To the Fuhrer-President of Amestris,

You are well-knowledgeable of the uneasy relationships with our country and yours, and the plight between your state alchemists and our magical community.

During the previous letter you sent us, with "decisions to improve our countries' two-way relations", the Ministry and I have held your words in thorough discussion and deep thought, and have finalised a decision on our plan.

Enclosed in this envelope are further details.

Yours sincerely,
Cornelius Fudge
Minister of Magic

To Fuhrer-President King Bradley,

With the sources we have discussed earlier, what are your future plans with your representatives? They will be tended with the Order at their arrival. Write back urgently by owl. We have no time to waste!

Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

As soon as he stepped into Central's platform, Ed was beginning to regret it.

It wasn't the idea of taking the train - he'd been travelling across Amestris on various means and types of transport with just his brother, whether it be on trains, carriages, cars, on foot, and even on a bandwagon (a long, complicated and embarrassing story). It wasn't even the fact he was travelling with Colonel Bastard instead of Alphonse - maybe a little, but he'd been reassured that they'd keep in touch, so it didn't really matter.

It was where he going, maybe. Being forced by the government. Just because he was a state alchemist. He had instantly accepted the fact he was going to be the State Military's lapdog for as long as he kept that silver pocket-watch by his side... but he never expected this kind of mission to happen. Not ever. It wasn't like he wanted to do it. Shit.

Mustang, the Flame Alchemist himself, stood high and proud, in front of soldiers with ranks both higher and lower, something that almost made Edward scoff. He wasn't wearing his military uniform - instead wearing a black tie and olive green vest over a plain white long-sleeved shirt, with a brown overcoat draped over. He too, had suitcases that likely contained apparel and other equipment that would hopefully last for the remaining year. Of course, the suitcase would contain a few military weapons, as well as the gloves that brought Mustang his fame.

He'd been talking to Riza Hawkeye for a while now, while those poor soldiers beside her struggled to keep their straight posture and their right arms held high and stiff to their foreheads in salute. Ed couldn't blame them. In fact, he almost felt sorry for those poor dopes who had Mustang as their commanding officer. Then Mustang glanced at him, and their eyes met for a split second, and then he went back to the soldiers.

He glanced at the clock. Something he'd noticed throughout his years of travelling the country was that when he wanted something to finish immediately, time seemed to be frozen and would take forever. On the contrary, whenever he was deep in study at the library and was immersed in an interesting book on alchemy, it would seem like closing time a minute later.

Wouldn't the train hurry up? At least get this crap over and done with.

Ed sighed and took his seat, and began to stare at the floor.

It had all began two weeks ago.

But why would Ed have to be have to be entangled in diplomacy and politics? But everyone in Amestris knew about the Amestrian-British relations... which weren't so happy and buddy-buddy. Ever since the Civil War in Ishval, things had turned completely downhill. Well, Ed had learned at least a few pointers in history class (as well as pointers from the Colonel and Lt. Hawkeye) that Britain had been turning its back on Amestris since the original riots and civil wars all those centuries ago.

Ed remembered Falman coughing and piping in to say that Britain was never in favour of Amestris, ever since the country had been founded, a huge military-government, stable economy and large population built from scratch all those years ago. Breda came in to say that Britain never agreed with Amestris with anything these days. Ed, however, didn't care. What did it have to do with him and Al?

The Fullmetal Alchemist didn't know too much about the West, but alchemy was definitely unknown in that area. Known only as a legendary practice to unsuccessfully turn metals (or basically any other substance) to gold. Edward had to grunt angrily at these people's ignorance. However, the Colonel went on to explain a legend, that alchemy in the West had not died out, but instead was already there for hundreds of years in the first place. It was what the ignorant and the unlearned called "magic."

Falman, holding a book on that certain topic, had chimed in, saying that you couldn't even call magic "alchemy" anymore - it wasn't even close to being the alkahestry used in Xing.

Alphonse had been listening earnestly. Ed, on the other hand, looked up after transmuting a fork into a spoon, then back into a fork several time. "So what's that got to do with us?"

Ed remembered the Colonel sighing as he straightened up the paperwork. "Well, Fullmetal, the Fuhrer has requested this task of me. And this -" he gave a slight pause before continuing - "involves you as well."

