A/N Chapter Two! Ed is found by Harry, who spends the day stressing, before Dumbledore shows up to whisk them both away. Not much happens in this chapter, to be honest, but it will. Soon. Probably.

Please R&R, and I hope you enjoy!

Harry was not the type to swear often, but that is exactly what he did when he opened the door in the morning to find a body sprawled across the doorstep.

"Fuck," he said, the word strange and clumsy on his tongue, pronounced with perfect enunciation and intention. He blushed - he hadn't meant to let that slip out - and glanced furtively up and down the street to see if anyone had noticed. It was early though, the first slivers of light just peeking over the horizon, and no one else seemed to be up. Letting out a sigh of relief, Harry turned his attention back to the problem at his feet.

The figure was lying on it's stomach, and in the feeble dawn light Harry couldn't make out more than a splash of crimson, and the bright blond of the figure's hair. He knelt, and carefully reached out to roll the figure over. It was heavy, surprisingly so, and Harry had to resort to a forceful shove to get the body onto it's back. The right hand flopped to pavestones with a harsh, metallic clang, and Harry was shocked to see that it gleamed in the half-light, as if made from metal. But there was no time for that now, because Harry's attention had been drawn to the hard, dry substance crusted all over the left side of the person's coat. Closer examination revealed it to be blood, and a lot of it, and Harry drew back from the body with a startled gasp, flicking his eyes upwards towards the face.

It was a boy.

It was a boy who looked like he couldn't possibly be any older than Harry himself, face pale and drawn, with more dried blood tracking down the sides of his mouth and his chin. Harry felt himself go cold all over. What had happened to this boy to cause this much blood loss. He could tell from the slow, shallow rise and fall of the boy's chest that he was still alive, but Harry didn't know for how much longer. He needed get to the wound hidden beneath all the layers of crusted blood and fabric, but he couldn't do that out here.

He sent another furtive glance up and down the street, and then cajoled the boy into his arms. Standing was a struggle - how in the hell could someone so small weigh so much - and laboriously made his way inside and up the stairs, careful to move quietly so as not to wake the Dursleys. Each step he took up the stairs was a battle, Harry's arms were straining and his lungs were burning, but he made it to his bedroom, gently nudged the door open with his foot, and staggered inside. Depositing the boy onto his bed. He winced thinking about the mess he'd have to clean up later.

Harry turned the light on, and got his first proper look at the boy. He had long, blond hair, a deeper and richer shade of gold than Harry had ever seen before, tan, underneath his current pallor. He wore a thick red coat with a fur lined hood, over top black underclothes, and in the light the dark stain of blood on his side stood out starkly. Swallowing nervously, Harry began carefully peeling back the coat, first from one arm, then the other. This brought him into contact with the strange hand, and it was made of metal. Incredibly intricate, like absolutely nothing Harry had seen before. It didn't look like anything the muggles could make, and it certainly wasn't magic, and Harry was left wondering where it possibly could have come from. Again, Harry shook himself out of his wonder, and focused on the task at hand. He'd never find out where the hand had come from if the boy was dead.

He debated on whether or not to try and pull the coat from out under the boy, and decided to leave it for now. The faster he could get to the wound, and the less he moved the boy in the process, the better. Probably. The coat out of the way, Harry moved on to the short black jacket underneath, which was fastened by some sort of strange metal clasp at the throat. A few seconds of tinkering and the clasp opened, and Harry slipped that jacket off as well. Now all that was left was a thin black tank top, but once again, Harry was stopped in his tracks. Because it wasn't just the hand that was metal, it was the boy's entire arm. It was beautiful, in a sort of cold, terrible way, smooth planes of metal twisted into the contours of a human arm, a strong, rounded shoulder, and then a mess of bolts and twisted, ugly scars where the limb met his flesh. Harry felt slightly sick to his stomach, but upon closer examination, it didn't seem to be any sort of a problem. It seemed fully healed, and the scars looked old, very old. Given the boy's apparent age, Harry didn't really want to consider how old they might be. Instead, he turned back to the tank top.

He fetched a pair of scissors from his desk, and with a quick muttered "Sorry," cut into the shirt, slicing it smoothly from hem to neck, and pulling aside the fabric. He found the source of the blood right away, a massive gnarled scar on the boy's side, as if he had been impaled by something very large, and then used an incredibly unskilled spell to try and stitch it back together. Harry examined it for a minute, raised the boy up slightly to find a matching puncture wound out the back, but determined that there wasn't really anything he could do about it, apart from clean the boy up, and make him as comfortable as he could until he awoke.

He carefully extracted the coat and jacket, as well as the remains of the tank top, from underneath the boy, and set them on a chair in the corner. As he turned back to the bed, his eyes fell once again on the letter resting on his bedside table. Dumbledore was coming this evening. He would know what to do. Harry just had to hold out until then.

Evening found Harry slumped against the window, watching the street outside. It was only 9:36, but Harry had been checking the clock and the street outside every few minutes since seven. He'd been disbelieving of the fact that Dumbledore was really coming since he had first gotten the owl a few days before, but now he had even more reason to hope that the man really did show up. He had cleaned the blood of of the boy's truthfully very fit body as best as he could, pulled off his pants and boots - revealing that his left leg was made of the same mysterious technology as his arm - and dressed him in one Dudley's old, oversized shirts. The boy's body was littered in scars, head to toe, and Harry could tell that wherever he was from his life had not been easy. But wrapped up in the oversized shirt, with Harry's covers pulled up over his chest, he looked very young, and peaceful.

