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Disclaimer: (Well I personally feel that if you missed it twice before you'll probably miss it again now...) But I don't own Harry Potter or Fullmetal Alchemist... unfortunately...

Chapter Three – For The People

There's no such thing as 'Professional' and 'Private'

~Colonel Roy Mustang

The mediwitches and wizards momentarily halted, started by the abrupt appearance of the two. It was the site of Harry, blood staining through the bandages that stirred them into action again. Almost instantaneously, a stretcher was summoned, more bandages prepared, potions fetched and a team of Healers surrounded the boy, trying to assess the damage. While St. Mungo had no floor for bullied kids, the healers were able to agree, once upon seeing the wounds, that they had been inflicted by a muggle and so prepared a ward on the first floor. That is, 'Creature-induced Injuries'.

Urey was shoved carelessly to one side by the healers as they worked complex spells, floated the boy up to his new room, and poured what seemed to be a stingy amount of potion on to him. Still, he could not fault them; the wounds were not as bad as some of the others he had seen in St. Mungo's before and there was no real reason to use generous amounts of expensive products when a small amount would be alright. Thankfully, as a doctor himself, he wasn't offended understanding that the patients came first. Still... he did wonder what the casualty rate was for those bringing in the patients were.

The silver hound leapt gracefully through the open window, as if it were a divine messenger. Winry squealed at the unusual sight, before running to attempt to hug it. As if realising something, the hound suddenly sped forward, through the girl who jumped back, eyes wide with shock, and up the flights of stairs.

Sara Rockbell, glanced towards the staircase, hearing Winry's squeal. It was unlikely that she was in trouble, but not entirely impossible. She put away the bandages and closed the cupboard, she was just about done here anyway. As she descended the stairs, a silver light shone gently before her. She recognised the form immediately. A Patronus. Winry was running behind it, seeming on intent on catching it. Sara knelt before it and the dog's mouth opened, and a voice spoke through it. Her husband's voice.

"Harry injured. Gone to St. Mungo's." The message was short, but clear. Sara Rockbell reached for her daughter's hand, grasping it in a vice-like grip. It was time to return to Amestris. She was glad really, this world was unpredictable and dangerous. Even through Amestris was intent on fighting multiple wars at all times, the goals of the country were, at least, clear and the non-military people mostly kind. With distaste, she recalled the fat slob who had called himself Harry's cousin, from the moment she'd seen him, she'd kept a reminder in the back of her head to keep Winry away from him.

"Mommy?" Winry attempted to move her hand away from the painful grip it was trapped in. Sara's heart grew worried for her only child. She was still so childish, still so naïve. How would she fare after they had passed away?

Winry pulled again and Sara immediately slackened her grip, guilt clawing at her heart. Had she been too focused on her patients, ignoring her child in their favour? She made a mental note to spend more time with Winry once they got back to Resembool.

Harry stood in the middle of a small twister, a flurry of bright lime-green leaves whirling about him in an almost rhythmical fashion. He closed his eyes.

"Hey freak!" That was Dudley, again insulting him.

He didn't reply, though he felt the anger bottle up inside him ready to spill forth. Dudley, if he sensed it, didn't care; he shoved his skinnier cousin into the mud puddle at his feet. Scrapes from the blows that Dudley had dealt him before oozed blood slowly, mixing with the murky water, staining both the water, and his clothes a shade of a colour somewhere between crimson and maroon. His hair was drenched in those colours too, and the glasses had fallen off, undoubtedly laying broken somewhere on the bottom. Vaguely, he was aware of Dudley taunting him, but it had no meaning to him.

Something inside him had snapped then. His eyes had narrowed slightly and he pushed himself upright. Had his cousin enough wit, he might've noticed the warning signs that were very much there. Gusts of wind, as if drawn to the boys, swept around Harry, encircling him in a protective cocoon, then billowed out, screeching in his cousin's ears, tearing at his skin, throwing leaves and blow-about trash at him. But there was something terribly wrong.

Harry stood there, watching, but it was as though seeing a movie (not that he'd had much opportunity to see one); that it was his cousin getting thrashed for once meant nothing to him. Rather, he wanted to see Dudley get hurt, scream, plea for mercy. Suffer as he had.

'He's treated you like trash. Why not give him that same treatment?' There was a voice inside his head, high-pitched, cold and calculating. It was like something out of a nightmare.

Dreamlike, he felt himself moving forwards, the winds picking up, Dudley screaming something incoherent. He felt the voice's intent too, knew the means to make it happen, knew the voice could give him the will to make it happen. It could be so easy. And yet... he couldn't do it. There was just something about it that disgusted him. Maybe it was that, regardless of all he had done, Dudley was still a human. Maybe it had been that deep down, he was too scared. Or maybe it had been that the voice had felt unnatural, wrong. Or perhaps, it was just him, lacking the will to do it. But whatever the cause, he'd felt physically unable to do it.

So he'd just frozen up, unable to stop the winds, unable to continue. What had been a blessing was now a curse. Then Dudley had jerked, screeching, staring in fascinated horror at something behind him. He hadn't turned, despite being easily able to, fear of what he might see locking his muscles in place.

'Help... help me! Someone... anyone? Help me…'

And even though he's been the one with the most power (theoretically), he'd also felt at his most helpless. And so he'd stood there, frozen in place, feeling stupid, ashamed at his weakness. And he couldn't do anything.

Then skinny, bony arms had wrapped themselves around his torso, protectively as if he was the one they were trying to protect. And it had almost been like... having a mother.

"He's awake. Look, the movement in his eyelids give it away."