The task in question had involved improving the relationship between Britain and Amestris. Well... not exactly all of Britain. A community of "magics" (Ed felt this as a better way to call them, rather than "wizards" and "witches") had requested of this as well, with their government being known as the Ministry of Magic. According to the Fuhrer, an Amestrian diplomatic party of two would be honorary guests at the magic school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in order to help understand each other's cultures better - to understand both alchemy and magic for both sides.

"The pupils at this school, they are also your age, Fullmetal," the Colonel said. "So it's expected of you to mingle with them, talk to them, and befriend them as well. Plus it'd be a good experience."

A little annoying to Edward, to be honest. Why would anyone be interested in learning in other cultures this way? And experience?

"Wait..." Ed held up a gloved hand. "Why? Why me?"

"Like I said before, you're their age, Fullmetal," replied the Colonel. "Plus, that isn't our only mission. It has been requested of another group that - that we protect a certain someone in Hogwarts School."

"And who would that be, sir?" asked Alphonse politely. Ed almost smiled. Leave it to Alphonse to be the good boy and ask nicely.

Mustang went through his large heap of paperwork, and pulled out a folder. Opening it, he read, "Harry James Potter. Fifteen years old. Born July 31. Status: half-blood, whatever that means." He frowned. "These wizards should work on better wording for their statuses."

He handed the folder to the two Elrics, who first noticed the picture in the corner. A boy about Edward's age, with messy black hair, glasses partially broken but fixed with sellotape, and a strange lightning-shaped scar on the forehead. Something Edward noticed... wait, was the picture moving? Ed could've sworn the hair was moving a little, the smile twitching a bit. But it was probably an hallucination... maybe an optical illusion...

Ed's eyes moved down the information presented on the paper, onto a handwritten paragraph, in neat cursive: Lord Voldemort is back. Harry is the target. Please respond to our request immediately. Thank you for your response and your offer. Hogwarts first term September 1st. Kings Cross Station, Platform 9 3/4, 11AM. Will all be sorted by the Order. - APWBD

"Lord Voldemort? APWBD?" the brothers had many questions. And what the hell was Platform 9 3/4? There was definitely no such thing as fractional platforms... were there? And what the hell is so special about this Harry person? Some sort of Very Important Person, VIP, MVP, whatever...

"All of it will have to be explained when we arrive," Mustang replied, as Alphonse handed back the folder.

"Wait - we?" Ed spluttered. "That means - Al and I - will be going with you-" he was stopped by Mustang lifting a hand.

"You, Fullmetal, and myself. That's it." At Ed and Al's protest, Hawkeye calmed them down, saying that Al could pose a danger and could certainly raise suspicious eyebrows around the young minds of Hogwarts. Ed wanted to be angry, but he understood. Al decided against the idea of becoming a State Alchemist for that very similar reason. To think of consequences in the magical world... oh, hell no. Hawkeye further calmed the two by saying she wouldn't be going anywhere either, and she would be staying close with Alphonse for the remainder of the whole mission, and that they would keep in touch through letters... hopefully.

As soon as the brothers had calmed down, Mustang continued with the topic of the mission - to take the Express train to Creta, then to wait for representatives of the magical community to deal with the transport to the destination. What the means of transport was, Mustang said they had absolutely no idea, which certainly didn't give Ed peace of mind. They would meet at Central in two weeks, to take a train at precisely 9:40AM, for a journey that would take about 2 to 3 days. Why not a train to Kings Cross? It wasn't possible.

"But wait," Ed said indignantly. "What's in it for me? We've been looking for the Philosopher's Stone for three years-"

"-with little lead," Mustang cut in. "Hogwarts - and the magical community in particular - have hundreds of resources that include alchemy - not that much, Fullmetal, but still some books. Hogwarts' library is full of so many resources, that it trumps Central's own." Noticing Ed's widened eyes, full of eagerness and fervor, he almost chuckled. "And you'll be spending a whole year there. A whole school year, that's how long your possible leads will be at your fingertips. So, what do you say, Fullmetal?"

Ed looked at Mustang, then at Al. So much possibilities to get their bodies back... but to leave his brother? No. Al looked at him, however, and whispered, "Do it, Brother."

"But-"

"Don't waste this chance, Brother!" Al protested angrily, and those little red spheres in his helmet locked with Ed's own golden eyes. "What if there is a chance to get our bodies back? You can't waste it! Besides," (if Al could smile, he's probably doing it now, Ed thought) "this might be a chance for you to have some new friends."

