Hello! This is my newest story, an attempt to satisfy an intriguing prompt by Yizuki. Obviously, I therefore not only lack ownership of anything you recognize from Harry Potter and Fullmetal Alchemist (Brotherhood, in this story, but that won't be integral to the plot, so you 2003 anime-lovers need not fear), I also don't own the general idea. Poopie.

Anyways, I really hope this little dip into the world I've begun furiously crafting piques the interest of a few of you lovely people out there, and if it does, I would really love to have a few reviews! I always work better, and more quickly, when I have reviews to inspire me, and constructive criticism (hell, I'll even take flamers) is almost as awesome as chocolate.

And without further ado,

Prologue

Draco Malfoy is a scarred child.

Growing up in the household of one of the highest-ranked Death Eaters, Draco saw a number of things that would lend to that, and one event in particular would never leave his mind.

"My dear Narcissa, they test my patience every day! Sticking their noses in where no one wants them; why, I would never have been forced to deal with this if things had stayed the way they are meant to be! I—"

"Excuse me, Mister Malfoy, Master, sir!" Comes the squeaking voice of some house elf or another, interrupting Draco's father. Draco had never been too bothered to learn all of their names; it was of no consequence to him, according to his father. And his father knew everything. Draco was tempted to peer around the edge of the door frame to see what was going on, but he knew that if his father learned he was listening in again, he would carry through with one of those awful punishments, and Draco found that very idea quite abhorrent.

"What is it, elf? You should hope for your continued existence that your reason for interrupting me is quite as important as your tiny mind must think it is!" Roars Lucius, and Draco flinches at his tone, drawing into the shadows of the hall a bit more. Yes, Draco knows that tone quite well.

Sounding even meeker, and if possible, squeakier, the house elf says shakily, "Mister Malfoy, Master, sir, Dobby saw a muggle on the front lawns, and Dobby did not know what to do with him, Mister Malfoy, Master, sir!"

Draco covered his ears, trying in vain to block of the roared response of his father. He hears the man yell something quite unintelligible, and the sound of a curse flying from his wand, before the terrified squeaks of the house elf, Dobby, fills his mind. The squeaks are quickly bitten back to pitiful whimpers, and Draco can hear footsteps moving alarmingly brusquely in his direction over them. 'Father has to come through this door to get to the front lawn!' he realizes, and quickly stuffs himself back into the shadowy corner behind a nearby bookshelf, behind the door.

Just after Draco stills, he can see his father enter the hall he is in (the front hall, just behind the main entrance). Lucius storms to the large double doors and flicks his wand. The doors fly open, and Lucius, not even pausing, walks right out onto the lawn. From his place, Draco can just barely see the muggle man standing, confused, in the front drive, looking as if he were on his way to the doors. As Draco's father comes toward him, the muggle begins talking in a slightly nervous and very confused tone, "Excuse me, sir, do you have time to learn about our Lord and Savior—"

Draco watches Lucius flick his wand from behind, and the almost immediate screams of surprise quickly morphing into unimaginable pain from the man explode in Draco's mind. 'Why?' he wonders, not seeing any reason for this horrid action on his Father's part. 'Why? Why? WHY?' The man's screams continue, and Draco can't block them out, can't turn away, not even when his mother is suddenly there, shushing him and plucking him up from the ground, carrying him away, further into the mansion with tears glistening in her eyes.

No, Draco would never forget that experience. And he would never forget what the trauma of that day forced him to remember, no matter how unbelievable the idea seems. As bad as it is, Draco sometimes thinks that maybe he should be a bit thankful for watching that—not that he could EVER condone such pointless pain—because at least now he knows.

The memory plays in his mind again, and despite its similarly horrifying feel to the other one, Draco never wants to forget this, not for a moment. Not again.

"Edward, what in the world are you looking at?" They were in the middle of a mission, moments away from entering the terrorist group's home base; they couldn't afford anyone to be distracted. The boy's (no, he's a man now, Roy's mind tells him, briefly skimming over the now-grown features of the blond, remembering the last few years since the Promised Day) eyes widen wildly as he snaps his head around to meet the confused gazes of the military team.

His eyes, wide and terrified, will be the last thing Roy sees. "GET DOWN!" Edward roars in a panicked voice. But there's no time for any of them to dive for cover before Roy's world explodes in a painful, fiery mess.

If Roy Mustang (or Draco Malfoy, whichever one prefers) didn't believe in reincarnation before, he does now.

Harry Potter doesn't think he'll ever get used to this.

It's five in the morning, much too early to be awake in his opinion, and just like he has for the past month, Harry is cooking breakfast for his relatives. Only, today is the first morning that Aunt Petunia hasn't been there to watch like a hawk over his shoulder, making sure he's doing everything correctly, barking orders at him when he begins to burn something or forgets a spice. Instead, his bony aunt is upstairs in her bedroom, getting ready for another day as a suburban housewife in Little Whinging, Surrey.

