There was something remarkably solitary, Mustang noted almost as soon as he rather groggily stepped out of the train, about being in Kings Cross. Al was standing behind him and they were getting looks-both of them in a way they weren't quite used to-from hundreds of fleeting eyes that lingered too long. Words followed but they had left their own country so hastily their grasps on the English language were shaky at best. There were lots of curious commuters that watched them as if they were aliens when the train left, leaving them with no option but to stay in England. The occasional teenager or young adult sent them an appreciative glance, grinning at them with some question or other perched on the tip of their tongues. Mustang didn't get any of it,

The ceilings were high and the building so incredibly broad that the brick walls to either side seemed almost entirely separate from each other. Al was wringing his hands apprehensively behind Mustang's back and his hinges were squeaking. The station was filled with noise but it was almost ghostly; a vague apparition that teetered on the edge of existence, fading in and out. As individuals and groups wandered past, distinctly different tangles of nonsense words did the same. Everyone was so caught up within themselves, only talking to their companions or their devices or the person behind the Costa Coffee counter. The longer he stood still, the more Mustang felt the solitude shift and morph into something even more isolating: complete insignificance. People would spare him a curious or disparaging glance but he didn't matter to them. Nobody knew him here.

He pulled the folded letter from his jacket pocket and read over it again. The script was written in a tall, looping cursive, emerald ink not smudged in even one instance. It was written in almost fluent Amestrian and signed by one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Directions to platform nine and three quarters.

Al and Mustang both considered themselves scientists, knew Ed was very much the same if not more insistent of this fact. Already, this seemed so wrong. People were milling around them, holding hi-tech devices in their hands, completely casual in spite of everything incredible that surrounded them that these men of science could not understand. Not to mention the magic. That was probably worse.

Mustang considered the pillar in front of him with no small amount of skepticism. It looked as solid as any other brick structure and a few words weren't necessarily enough to convince him it would somehow give when he ran at it. Still, the letter insisted he needed to have some amount of conviction. He felt Al's hand close around his wrist and didn't even contemplate shrugging him off. Together they ran.

Harry still had his wand in hand but his brain was too panicked to procure anything worthwhile. The wand sputtered out the occasional dying flash of light that did nothing as the swarm closed in and he stuttered a series of half-formed words that tripped over themselves until they all fell dead. Ron's wand had been dropped to his side and Harry was sure he'd be able to see his friend's racing heartbeat were it not for the high-pitched squeak coming from his throat as he cowered beneath fangs and raised limbs. Eventually Harry had to give in and cower to. It was really all he could do to avoid the sharp points for a moment longer. He closed his eyes and gripped his wand tighter as he cast his arms over his head and brought his head down. He braced himself.

And then he heard a voice. Then another.

He knew the lead spider could talk but this wasn't his hoarse voice. Nor was it English. Maybe it was another spider speaking, but there was a part of Harry's brain-whether it was rational or optimistic was yet to be determined-that told him it wasn't. It couldn't be. Not if he wanted to live to see thirteen.

There was a moment that could have been much longer or much shorter than Harry perceived it to be. But there was no more encroaching movement and the world around him lapsed into silence. The spiders weren't drawing closer. They weren't punching and Harry and Ron weren't dead yet.

The hissing started again as a startling light played across the inside of Harry's eyelids. The air had smelled like death and rotting leaves before, but that suddenly turned to a mixture of bonfire and burning hair. Harry almost gagged on it as he felt a heat creep across the left side of his body that he could only hope was not a venom seeping through his veins. He dared to crack an eye open.

The forest was alight. The spiders were either ablaze or running on eight scuttling legs. Harry and Ron were no longer of importance to them. Vermillion danced around them; some sort of deadly, beautiful ballet that brought the inkiness of the sky to life.

The ground was covered in leaves and there was no shortage of trees and bushes for the flame to consume greedily. But it did not approach them. It stayed in place like it was well-trained to do so. Harry nudged Ron and, after a moment of pressing his elbow into his shaking side almost aggressively, Ron opened his eyes. He was the first to clamber to his feet, offering Harry a largely useless trembling hand to pull himself up with.

The fire died as quickly as it had started, spitting out dying embers as it fizzled.

There was a figure standing behind where the fire had been, poised in a specific-seeming stance, gloved hand held out in front of him in a snapping motion. The world was dark and Harry could almost see the stars reflected in his shiny, ebony hair, pale skin alike to the moonlight that illuminated it. His clothing was obviously odd, a sort of military garb from centuries past but in a bright aquamarine. His eyes glinted at them intelligently but with no sense of recognition. And yet Harry had a feeling he knew who this man might be.

"Why is he dressed like a blueberry?" Ron whispered to Harry who, in spite of (or maybe even because of) everything, couldn't help but giggle. The intelligence in the stranger's eyes turned to confusion and he said words that sounded not dissimilar to the ones Ed mumbled to himself. He shook his head and winced before speaking in heavily accented, broken English.

"Who are you?"

