Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or Harry Potter.

A/N: Thank you so much for the constructive criticism guys (especially informing me that I spelled Alastor wrong! Repeatedly! Sorry!) I love you guys all so much because you're... awesome! It's true! Really! You guys are awesome and that's all there is to it. Who wouldn't love you? That's the question you should ask yourself. Who could possibly not love you guys. The answer, my friends, is no one.

Alrighty, in a quick explanation of why I made Dumbledore so eerily cheery that I am now considering going back and fixing it slightly, I was going with the idea that he was acting that way as a front in front of Edward (plus he's also a wee bit loony, really) and is having the others watch him in a more serious manner. A reason for Edward to have to stay at Grimwauld Place, you see.

This chapter makes me want to cry in the beginning, because however irrational the fear may be, I am TERRIFIED of all SHARP, POINTY things that push and push through your skin until it rips apart and the sharp and pointy thing slips inside of your waiting flesh! Ew! The nurses always have to tell me to breathe when I get shots and ask me if I'm still there because they think I passed out when I give blood. Needles are the bane of my existence.

If, for some reason, you are offended by vulgar language (which if you are, you probably shouldn't like Edward Elric), then I apologize for the first word of this chapter. As well as for a good deal of the words that run through Edward's head for the rest of this story. Here I go, sorry, there I went. :)

And yes, all the chapter names are in English, they're just fancy ;)

Rue

Chapter Three

Egregious

"Fuck," Edward growled as his hand slipped in the blood. Needles had always terrified him, and this was no exception. He wished he could just suck it the hell up, because his shaking hands weren't making it any easier to push the sharp point through his skin.

He had a piece of wood he had transmuted from some of the elements found in the woodwork of the outside hallway clenched between his teeth, his molars grinding hard upon the splintering surface, in an attempt to keep himself quiet. And the sink was running, just in case.

Whoever these crazy "magical" people were that had apparently taken him in, had no idea how to treat a wound. They didn't even bandage them correctly. The stress that his farce limbs passed onto his thin frame made him prone to things like infection, especially when wounds were left open and uncleaned. He wasn't sure if they thought they would hurt him by wrapping the bandages too tight, and thus applied them considerably too loosely, or if they simply had not had to do so in the past. He would hate to have to inform them that they were hurting him more by doing a shitty ass job.

They always say: if you want something done right, then you have to do it yourself.

At first he had thought of cauterizing the wounds. Because, ultimately, the stubborn, shot-shy child deep inside of him (or maybe not so deep) was actually convinced burning himself all over the place would be a good alternative to stitches. When really, in the long run, the burns would probably cause more harm than help. He wanted them to heal properly, after all, and he wasn't necessarily in any sort of dire rush. He'd never had to stitch himself up before (and now wonder, it was amazing he hadn't fainted from the pure horror of it) but there was a first time for everything. He knew enough about cleaning wounds and had certainly seen enough stitches in his body that he thought he should at least have some sort of vague idea on how to accomplish this task. Plus, he was a god be damned genius for crying out loud, he could do it!

When he had finally plucked up enough courage to start, he hadn't really realized how hard it would be.

There was the fear, of course, because every single time the transmuted metal punctured his skin he felt like fucking vomiting. Then there was the fact that all the particularly down-reaching, deep gashes seemed to be in the wrong places, awkward angles and almost impossible stretches to get it right and even move his arm without tensing a muscle that made him hurt even more. And finally, all the blood. The blood from the wounds, and from the points where the needle pushed into his flesh. Every single time his hand slipped in the scarlet red liquid he wanted to rip all the stitches from his body and strangle someone at the same time.

He stumbled over his careful work again, stabbing himself near his hip bone with the needle, and, despite himself, his mouth flew open in a garbled cry of pain. His eyes fell fearfully upon the long, thin, piercing instrument, sunk deep into his body so that only the very top of it was showing over the small wound, and fought the bile that quickly rose to the top of his throat. The wooden block clattered to the floor when his mouth launched itself open in reflex, and he scowled quickly at it, attempting to compose himself. He grunted decidedly, placing his flesh fist in his mouth and biting down hard on his knuckles, drawing blood with his sharp incisors heading the attack, as he wrapped his metal fingers around the needle and pulled it away from his flesh with – One. Sharp. Tug.

What the hell was that Edward Elric? He scolded himself vehemently. Way to blow the fucking lid off of the secret part of this operation.