Harry had spent most of the day wondering about the boy, frequently checking in on him between chores, and hoping he wouldn't wake while Harry was out of the room. The last thing he needed was an injured stranger stumbling into the Dursleys' sitting room. But so far, the boy had remained unconscious and unresponsive, save the occasional small twitch or groan. A few times he had become restless, his eyes shifting rapidly beneath their lids, but he had quickly settled again.

After a day of constant worrying and wondering, Harry was exhausted, and his eyes began to slip shut. He struggled a bit, trying to stay awake - Dumbledore was coming - but it was a losing battle, and soon his eyes slipped shut, and his face slid down along the window.

He was woken roughly an hour later by a strangled groan, and a series or sharp, hacking coughs. Blearily, he blinked his eyes open, trying to process what was happening. His eyes fell on the bed, and the figure on it, and then he was quickly jumping to his feet and rushing over. The boy was awake, curled up and clutching his side, trembling as coughs wracked his frame. There was a small patch of blood on the pillow next to his mouth, and his skin was gleaming with sweat. Harry reached out a tentative hand, and as soon as it came in contact with the boy's shoulder, he felt his whole body tense. The boy's eyes snapped up to his, and Harry felt himself freeze. They were just as shockingly gold as the boy's hair, clouded over with pain, but still full of fire, and feverishly bright. Speaking of… the boy's shoulder under Harry's hand was burning up, and Harry could see sweat matting the boy's hair. The boy was holding perfectly still, breathing heavily and staring at Harry, an animal sort of terror in his eyes. Harry slowly knelt, keeping his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Hi," he began, unsure of exactly what to say."I'm Harry. I… found you, on my doorstep this morning. You've been asleep all day, but it seems like you've developed a fever."

There was no response. Harry tried again.

"Can you… Can you tell me your name?"

This time, the boy answered, his voice strained and thin, a single syllable.

"Ed."

Well that didn't seem like a particularly strange name. It was certainly muggle, but not at all unusual, and Harry felt himself wondering for what felt like the thousandth time that day where exactly this boy had come from.

"Well Ed," Harry said, careful to keep his voice steady under the boy -Ed's - penetrating stare. "There's a man coming very soon who's going to be able to help you, but for right now, I'm going to get you a wet cloth for your forehead, alright?"

Harry wasn't sure the boy even understood him, but he mumbled something that seemed like and affirmative, and so Harry stood, letting his hand fall from the boy's shoulder.

"Try not to move around too much while I'm gone, okay?"

There was no response, Ed's eyes had slipped shut as soon as Harry removed his hand, and so Harry quickly made his way down the hall and into the bathroom. He snagged a wash cloth from the shelf, and ran it under the faucet, rang it out a bit, and then headed back to his room. Ed appeared to be asleep again, so Harry gently wiped down his face, then pushed his bangs out of the way and settled the washcloth across his forehead. He stepped away, and went to settle back into his chair when the streetlight outside his window went out. His breath caught. Could it be…?

A moment later the doorbell rang, and Vernon dursley voice issued from below.

"Who the blazes is calling at this time of night?"

Harry flew from the room and down the stairs, landing neatly in front of the door just in front of his flustered uncle. He wrenched it open, and before Dumbledore could speak a word,he interjected.

"Sir I need your help very urgently. It's really something of an emergency."

Dumbledore looked down at him with an air of amusement, taking in his flushed face and heaving chest.

"Why of course, Harry. What's the matter?"

Harry paused to suck in a large breath, then spoke. "It's upstairs, sir. In my bedroom."

"Well," Dumbledore spoke, his tone light and easy as he stepped past Harry into the hall. "I shall follow your lead then." He tipped his head politely towards a shocked uncle Vernon, who had been joined by an equally shocked Petunia, the two of them staring dumbly as Harry led Dumbledore up the stairs. Dudley had peaked his head around the hallway at the top to see what the fuss was about, and he hastily withdrew with a sort of aborted squeaking noise as the too passed. Harry rushed to his bedroom door, and flung it open, pointing towards Ed, still buried under covers on the bed.

"I found him on the doorstep this morning, sir." Harry spoke frantically, as Dumbledore entered and made his way over to the bed. "It looks like he was injured quite badly, and someone tried to patch it up with magic, but they did a rather poor job, but I can't tell how much damage is left because it's all on the inside."

Dumbledore had drawn even with the bed, and was scrutinising the boy very thoroughly. "I see. Could you please show me the wound, Harry?"

Harry quickly obliged, drawing back the blankets and pulling up the shirt to reveal the angry red knot of scar tissue on Ed's abdomen. Dumbledore made a small hissing noise, and bent closer to the wound, pulling out his wand. He waved it a few times, muttering spells too low for Harry to hear, and occasionally tapping the tip of the want to the wound. After a few moments, he straightened.

"You are right, Harry, there is a considerable bit of damage left to heal. I have done what I can, but the healing arts have never been my strong point. This rather changes my plans for the evening…" He trailed off, looking thoughtful, Then turned to Harry. "We shall take this boy to the burrow, where Mrs. Weasley will far better equipped to care for him than I. I shall send an owl to Madame Pomfrey, and then I have one more errand I'd like you to accompany me on. How does that sound?"

"Sure, sir." Harry replied, despite his answer feeling very unsure. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of leaving Ed alone, even though he knew that Mrs. Weasley was capable, and he'd probably be more hindrance than help if he stayed. Dumbledore nodded, and then stooped and lifted Ed as if he weighed no more than a feather.

"Harry, if you would take my arm please?"

Harry did, and Dumbledore turned on his heel, and with an awful, vacuumous sucking sensation, they were gone.