Jolted none-too-gently back to reality, he opened his eyes, to an even blurrier image than the one he'd been presented with before. What he'd taken to be leaves appeared to be people dressed in the most eye-catching garb he'd ever seen. A slightly sickening shade of bright lime-green.

One of them cooed at him, and he gave an involuntary flinch. Another pointed a stick (?) at him, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'loo moths'. He blinked confusedly for a second, then flinched for the second time in less than ten seconds as she shone the light directly into his eyes.

Apparently satisfied with whatever knowledge had been gleaned, she pulled back the odd stick and muttered something again, though this time it sounded similar to 'pox'. Harry wondered if the strange man was not quite right in the head.

Losing interest, as the two began to argue over something, he felt his eyes flutter shut and was, for the slightest amount of time, aware of a feeling of drifting before his mind went blank.

When he once again opened his eyes, he noticed the clarity of vision. He could see everything from the seams on his (admittedly plain but clean), hospital robes to the wisp-like traces of spider webbing in the corners of the room. He sat up, wanted to see more.

Outside, loud voices were arguing, it seemed to be two flustered female voices against an somewhat annoyed (but resigned) male one.

"You changed his sight? Without consent! What kind of Healers are you?"

"Sir! He was not awake, and his eyesight was able to be corrected without danger to him! He will not suffer harm from the event!" The two female voices joined in protest, excuses babbling out.

"It is still very much immor-" The man's voice dropped suddenly and Harry grew uneasy. Places were people openly shouted at each other were never very nice, as he'd learnt.

Footsteps heralded the arrival of another, and the swish of fabric against floor meant it was most likely a woman in a dress. That, much, Harry could deduce. So you can imagine his surprise when a definitely male voice sounded merrily. Almost, like it was twinkling.

"Mr. Rockbell, it has been far too long." The footsteps advanced to the open doorway, and he caught his first glance at the strange man.

At first sight, he seemed to be harmless, a grandfather wandering about, but there was something in the eyes, a hidden fire under layers of twinkling deceit, that warned otherwise. Still, he did look a lot like Santa in blue pyjamas.

As he noticed that Harry was conscious the eyes seemed to twinkle (how was he doing that?) even more. He strolled forwards, extending a hand, wrinkled with the passing of countless years. Instinctively reacting to the outstretched hand, Harry shrunk back, pressing himself firmly against the head of the bed, while burying himself under the blankets. The strange man frowned thoughtfully, a crease appearing on his brow. If anything, he seemed puzzled. As if answering an unheard question, he nodded. There was a slight *pop* and the robe vanished, replaced by a flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet.

"Dumbledore, he is still recovering!" With a flurry of protests, the two women and man who had been arguing swept in, all seeming slightly miffed that they had been brushed off.

Some distant part of Harry's mind noted that they were all wearing dresses, and carrying sticks of varying lengths and design. He wondered if he'd somehow gone back in time without a telephone box.

'Maybe I'm a hundred years back in time, before Dudley was born! But it doesn't explain why these people look like street performers.'

"W-Who are you?" He was stammering, he knew that but it was a nervous habit that had developed over the years. He doubted that he could stop it if he wanted now.

The silver-haired grandfather twinkled at him once again before presenting him. "I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. These two," here he flapped a hand at the healers, "are the ones who have healed you back up after your incident, and this" he gestured towards the only normally dressed person there (had he gone back in time too?), "is Urey Rockbell. You might have seen him around your school, yes? He was the one who brought you here."

Which raised another question in Harry's mind. Where was here? He didn't trust the twinkling man (was his name Ibis Bumblebore?); he was being nice, yes, but he was being too nice, and the way he spoke about the others indicated that he clearly thought himself above them. As if he was the puppet master and they puppets in the play. It was the way Dudley acted, just less violent. Even at the age of six, Harry could tell that the man was trying to get something from Harry. 'Is it my relatives' number, so he can call them up and get an reward? It's no good really, I've gone back in time so they don't exist yet.'

The man, (Urey Rockbell was it?) made a small sound in his throat, and stepped forward, brushing past the arm the old man had gestured at him with, stepping in front of the headmaster to address Harry. "You most likely know me as one of the school's on-campus doctors. I believe you know my daughter too, Winry Rockbell?"

'Okay, so he's a doctor, they're meant to be good people, and I know his daughter, so it's probably okay to trust him. And he came back in time with me, so he's the only one I know. Which makes him the only one I can trust.'

Of course, it didn't explain everything. "W-why did you r-rescue m-me?" Inwardly Harry cursed his stutter, using several colourful curses he'd heard from Uncle Vernon over the course of the five years he'd spent there.

A look of half surprise, half shock flittered across the doctor's face. When he spoke again, his voice was slightly strained and carefully worded as if to conceal anger. "I became a doctor to help people. It wouldn't have be right to leave you there." He said it with such conviction, and stated it with such simplicity that it was impossible to refute his claim. Harry found himself trusting the man, and as his eyes closed, he felt himself beginning to nurture the hope of having a future after far too long without one. A world, a time, where people acted not for themselves, but for others would be nice.

Urg. *Isn't motivated to write chapter four* Good thing I've already got some of it written up... **is poked**... er... *counts* yup... already got... 190 words...? *sweatdrop* Erk... I'll get back to it later...

I could either blame it on laziness or a new anime... How 'bout I blame it on the laziness to write while watching a new anime? xD

Isn't Harry so innocent? And naive? And... er... a tad stupid =P

And I feel that perhaps, somewhere the ages are getting inconsistent, Harry is meant to be six right now...

The next chapter will up... in about a week (hopefully)