"The photos," the man says as he stares at them. It's the first thing he's said in the more or less day he's been hid in Dudley's spare room healing from his wound. Well coherent first thing anyway.

"What about them?" Harry asks before shoving his lavender smelling fingers into his over sized jean pockets. (He needs to scrub his hands and use more-than-enough amount of soap so none of them figure out he's been in his aunt's hair spry.)

The man finally looks at him, finally looks away from his relatives' photos, with a nice pair of glasses that are broken and uncomfortably sharp dark eyes. Harry somehow finds it in him not to fidget. Instead he looks straight at the man he found bleeding out in Aunt Petunia's flowerbeds; it's the opposite of a survival instinct. It's bravery or stupidity. Maybe both. It honestly depends who you ask.

"You know," the man starts off with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "I love taking photos of my perfect daughter and goddess of a wife. I share them until Roy threatens to snap and burn them." He laughs softly. "A family that takes photos together and brags about them stays together."

The man's eyes stop looking Harry in his vivid green eyes. Instead they take in Harry. Take in the skinny boy with glasses taped together in the middle, unkept and overgrown hair, of clothes that are too large for someone too skinny and small. They, the clothes, however do look as though they might have once fit the other boy - the boy in the photos, the only boy in the photos- before he gained some more weight.

The man drops to knees, the blood on his blue and foreign uniform has dried so Harry doesn't have to worry with once again scrubbing and spraying the carpet with hairspry, rubbing alcohol, and water. (This wasn't the first time Harry had to scrub blood off his aunt's carpet but this was the first time he was thankful in knowing how to get it out.)

"Years ago I swore I would do anything to be the man my Gracia loved. That I would survive the war and when I got back home I would smile like everything was okay after horrible thing I did," the man confesses to Harry in a soft voice. In a voice one used for a frightened animal. A voice he's only heard once when his teacher had tried to coax a stray cat out of the playground. His aunt, and occasionally his uncle, had used it on Duddleykins but never on Harry.

"You know I only have a daughter, Elicia. She's the littlest perfect angel there ever was but I think even she needs someone to share a photo with."

Harry stares, feels mute and just dumb because he can speak but right now he can't. Could the man hear how loud and fast his heart was going?

"Thank you for saving me," the stranger says. The stranger who Harry is pretty sure just offered to take him in with his perfect not freakish family.

Harry shrugs to not be rude but for time to think of a reply to the man. "Your talking dog would have missed you."

"My dog?"

A/N: Somehow Maes and Nina find a way back to their world and they totally take Harry with them so Maes can aggravate Roy with pictures of new and not legally adopted son and daughter. Roy so happy Maes is alive that he doesn't complain (much).

I've been wanting to write this since Maes Hughes was killed (which is to say a while ago for me but not that long when you consider how I've been binge watching Brotherhood) but I've been pretty busy with work and the shower being bulit in the guest bathroom.

Also yes the combination of hair spry, rubbing alcohol and water is live saving when you want to get a red stain out of your carpet. While I don't know if it can get blood out of carpet it can get rid of a stain from red nail polish and red gatorade.

Extra (aka something I wrote but didn't fit with this fic): Eyes that remind him of a boy with vivid gold eyes. Edward's had reminded Maes of a cat that liked to cuss and laugh at the deserving soul that became his rat. This boy's eyes reminded him of a kicked dog that's never been allowed to come back. Never got a damn chance to leave.)