"Harry Potter,"

"Ron Weasley,"

"Do you work with Ed?" Harry tried. He had a hunch and, as flawed as his intuition was, he had a lot of faith in it. "Edward Elric?"

"Annoying," the man said simply. Harry drew back a little.

"Me?" He hoped not. Harry didn't exactly already want the weird man that had saved his life thinking he was annoying this soon after having met him.

The man shook his head. Harry let out a relieved breath, "Fullmetal," The man clarified. Ron looked confused but Harry felt he had, beyond all doubt, had his suspicions confirmed.

"Thank you for saving us Colonel Mustang," He tried to speak slowly enough for his saviour to follow without it coming off as insulting. He nodded.

There was an odd, metallic squeak from somewhere in the trees nearby and, having recovered to some extent from the spiders, Harry drew his wand and pointed it in the vague direction. He was understandably on edge, but the colonel just waved a hand dismissively. "It is not enemy. It is brother,"

"Alphonse?"

"How do you know?"

"We're friends with Ed,"

"Fullmetal has friends?" The Colonel scoffed as if this were unbelievable. Harry was beginning to wonder if Ed's sense of humour and personality quirks were unique to him or were a part of some cultural identity. It was like some sort of distorted mirror image. The squeaking came back, louder and more shrill. It continued this time, accompanied by heavy footsteps that were not unlike the ones made by Ed's steel prosthetic.

Harry liked to think he was well-accustomed to the weird and wonderful and frankly unbelievable. But he was honestly a little surprised by what emerged from behind the wide trunk of the ancient oak. He was expecting a short blonde boy with intelligent eyes and a chip on his shoulder. That wasn't what happened.

A suit of armour that could probably fit Hagrid wandered clunkily towards them, waving in a way that indicated something almost sheepish and childlike, his demeanor directly juxtaposing his appearance. Somewhat unnecessarily, the boy introduced himself in a clear, sweet voice that was almost more startling than the spiders. He admitted with some amount of embarrassment in his voice that he and the Colonel were lost so Harry and \Ron led them through the bushes and trees towards the castle.

Hermione was intercepted on her way to the greenhouse the next morning. Like any other morning, she wandered out of the common room as the sun rose into the sky outside, but as she turned to dazedly continue in her path she found it blocked.

McGonagall was standing behind her, wiry frame deceivingly sturdy, as she found out when she clumsily bumped into the teacher who did not so much as budge.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall began, her tone as stern as ever, staring down her nose at Hermione but with no distinct lack of warmth in her pinched features. "There is somebody who would like to speak with you,"

Hermione's first thought was Sprout or some other concerned teacher she had either been ignoring and neglecting or stuck to as if their presence was essential to her survival. But then why had the teacher themself not been there to greet her? Dumbledore, perhaps? And then she remembered the letter and a spark of hope flared in her chest.

"Is it the colonel?" She asked softly, just in case she was wrong so she might deny having ever said it. She didn't want to get her hopes up only to be let down but she needed to know more about her friend. She almost didn't want to see him yet, she hadn't planned out what she was going to say to him but she was very aware that she needed to say something. She didn't know the man but was already harbouring a vague sense of anger towards him.

"Follow me to Dumbledore's office," McGonagall said instead of answering. Still, it wasn't a no so Hermione kept her hopes up.

Dumbledore's office was all gilded and gold aside from the collection of trinkets piled high in a place of pride on decorative shelves and the painted portraits of the past headmasters of Hogwarts. Dumbledore wasn't there.

McGonagall walked herself to the far side of his desk and sat in his seat, looking rather ill at ease as she perched towards the edge of it. There were two seats on the other side of it, one occupied by a man dressed rather garishly in blue, the other empty. There was a suit of armour standing by the wall that would almost never have seemed out of place in Hogwarts were it not for the way it was playing with its fingers like a nervous child. This was Ed's brother and boss and, even though she had been thinking about Ed's life for a long time even before he was petrified, it felt wrong for his world to suddenly be invading Hogwarts.

The Colonel turned around to see Hermione enter and sit hesitantly behind her, smoothing down her skirt and trying to pick out some of the dirt and chlorophyll from beneath her nails. The man didn't look sorry. She wasn't necessarily sure why he should but she was certain she needed an apology on Ed's behalf. She wanted to confront him about it but there was so much worry plastered across his face that he seemed ill and pallid. She couldn't bring herself to yell at him. She focused on the desk rather than his face and she let McGonagall lead the conversation.

"Fullmetal said in his reports that you were a good friend," The Colonel said. There was an odd quality to his voice that Hermione supposed was the effect of a translator spell cast by McGonagall, "I don't suppose you can walk me through what happened?"

So Hermione, with a stubborn lump in her throat, did exactly that.

A/N

This chapter is on the short side, so sorry about that, but I kind of wanted to get through what I have and then maybe flesh out the way that Hogwarts reacts to the Amestrians next chapter.

Also, I think it's pretty clear I have no clue what Kings Cross was like in the 90's (probably because I didn't exist) so this is definitely based on the more current train station and probably set a lot more recently than the canon, but this shouldn't make too much difference.

All the best,

We'reAllABitOdd