"What? JERK!" Ed punched his brother playfully with his automail arm, much to the amusement of Mustang and his unit. Then he turned to Mustang, and nodded. "I'll do it."

Mustang nodded. "'K. Good then. See you in two weeks." He handed Ed a small envelope, marked 'INFORMATION.' "This is all the information for the mission, and where to meet me and when. All that. See you, Fullmetal."

The train was so awfully fucking slow.

Ed stared outside as they passed several landscapes. On his lap was a book on English. He hadn't been warned of this new language that was the tongue that everyone in Britain spoke. Sleeping on the bed on the other side of the small cabin was Mustang, who had been sleeping soundly for an hour or two. If he wasn't awake, Ed would've went up to the Flame Alchemist and complained. How the heck was he able to learn the language in less than two weeks?

Mustang and Lt. Hawkeye had arrived early in the morning to pick him up to examine him on his English skills. Alphonse had read some of the books Ed had been analysing over, and had passed with a very good grade. Edward, on the other hand, according to Mustang, had not even scraped a "satisfactory" in his books. It wasn't fair. However, thanks to the assistance of Alphonse and Hawkeye and a quick hour-long cram session that morning, his understanding of English had improved. However, hearing the fact that English is one of the most hardest languages to grasp for non-speakers did not help Ed feel better about it.

The cabin was small, and tight. Kudos to Mustang for being a cheapskate and purchasing third-class, Ed thought, in irritation. It was a small room out of three in a third-class carriage, which only contained two beds, a tiny desk and chair in the corner and enough space between them for the servers to pass through and serve them their meals.

Edward was tempted to take out a piece of paper out of his notebook, and write a letter to Alphonse. But what point would there be in it, he wouldn't have been able to send it yet until the end of the journey, and he was not sure whether he would be able to have time to send one. He took off the pen cap and tapped the paper. What to write?

He grunted and gave up, and opened the book of English. If he was going to spend the year speaking English, he might as well learn it now.

Creta was bright and sunny, and Ed might have been able to enjoy it if a handful of Cretans hadn't been giving them dirty looks.

Of course. The border skirmishes. Just a little south of where they were, Amestrian and Cretan soldiers were fighting and risking their lives for their own respective countries.

The Flame and Fullmetal Alchemists took seats at a lunch cafe, and took their orders for their meals. "There is an Amestrian-occupied city in Creta, did you know, Fullmetal?" Mustang turned to look at Ed, who nodded.

"Table City, right? Are we going there?"

"No," Mustang shook his head. "Table City is even further from here. Besides," he lowered his voice. "The British... wizards will be waiting for us." He said the word wizards as if he was tasting something sour and new and exotic in his mouth, and decided he didn't like it.

"Colonel Bastard," Ed spoke in a low voice. "You don't really like this, don't you?"

Mustang raised an eyebrow in reply. "You think I'd want to bring my ass all the way to the West for some political matter, and with a tiny pipsqueak at that matter?"

Ed stood up. "Why you-" But stopped as Mustang looked the other way, as well as the other Cretans. An elderly-looking man in a cloak strode towards the cafe, sporting a long beard and half-moon spectacles, and Ed (he was ready to deny this to anyone who saw) felt a tad intimidated by him, and quickly sat down. Seriously, who the hell would be stupid enough to wear cloaks in this weather? To his surprise, he seemed to be heading towards their table.

He took a seat at their table, to Edward's surprise, but Edward was more surprised to find that Mustang did not look surprised, shocked or anything - in fact, his face was expressionless, despite the old man giving them a warm smile, saying, "Hello there." Holding his hand out to shake, Ed followed Mustang's example and reluctantly took it. It had been an instinct of his to be wary of people he had just met, especially someone who had acted kind and polite. However, at Mustang's stiff nod, he accepted the fact this old man was not a foe.

"My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore," he said, smile still intact. As a waitress served Edward and the Colonel their meals, he said, "We have plenty to talk about. Let's talk about it over meals and a good bout of Butterbeer, shall we?"

Ed gasped for breath and struggled to stand up as they completed the journey with the help of what this Dumbledore man called a "Portkey." Apparently, it was a means of magical transport for witches and wizards. It had been... an interesting experience, with the feeling of being hooked by the navel.

