Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Feedback is crucial to me improving, and I really appreciate those who do. So Edward is lost, and at this point we have more questions than answers. How did he make it to the J.K. Rowling world? Why are his arm and leg back to automail? Does this mean he still has alchemy? And what was it that fell in after him before the Gate closed? Unfortunately, a few of those questions will have to wait, because it seems that Ed has managed to get himself into a little bit of trouble…

Harry Potter and Fullmetal Alchemist are owned by J.K. Rowling and Square Enix respectively.

Chapter 2: Brave New World

Ed stumbled the crowded streets of London's East End. By now, the shock he had been trying to fight off had fully set in.

Fifty years…

Of course, now it all made sense. The lack of machine gun fire and air raid sirens, the relative rarity of bombed-out buildings and soldiers. How technology had progressed so much, the difference in clothing of the people walking next to him. He had passed a group of girls wearing extremely pale and dark makeup with black lace, talking animatedly into little boxes he had to guess were some kind of phone. And no one had given him, in his unusual clothes, a second look.

Everything had changed. Even his father…well, Hoenheim certainly couldn't be considered a young man. He'd surely be dead by now, without the ability to jump into another body. Alfons was a different story, but how was he ever going to find him? He might not have survived the air raids, but even if he did, the other Edward, the one that Alfons knew, hadn't. How would he react if the brother he thought he lost reappeared to him looking like a fifteen year old boy, fifty years later? With a metal arm and leg to boot? No, he couldn't talk to him.

He appeared to be in some kind of market square now, not that he cared. He had been hoping that Hoenheim would have answers for him, about the Gate, why his arm and leg were back, but now that was impossible. He could give a rat's ass about anything at the moment. It was the story of his life, really. He thought he'd got a handle on things, and then God gives him a curveball straight to the face.

The tow-headed alchemist passed a man sitting at a wire table, the kind set up by cafes, with two bags of groceries by his feet. Then he stopped walking.

He didn't have a good reason to stop, any place was as good as another right now. In fact, Ed himself was at a loss as to why he didn't just continue on. Something about that man was… different. He didn't know what precisely, considering how strange everything was to him now, but he knew with a familiar certainty, that something was off.

Maybe it was the floral-print shirt with the neckerchief, maybe it was the fur coat with the plaid madras pants. It might even have been the bowler hat that was quite a bit too big, and on backwards.

Whatever it was, Ed had the sensation that this man was not making a deliberate fashion statement, but trying to… blend in, and doing a horrible job at it.

Curiosity got the better of him.

Ed turned around, and took a better look. He was hunched over what looked like a complicated series of number charts and formulae, as well as several sheets of scrap paper that had been completely filled with scribbles. A few of these pages had been crumpled up, and dropped to the ground. Whatever he was working on, he was laboring so intently that sweat was dripping down his nose. For a second, he seemed to have found an answer, he scribbled out line after line of figures, and then-

"Bloody hellfire! Lost that damn sign again! And that integral is supposed to be a two, not a four, what kind of…Arrgh!" He pulled off the hat, which had steadily been falling more and more around his ears, and proceeded to rip the brim off with his teeth.

During his long and involved display of frustration, he failed to notice Ed, who had walked right up to the edge of the table, and was looking over the graphs with an intense focus.

Then, a smile creased his face, and he looked around at the contents of the table. Every piece of paper bigger than a matchbox had been filled up already. He saw the grocery bag, so he nonchalantly picked it up and dumped the contents, pieces of fruit, bread, and cereal, onto the curb. He smoothed out the brown paper on the table, then gently took hold of the quill in the exacerbated man's hand.

"Excuse me, can I use this?"

The man was suddenly shocked back into self consciousness by Ed's unexpected proximity.

"Errr…well, I don't see why, um, that is to say…er"

"Thanks." Ed took the pen from the man's unresisting fingers. He dipped it in the inkwell, and started scribing intently. Figures, numbers quickly filled the brown space, even a few diagrams were drawn, with cartographical precision. The entire bag's surface was written on when he reached the two-thirds point, he had to flip it over to the other side. After he wrote the final parts of the last proof equation, he glanced up. Almost forty-five minutes had gone by. The man, who had been endeavoring to read over Ed's shoulder, sat still, finishing up. For no less than the better part of a minute, he was a statue.

Then, he exploded into paroxysms of joy. He picked an amazed Edward up, and spun with him like a dervish.

"You did it boy, you did it! You really did! It's solved! That infernal postulate is finally solved!" He laughed like a madman.

Then, he set the alchemist down, and ran across the street in a Clark Gable swinging-from-the-signposts dash. Even when he was a full block away, Ed could still hear his yelling voice proclaiming "I'm free! I'm free! Take that, (he couldn't make out the name), you insufferable son-of-a-b-(A car horn cut off the final word.)!"

Ed stood for a while, then shrugged. Weirdoes. The problem wasn't even that difficult. Any sufficiently skilled alchemist would have noticed the similarities, it was just like calculating node placement in an array.

Whatever. It had been a nice distraction, anyway. He continued his aimless walk.