Even though he was almost positive that the noise he had just made – as it as quite loud, and he assumed not only to his own ears –must have woke someone in a house full of strangers who were already mildly suspicious of him, he continued on anyway, cursing quietly and placing the wood back between his teeth. There was blood on the floor all around him now, but it was reassuring, at the very least, to see that in emanated mostly from his more shallow cuts. (They seemed to find that bleeding uncontrollably was an attractive thing to do.) He was almost done though, the deep gouge just above his left hip bone had been one of the worst off – and was made no better by his recent assault on the area – and he almost had it closed off all of the way.

"Hey, what are you doing in there?" the ginger haired boy from earlier called out from the other side of the door, and Edward bit back a yell of frustration. Instead he said not a word in reply, which was recently his decided choice of action. He didn't feel particularly all that good and fluffy and wonderful about the Truth dropping him off somewhere where everything existed solely to punch him and all of his beliefs in the balls. Taking everything away from him. His friends. His family. Alphonse. His time. His world, he supposed. He also didn't know these people or give a shit what they thought or knew about him. If Truth wanted to play games with him he would be a good little puppet and dance on his strings for a while. He was obviously worthless. Not even worth enough to get his brother back. And he had no clue whatsoever how to find the answer that he needed. He was a failure. And Alphonse had to pay for it. What a great fucking person he was. What a great brother.

With this thought, he pushed the needle a little further into his body than he had before.

The door handle turned uselessly, and Edward figured that the boy outside was trying the doorknob, only to find it locked. The blood was running down the tile of that bathroom floor of the slightly crooked, old house in a set stream. Like a scarlet river rushing toward the doorway. Determined in its path. And the moment Ron found his bare foot in something sticky and warm and looked down to find it was blood. Well, he panicked. This was all way too much like one of those freaky muggle cult horror films that Hermione had convinced him to watch once. This was all way too much like one of those freaky Muggle cult horror films that Hermione had convinced him to watch once.

In the bathroom, over the rushing water of the sink, Edward heard Ron's shrill scream of terror, and glanced toward the doorway in confusion. Some of the blood that had spilled from his body onto the floor had decided downstream was toward the doorway, and the red-headed boy must have noticed.

"Fuck," he growled once more, pushing the needle quicker and clenching down hard with his teeth. Just a little bit more.

Ron's scream woke the one person in the house that could successfully manage to wake everyone else up instantaneously.

"FILTHY, PUTRID – " Walburga Black's shrieking echoed through the house in a terrible screech, and Sirius burst from his room in a fit of rage, hair askew.

"Ron!" he shouted, "What the hell? Twice today already, and you decide a third time sounds like fun?"

Mrs. Weasley came next, Ginny and Hermione trailing behind her, "Ronald Weasley, why are you out of your bed? People are trying to sleep. And why did you leave the sink running?"

"MUDBLOOD, TRAITOR! I'LL CUT MY HEART OUT MYSELF YOU HORRIBLE – "

Lupin and Moody now, a "What's going on?" coming from both as a seething Sirius stomped down the stairs to silence his banshee of a mother.

Ron lifted his foot up in the perfect picture of owl eyed fright, lost for words, and almost fell onto his back as Fred and George apparated with a loud crack directly beside him.

"Hell," one of them mumbled, looking at his outstretched foot.

"Is that blood?" the other finished, adding, "What's happening?"

"Ron? What did you do to yourself?" Hermione asked, concerned.

Ron shook his head and pointed a shaking finger at the bathroom door. There was a dim light shining from inside, most likely the result of a lit candle, and in the shine of it they could see the liquid running from the crack beneath the door. Hermione gasped in realization, and immediately crashed against the wood, her hands turning the doorknob furiously. Someone was in the bathroom, and they were hurt. She had to get inside.

Lupin pulled her away, whipping out his wand and quickly unlocking the door, as several other's wands a lit with silent castings of Lumos behind him. He wrenched open the door with a startling amount of force, while Moody and Sirius behind him pushed the children back behind them, and his breath promptly hitched in his throat at what he found.

Many expressions flew across the strange boy's face, none of which Remus Lupin thought appropriate to the situation. He looked at first like an embarrassed and surprised child, caught up past his bedtime, sneaking sweets, with his hand in the cookie jar. Then came a sort of exasperated frustration, followed soon by anger. His eyes flashed and narrowed, glaring at the crowd of people looking in on him, as he deftly pulled the thick thread clasped between his fingers tight, the skin of one of his wounds molding together beneath the stitching. He spit a small piece of wood that had been clenched within his jaw onto the floor, tying the thread in a quick, yet complicated knot and using his teeth to break it off just above the tie. Lupin only looked on at the scene before him with a strange sense of shock and feeling disturbed all at the same time.