Mustang, the Colonel Bastard himself, despite landing the right way up instead of tumbling onto the floor, looked as shocked as him. "What the hell ride did you take us on?"

Albus Dumbledore calmly looked up at them, and brushed dust off his robe. Something Ed had noticed was that Dumbledore hadn't been speaking English - instead speaking to them fluently in Amestrian. Ed could not help but feel partially impressed at a British wizard who had bothered in learning their tongue.

"And we are in Britain?" Mustang asked.

"Yes, we are," came the happy reply. "In London, most precisely. To be even more precise you would say that we are in Britain's muggle suburban areas."

What the heck is Muggle... Ed thought, but saved it as a question for later.

"Come," he said. "Let us walk."

They walked on footpaths and crossed roads, but the first thing Ed noticed was how different London was to anywhere in Amestris. The houses looked different, and the cars that drove past were way faster and looked extremely different than the cars back home. Mustang wasn't noticing all this, however; he was deeply immersed in certain documents - which Ed guessed were instructions from the military for this god-forsaken mission.

They turned into a small narrow street. Ed went up to read the street sign, but struggled with the English and the pronunciation of the name.

"Grimmauld Place," Mustang said simply, noticing Ed's plight and smirking.

"How did you-"

"I'm amazing that way," Mustang grinned, then Ed took a glance at the soldier's papers and said, "Hey, you just read it off from the stupid document."

"Actually, gentlemen, you're not pronouncing it correctly, neither of you," Dumbledore said in front of them, and stopped Ed and Mustang's bickering as he pronounced it correctly.

They walked past several houses on the tiny street, and Ed could hear muffled sounds of music he had never heard before, singing - no, yelling words in English, dogs barking and even a colorful choice of word or two. At least this was a small street. All of the houses were all packed together on one side, like soldiers in a straight line.

"What number?" Ed called out to Dumbledore. Finally, their trip was over, and Ed could probably lay down on a proper bed, eat some food that would definitely be better than the ones served on the train, complete some alchemy research and write a letter to Al and head over to the post office (if there was one close by).

"12," Dumbledore called back. Glancing at the numbers engraved in gold or silver or any metal onto signs or mailboxes, Ed was thankful the numbers used in Amestris were the same used in Britain (and in English on the whole, hopefully).

"10...11...13... Where is 12?" Mustang asked. "There's only 11, then 13!"

"Maybe you missed one, Colonel Bastard, you're getting old," smirked Edward. "Let me." He went all the way back to 8, then 9, 10, 11... then 13? What the fuck?! "Huh, I guess there is no 12!" He glared suspiciously at Dumbledore. "Where is it?"

Dumbledore did not seem to notice the fact they could not find Number 12, until he looked up at them and said, "Oho! Silly old me. Wait." He dove into the pockets of his cloak and pulled out a small piece of parchment. It wasn't paper, Ed noticed, definitely not paper, as he took the piece of what looked like parchment. Paper was thinner and lighter. Mustang took it as well and read it. It was the same neat cursive that had been on Harry James Potter's fact file, also in Amestrian.

"Memorise it, then burn it," Dumbledore ordered. He glanced at Mustang. "I suppose you're good at that."

Glancing at the paper, the two Amestrians read:

The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

Then suddenly, they looked up, and saw a large house that stood out among the others. A battered door almost looked like they were inviting them in, along with the dirty walls and cobweb-stained grimy windows. Gaping, Ed glanced at the other houses. They must've not felt anything... is this what their alchemy - their magic - is like? The house was what Ed mentally called a "real mess", compared to its neighbours with their well-kept lawns; nicely painted walls; shiny, gleaming windows.

"This is number 12, isn't this, Colonel?" Ed took a deep breath.

"Yup." He placed his flame alchemy glove on, and with a SNAP and a small spark, a fire erupted at the end of the parchment, which dissolved into nothing but ash scattered among the ground.

"Come on, Dumbledore-" Ed turned to the old man, but he was gone. Where was he? He was just there, then... gone. He turned to Mustang. "This could be a trap," he whispered. "Where's Dumbledore?"

"Welp, there's nothing we can do about it, eh?" Mustang sighed. "Let's go in."

This is my first fanfiction and so far, I think I'm doing pretty okay.

Constructive criticism and reviews are welcome.

Thank you for reading the first chapter.