As the strange man dashed delightedly down the street, he ran headfirst into a tall, cowled figure.

"Argh! Watch where you're…Oh."

After he overcame the shock of recognition, the cloaked shape inclined its head, encouraging him to speak.

"You won't believe it! The most incredible thing just, it just happened! I know you told me to avoid going in public places, but this boy, he just-"

It raised its hand for silence, and spoke for the first time.

"Where is he?"

"Just down the street!" He said, and pointed the way he came.

The figure strode in the direction of the man's quavering digit, without another word.

He continued walking on. He passed train stops and doorways with spray painted graffiti. Ed was vaguely aware that the street was getting darker and dirtier, that the neighborhood was slowly becoming worse the further he walked, but he didn't care.

So, considering his distraction, it's perfectly understandable that he missed the slowly gathering gang of thugs surrounding him.

He didn't even look up until he heard the catcalls coming from what seemed to be every direction.

"You got some guts for a little'un! Walkin' our turf wearin' red!" A punkish lout, looking to be about twenty-one, with a blue jacket and scarf wound around his neck, strutted out in front of Ed, hands on his hips.

Ed met his stare. "And what's wrong with red?"

The lout smiled, but his eyes stayed cold. "Oh, din'cha hear? We here are Chelsea, and this turf is ours. STOCKDOWN CREW!" He chanted loudly, and the ten or twelve surrounding Ed repeated it, with gusto.

Ed stood there, clearly unimpressed.

This apparently irritated the spokesman. He spoke directly at Ed. "A ways out of Liverpool, arnt'cha?"

Ed could have said 'Liverpool? Where's that?', which would have been the truth. He could have said 'I'm sorry, I think I'm in the wrong part of town.', which was certainly equally true. He even could have said 'Hello, I'm a flying marshmallow man!'. Any one of these would have worked, and let him get off easy.

What he did say was, "Yeah, so what?"

The surrounding hooligans bristled. It was official now. Ed didn't back down, and their pride demanded that they beat the tar out of him.

"So? So this!" The punk ran forward, and threw a hard right cross.

The rest of them rushed in, the standard mobbing tactic of 'Everyone gets a lick in'. Everything seemed normal…until the lead man fell to his knees, tears streaming out of his eyes. The amazed mob stopped in their tracks, a scant four feet from Ed.

Edward had caught the man's right hand in his, and was unmistakably crushing it. There were a few wet crackling sounds, like celery being ripped in half.

"Imsorryimsorrypleasepleasepleaseletgoohgod!" The man begged in a constant stream.

Ed felt sick. He threw the man away by his arm, and continued walking. The gang parted in front of him.

Although Ed couldn't see him now, the injured man was back on his feet. His face twisted with vicious spite, he picked up a chunk of asphalt in his good hand. He threw it.

When it connected, the back of Ed's head exploded with pain and purple lightning. He fell like a bag of bricks.

He could hear the rapid footsteps and triumphant chatter of the approaching gang, but he seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes. Ed wasn't even sure he could stand. He needed a weapon, something to defend himself, but the closest thing he could make out, a section of two-inch pipe laying in the alleyway, was ten feet away. It might as well have been on the surface of Mars.

Still, he reached for it, desperately.

And damned if it didn't fly right into his hand.

Ed blinked.

But now the first thug was upon him, and he didn't have time to ponder his miraculous good fortune. He made sure to aim for the patella of the approaching tough.

'CRACK!'

The attacker fell down, cursing like a sailor.

Ed continued swinging wildly. Every time he did, he felt a little more disoriented, but he didn't dare stop. He could see more coming, and the way he was now, he wasn't a match for any of them. And they were starting to get smart.

Some of them had picked up rocks and bricks, the rest had grabbed bottles out of the trash and broke them on the sidewalk. Ed felt a flying piece of glass narrowly miss his eye, making a two inch long gash that bled profusely.

They were slowly advancing inward, a circle of death. As poorly aware as he was now, Ed couldn't mistake the look in their eyes. He was dead now, as sure as a fall off the top of Central Headquarters.

'Weeeooooo weeeooo weeeooo…' There suddenly came the sounds of approaching sirens.

"Shite! Old Tom!"

"Everyone, get out!"

Ed couldn't make out what just happened. All he could tell was that his vision was tunneling, and he felt inexplicably tired. He knew that should worry him, but for some reason, he couldn't quite remember why.

"Hello there. That was quite a scrap, wasn't it?"

Ed tried to look up. He got the impression of a huge hooded man front of him, leaning over. He feebly tried to swing at him, and realized that the pipe had already fallen from his slack fingers.

"Careful now, that was a heavy knock you took to the head." There might have been a bit of mirth in his voice.

"In any case, you don't have to worry about those thugs," he continued,

"Because, I happen to find you very interesting, Mr. Elric."

Ed's eyes widened. He knew his name!

"Let me introduce myself," said the man, throwing off the hood. It revealed a long silver beard and hair, and a set of twinkling blue eyes. "Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, at your service. You're going to be all right, Edward."

The grey haze that had been swimming around the edges of his vision suddenly closed in. He heard a faraway voice calling out his name with concern, and then everything went black.