"What are those?" Ron asked quietly, as he felt the bile rise to the top of his throat. The room was dark, and he could hardly see the figure within. But before Moody has pushed him away, he had caught the briefest glimpse of the stitches that pulled ugly and bloodied against the boy's stomach.

Arthur Weasley – who had emerged from behind his wife and daughter and rushed quickly to the door, pushing Ginny entirely out of the way – answered slowly, sure in his words, "That's what Muggles use to close their wounds. Their doctors do it..."

Edward Elric rolled his eyes and rose to his feet in one smooth motion. When he fell to the ground a moment alter, darkness pulling on the edges of his vision, it was considerably less so.

The second the boy tried to stand up, and he fell back against the bathroom floor, collapsing in on himself, Hermione found every adult's hands pushing her away. It had been hard to see anything at all in the room, the only light in the room being a small candle on the floor – which was now toppled over, and the wax was dripping onto Edward's left bicep, which would sting like hell later – and the steam from the hot, running water of the sink had clouded all about in the room. But she had managed to at least see what he had been doing, in the briefest of glimpses, that made her look away so fast she wished she hadn't looked in the first place. The moment it had registered in her mind as ,"that boy was stitching his own stomach back together" she felt dizzy. She wanted to go back, to get a better look at him, to ask him why? But that would mean she would have to see the stitches, and imagine it all again. Plus, the adults all seemed to want to keep all the children from getting more then a millisecond of a chance to witness it.

Mrs. Weasley gave them no clear instructions as she shoved them roughly into the hallway from which they came, so they all proceeded to herd into Ronald's room together. Upon arriving, Ron sat on his floor in front of his bed, while Ginny say atop it, and Fred and George took a seat on the bed across the room. Hermione stood, not entirely trusting herself to lean over or move downward without reuniting with her dinner.

There was an eerie silence that befell them, for not a single one knew what to say about what had just occurred, or how to make sense of any of it. She finally noticed Ron moving, but it did nothing to comfort her.

He pulled his bare right foot so that he could tilt it up to his face, and stared in horror at the blood that stained the pale skin of his soles. She started forward, pulling her wand as he began muttering incoherent babble, full of "bloody hell's and "no, no, no, ew,"'s. She touched the tip to his soiled foot quickly and called out a simple spell.

When the blood remained, she frowned, "Tergeo." she said firmly, and Ron's panicked eyes widened.

"What?" Ginny mumbled, her brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"Let us try," the twins said together, and in unison pulled out their own wands and tried to clear the blood form their brother's foot as well. Nothing happened.

Hermione took a towel from Ron's shower earlier that night – strewn across the floor and still damp of course – and moved toward him. Silent as she started to rub away the bright red liquid that had grown sticky and thick. Muggle way of doing things, she thought mirthlessly, as another thought pulled through her unwilling mind. "That's what Muggles use to close their wounds."

Ron watched her with a mixture of disgust and fascination in his expression. When she was finished, however, he did not ask a question that the curiosity in his eyes led her to believe he would.

"He looked angry when the door opened," Ron said, simply, nervous, and his words shook.

"Couldn't get a good look at him," George commented, and his other siblings grunted and nodded in agreement as he shrugged.

"Me either, really," Ron continued, "but I saw the 'stitches'. It was like he was stitching himself up like you would stitch clothes," he shuddered.

"Can you imagine doing that? To yourself?" Ginny wondered.

"No," Hermione quipped, "Oh, goodness, no, no, no. Just the thought of pushing the needle through your skin, and then again, and again," thinking about it made the bile rise up in her throat once more.

"Who do you think he is?"

"Think he'd done it before?"

"Why would anyone need to?"

"Think he's a death eater?"

"I want to see him again," Hermione said, acknowledging the fact, "I feel so left out. It's all so weird."

"Yeah," Ron nodded, and with another look at the never-to-be-white-again towel on the floor a ways off, he sighed in disbelief.

"Bloody hell."

A/N: I had something I wanted to say, but I forgot it.

Egregious: extraordinary in some bad way, extreme, distinguished, glaring, eminent.