Ice’s cologne, which smelled like your first breath out the door on a winter’s morning: fresh-driven snow; pine; a subtle, earthy musk; and a bright, fresh note of peppermint.

“Turn up the heat. We’re going to add the bulbadox juice and the angel’s trumpet at the same time. One, two, three.”

They added the ingredients, and the contents of the cauldron boiled. Pete could see a dim light beginning to form beneath the bubbles.

“Almost there,” Ice said.

He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, smoothed it on the table. A picture of a severe man Pete didn’t recognize. Ice rolled the paper tightly, tied it with a red string, and then dropped it into the cauldron.

The dim light took on a red hue, and it began to grow in intensity. It looked to Pete like it was raising up from the bottom of the cauldron, pushing through the rolling boil … and soon, he realized he was right, as the red light rose out of the boiling contents of the cauldron and hovered above it, like a star.

“Take out your wand,” Ice said.

“Ice, what—?”

“Take out your wand.”

Pete took out his wand. The red star shimmered.

“Just focus on the light,” Ice said. His wand was in his hand. “We’re going to apparate together.”

“Where?”

“Just look at the light. We’re going where the light goes. Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Three, two, one.”

Immense pressure; immense, dizzying speed. Pete’s world swirled, and when it stopped spinning, he was standing beside Ice in an alleyway with the red light, which was shining over the head of the severe man from the picture Ice had put in the cauldron.

“Magical law enforcement,” Ice said. “Alphonse Tigris, you are under arrest for use of the Cruciatus Curse. Please come quietly.”

“Nice try,” Tigris said, and then, before he knew what was happening, Ice was jerking him out of the way of a curse, bright as lightning, so near it ruffled Pete’s hair.

“Shit!” Pete said.

Tigris ran, and they ran after him. Ice shouted, “Immobulus!” but his spell missed its target. Tigris was getting further away.

Pete had an idea.

“Aguamente!” he yelled, and aimed his wand at Tigris’s feet. Tigris slipped on the water slicking up the cobblestones, and fell face first to the ground. Ice grabbed Tigris’s wand and handed it to Pete while he put restrained Tigris.

Pete helped him haul Tigris to his feet.

“Never seen that one before,” Ice said dryly, but he was smiling.

***

Viper was waiting for them once they’d gotten Tigris through processing.

“Nice work, gentlemen,” he said. He clapped a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “I heard about how it went down. Nice thinking, kid.” He looked at Ice. “Looks like you’ve got a maverick for a partner, Ice.”

And just like that, Pete wasn’t Pete anymore. He was Maverick.

***

At the end of the day, Maverick was beat, but Ice stopped him before he could leave.

“Want to get a drink? Celebrate your first day?”

They went to a no-mag bar near MACUSA. Ice bought their drinks, a boilermaker for Maverick and a vodka up for himself. They sat in a dark booth in the back, watching some no-mags argue about whatever game was on the television.

Ice ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “You did well today.”

“You surprised?”

Ice’s face was solemn. “No.”

Maverick tried to swallow down some of his defensiveness. Ice hadn’t done anything to put him down; he had treated him as a fresh auror the same way he had treated him as the kid a couple grades down he was tutoring: with gentle, but no-nonsense help and instruction. The stakes were higher here, but Ice was the same.

He wondered how much that was true. How much he was the same.

How much both of them were.

“So, Iceman,” he said. “Where’d that come from?”

Ice shrugged. “I didn’t give it to myself. You’d have to ask my colleagues.”

He had. Ice cold, no mistakes. Just like the Tom he remembered.

“You think I’m gonna make it?” Maverick asked. “As an auror?”

Ice inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly. The way he was looking at Maverick had weight to it. “I’m betting my life on it, Mav.”

***

They fell into an easy rhythm. They didn’t always get along; they both had sharp edges that sometimes met at a bad angle, but they made a good team, and they challenged each other. Just the same way they had on the Quidditch pitch. They were better because they were paired together, the way champion racehorses were better when they trained with a pace horse. And if Ice was bitter about the way Maverick had mucked things up back at Ilvermorny, he never said anything. Maverick worried about it sometimes, but his attention was on the job, and what Ice was like now. Viper had been right; he was the best of the younger aurors. He was fearless and dedicated, and a hard worker. His technical proficiency with spells and countercurses was enviable—though, Maverick thought, he had some problems thinking outside the box, which was one of Maverick’s greatest strengths. He knew he was talented, but that didn’t make him unapproachable; on the contrary, he looked at it as his responsibility to help the other aurors when they needed it. He was never condescending, and he was patient and kind. He had a big heart that he held very close to the vest, but sometimes Maverick saw peeks of it, and it was beautiful. Maverick was getting used to spending a lot of time with him again, and he liked it. He liked it a lot.