It takes a little while, and about halfway through Harry's massive Uncle Vernon sits himself at the kitchen table with the morning paper, obviously waiting for his food. Just as Harry deems the bacon and sausage fully cooked, he grunts quite loudly and irritably, "Hurry up, boy!"

Sufficiently frightened into hurrying by his Uncle's barked command, Harry flicks the knob so that the stove turns off and grabs the handle of the pan. Grunting slightly with the weight and heat of the thing, Harry takes it with him as he moves to step off of the stepping stool he had used to be able to look over the stove. But while concentrating so hard on not dropping the pan, Harry fails to notice a small wet spot just in front of the stool. Incidentally, the wet spot is right where he needs to place his small feet. Harry slips, one foot still on the stool, and things seem to both slow down and speed up at once. He feels himself falling forward, the ground rushing to meet his face. His body twists, trying to protect himself from serious injury, and the hot pan leaves his grasp. The air leaves him as he hits the floor on his side, his ankle scraping harshly on the edge of the stool and his head cracking on the tile flooring just after his body. Then comes the pan, landing just a few feet away and splattering him with scalding oil and a bit of almost-as-hot sausage and bacon.

Harry leaps to his feet, adrenalin allowing him to ignore his injuries for just a moment as he instinctually throws himself as far as he can get from the burning food products, swiping at that which still clings to his body.

Then his Uncle Vernon is there, yelling furiously at him for ruining the breakfast, and Harry is much too surprised and frightened to really understand what's going on. The adrenalin is still rushing through him as his body yells that he needs to get to safety, get away, and tend to his wounds. But he can't move, can't think, as Vernon's furious spitting and screaming washes over him. Then his Uncle is leaving, yelling for him to stay there, and Harry wants to run, knows he should run, but he just can't, and he doesn't understand what happened, how did the pan get on the floor? Suddenly, his Uncle Vernon is back, and he's holding a long, leather belt in his hands, cracking it dangerously as he advances on little—tiny, scared, much too young and innocent—Harry, and the only thought in his head is 'Oh, no,' but he can't move. His breathing stops, and he finally stumbles back a few steps, but it's much too late now, anyways.

When the belt hits him for the first time—'It hurts!'—Harry isn't as surprised as he thinks he should be. He curls in on himself, his mind going almost completely blank as he tries to cover his head with his arms, not even hearing the yelling and screaming of his Uncle Vernon anymore. He's gone now, disappearing somewhere far into his mind. His heart is thundering, but he feels strangely blank and calm with his eyes squeezed shut, and he can't even really feel the belt now…

And then, curled in on himself and his mind leaving the world behind, Harry remembers.

What is that he sees, in the distance? Closing in on them, getting closer—No! The group, they must be able to see us now, it's a bomb! Edward wheels around, facing the rest of his group, forcing the words out of his mouth despite his terror, because he has to get them to safety! And there's no time left! His eyes lock on Mustang's, that Bastard General, the man he owes his life to, the man he thinks he might love, and he doesn't know that those shining, dark orbs will be the last thing he sees. "GET DOWN!" He roars, getting ready to sprint forward and drag the man to safety, but then time's up and his world explodes in fiery chaos.

Then he's back, back in reality, back in the kitchen getting beaten by a walrus of a man holding a belt, but he's not just the terrified six-year-old Harry Potter. No, he's so much more, and he's aware of that now, if only just to a degree. Just as the belt cracks down once more, preparing to slam into his arms and sides for maybe the twentieth time, his arm snaps out. He catches the thing out of mid-air, and it automatically curls around his bloody arm. With a mighty yank, he tugs it out of his Uncle Vernon's hands, standing up to face the man with an undeniable fury lighting up his face. No more, he decides, and his face alone immediately scares Vernon Dursley, shaking him to the core. The air around the boy seems to match his emotions, whipping wildly about the kitchen, lifting up his raven locks and plastering the over-sized shirt and pants to his small body. Electricity sparkles around him, looking ready to strike down the man at his command, and golden eyes shine with all of the determination and rage in the universe. Vernon Dursley knows in that instant that he will never make the mistake of beating this boy again—and weren't his eyes emerald like his dirty mother's just moments ago?!—but then the wind and the sparks are gone, the rage and the fierce determination fading away to be replaced by utter shock.

Then, with no other warning, Harry Potter found himself sprinting past his Uncle Vernon, out of the house, down Privet Drive, on and on, not looking back. And Vernon Dursley found himself staring down at the bloodied belt sitting on the tiled flooring, his trousers around the crotch area suddenly quite damp.

If Edward Elric (or Harry Potter, whichever one prefers) did not believe in reincarnation before, he does now.

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