But it took a bit of a shock for him to realize how much.

Maverick and Ice went with Hollywood and Wolfman to conduct a raid on a coven of dark witches. They arrived too late, but only just; cauldrons were still bubbling; coffee was still warm. They split up looking for clues about where the witches might have gone; Maverick and Hollywood ended up on opposite ends of the east side of the house, and ended up meeting in the kitchen, empty-handed.

Hollywood looked down into one of the cauldrons, the largest, which was filled with a steaming, pink liquid.

“Whoo-ee, you know what that is?” Hollywood asked.

Maverick looked at the pink shimmer of the liquid in the cauldron, but what gave it away wasn’t the color; it was the smell.

“Amortentia,” Maverick said. "Strongest love potion in the world."

“Right you are, Mav,” Hollywood said. “I’d rather take a curse straight on than a hit of that, no lie.”

Maverick watched the amortentia shimmer. “Yeah, maybe.”

“What do you smell?” Hollywood asked. “It's what attracts you, right? I always like to hear.”

Maverick breathed in. He closed his eyes for a moment as he took it in.

“I smell a match burning, the same wood as the handle of my first broomstick, fresh snow, vodka, and peppermint.”

Oh shit, he thought, the moment the words left his mouth. I’m still in love with Ice.

“What about you, Ice?” Hollywood asked, and Maverick just about jumped out of his skin. How long had he been standing there?

“I’ve got a lead,” Ice said. His voice was like a lead weight. Maverick looked at him and flinched; his expression was stony. “Maverick, you better come with me.”

***

Ice’s lead took them to a club in Baltimore’s magic underground. They got there in the early evening, before it opened, and Ice looked at the posters stapled to the door and frowned.

“We need to not look like ourselves,” he said.

They went to a thrift store and bought a few things, and then a drug store for cheap makeup. Ice wore torn, tight black jeans and a black tank that showed off his shoulders. He messed up his hair, and rimmed his eyes with kohl; Maverick took a look at him and swallowed dryly.

“What?” Ice said, and Maverick realized he was staring.

“Nothing,” he managed finally. “You’re cute when you go undercover.”

Ice frowned. Maverick laughed. He had found ripped grey jeans at the thrift store, and a mesh top that felt like it was made out of duct tape. Maybe it was. He was going to put on some black lipstick, but he rolled up the thing and couldn’t figure out how it worked.

“Fuck it,” Maverick said.

Ice plucked the lipstick from his hands, and sat on the bed with him. “Hold still,” he said.

Maverick was still while Ice traced his lips with the waxy lipstick. He could feel his own heart beating like a timpani. It throbbed in his throat, making it hard for him to breathe.

Or maybe that was being so close to Ice, smelling like snow and peppermint and amortentia. Had he heard? He had to.

Ice finished with Maverick’s makeup, and rolled the lipstick back into the base of the tube. He clicked the lid on, and studied him for a moment.

“You look awful,” he said, and laughed.

Maverick laughed, too. “Hey, it’s my first time. Be gentle.”

He realized what he’d said, and stiffened. Ice was—he had to be imagining this, because it looked like Ice was blushing.

“I just meant—”

“There’s something I owe you,” Ice said.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“No, I do.” He took a deep breath, his hands balling into fists. He exhaled slowly, relaxed his hands. Recited slowly, steadily: “The ocean, the pages of a well-loved book, leather, ozone, Drakkar Noir.”

It took Maverick a moment to understand, and when he did, he blushed. “Ice, I—how long?”

“Since school,” Ice said softly.

“Seriously? I—shit.” He looked up at Ice from under his eyelashes. “I have started wearing a better cologne, you know.”

Ice smiled. “Yeah, I noticed. I don’t know if it’ll change. But I’m willing to find out.”

Ice leaned in and kissed him, lipstick and all. Maverick closed his eyes and kissed him back, feeling every bit as lovesick as if he’d drunk the entire cauldron full of amortentia.