The cries of the baby filled the hospital room as the mother was tempted to start crying too. Her husband was in jail and she was exhausted and in pain. And for what? The baby was disfigured, its tiny little left arm bright red and rough and it had a scar running down the left side of its face, red just like his arm. It started on his forehead, un upside-down star with a line that cut through his eyes, a horizontal line below the closed eyelid, before curving towards his mouth.

But she didn't cry. No. She took the tiny little devil in her arms, staring at it in disdain as she held it away from her body. In the hospital room that had suddenly become silent when the tiny baby had stopped crying, she screamed.

The baby never learned his name, his mother hardly talked to him and when she did she called him a devil child and blamed him for everything wrong in her life. He hated the fact that he could understand every hateful word she said to him but couldn't retort. He hated the fact that he could feel the way her bruising hands dug their way into his tender skin and her sharp nails cut little, red lines.

It only got worse when his hair started to grow properly. At first she thought the thin, pale strands of hair on his head would grow light blonde like her husband's. But they gre pure white, like the hair of an old man. She didn't stop to think that maybe she was traumatising the poor thing. Instead she gave up.

The old homeless man could hear desperate crying coming from the back alley. It sounded like a baby. He ran down the alley, looking at all the piles of rubbish and bin bags and soggy cardboard boxes that sat in the rain. The crying got louder as the rain got heavier and the wind more bitter. He ran as fast as his old, thin legs could carry him, peering into all of the boxes until he found the baby.

The kid was probably less than a year old and he was positively tiny. He knew what babies looked like, with pudgy, soft limbs and chubby cheeks and wide eyes. They weren't nearly as thin as this. Panicking, he picked up the baby and ran from the alley.

When people walked past the old man, cradling the baby close to his chest they were more than willing to give him their change. He was glad. He needed to feed the poor thing.

He and his friends cooed at the baby as they fed him, watching him giggle and smile for the first time, unperturbed by the yellowing bruises and red lines on his white skin.

"Does he have a name?" One woman asked, looking at the man.

He made a face "Whoever left him didn't leave him with one, but I suppose I could name him,"

"You should," the woman encouraged.

"Allen," He said "Allen Walker,"

Allen had been with the old man for nine years before the old man died and, with only the clothes on his back and a packet of cards in his pocket, he was taken to the local orphanage.

It was the middle of an ordinary term Harry Potter was as bored as ever. He got by with his school work and ignored the great, fat lump that was Dudley. Then the monotony was interrupted by the arrival of a new student on one random Tuesday. Looking back on it, it may well have been the best Tuesday of Harry's life.

"This is Allen Walker," the teacher introduced, gently pushing the boy forwards. He was as thin as Harry Potter, quite possibly more so, and one of the shortest kids in the class. He had soft white hair (in his time on the streets it had been caked with all kinds of dirt that often made it look grey, brown or black) and a scar cutting across half of his face that made Harry's own look like little more than a pinprick. He smiled warily, waving a gloved hand that Harry found himself eyeing.

"He's never had a formal education before," The teacher continued and Harry watched Allen glare at the floor with silver eyes that he couldn't help but find mildly unnerving "So please be nice to him," She smiled and turned to Allen "There's an empty seat next to Harry that you can take. Harry, could you please raise your hand?"

So he did and the strange new boy sat next to him. He grabbed a pen from a pot on the middle of the table and held it comfortably in his hand. He was slipped an easy French worksheet by his new teacher. Harry watched his bright eyes scan over the worksheet in what he assumed was confusion. He was just about to offer him whatever help he could before he watched Allen let out a little laugh that made the teacher look back at him, flummoxed. She shook her head and continued handing around the levelled worksheets to the class.

Allen quickly filled out the worksheet with neat, old-fashioned cursive and a slightly out-of-practice hand. He distantly wondered why he understood the language so clearly.

"Excuse me miss," He put his hand in the air as he had seen other children do as they requested held, drumming his fingers on the blue table as Harry stared at his sheet in confused awe.

"Yes, Allen?" The teacher walked over with a kind expression on her young face "Do you need help?"

"No, Miss," he responded which bewildered her slightly "J'ai fini," he smiled. She picked up his worksheet and looked, reading the cursive with eyes that steadily widened "Well done, Allen. Would you like to have a go at the middle worksheet or would you prefer to go straight to the difficult one?"

"I think the harder one," he said. The teacher agreed and slid him the sheet of paper that was covered with much smaller text. He worked through it with the same ease as he had the first as Harry sat beside him, struggling and wondering when the class had learned half of the material they were expected to know. It appeared as though half of the class was having the same struggle as him.

"I thought you'd never been to school before?" Harry asked Allen with confusion as he finished yet another worksheet with a flourish.

Allen smiled politely, the very same smile that made so many people pityingly give him their change when he was living on the streets. "I haven't," he answered "If I'm honest I'm not quite sure why I know this,"

"I suppose it isn't a bad thing that you do," Harry laughed lightly. Allen returned the favour.

They spent breaktime together, Allen happy he had been able to make a friend and Harry glad that someone finally appeared to be immune to the rumours and taunting of Dudley's gang that almost infallibly kept people away from Harry.

"So, why have you not been to school before?" Harry asked tentatively as the two of them sat in the library, curled up on bean bags next to shelves full of children's books, away from the noise and excitement of the other children and, most likely, the bullying that would ensue if they spent their break out on the playground.

"Oh, umm," Allen looked around the shelves as though he were trying to find a book to read "Old man Walker found me in a box," Harry was surprised to see him smile, supposing it was at the memory of the man rather than the box "And he raised me on the streets. He refused to send me to the orphanage so I only went there when he died. They insisted I go to school," he shrugged.

"But," Harry shuddered "but what about your parents?"

"Not sure," He screwed up his face "My mum left me in a box as a one-year-old so I don't really miss them,"

Harry smiled sadly "My parents died when I was one,"

Allen smiled at him encouragingly. Harry looked back at him, happier than he could ever remember being.

Allen insisted that Harry spend some time outside with him after school and the other boy was happy to comply.

"I couldn't come out here alone," Allen grinned as he sat on the swing, kicking the dry, autumn leaves underfoot with his scuffed, second-hand leather school shoes "I'd get lost,"

Harry scrunched his brow, looking at Allen while caught somewhere between amusement and concern "The orphanage is three streets away,"

"Yeah, with my sense of direction I'd probably end up walking out of Surrey trying to get back,"

"That's not possible," Harry pushed his glasses up his nose,

"Oh, Potter - you do not want to underestimate me,"

"How did you ever survive on the street?"

"No comment,"

The sun set over the park as the old watch on Allen's wrist ticked on to five. It wasn't late but it was cold and neither of them particularly wanted to return to the buildings they couldn't quite call home.

Allen didn't dislike the orphanage entirely, the caretakers were nice and there was more food than he could ever remember having in his life. There was heating that they'd turn on in the mornings before the kids left for the varying schools that they went to and comfortable beds in rooms they only had to share with two other kids. But there were too many kids for the carers to spend much time with any individual and the other kids tended to avoid him, scared of the new arrival with the strange limb and face and hair. Even a few of the adults were wary around him and he didn't know whether to blame that on his appearance or his past - it hurt either way.

He remembered arriving at the orphanage, feeling awkward dressed in a tattered coat, a shirt that was far too big and shorts that left his skinny, white legs exposed to the autumn winds. One of the old man's friends was with him and, as Allen hung back with his head facing down so his overgrown hair covered the upper portion of his face and the rest was buried in the collar of the coat that had clearly been made for a much larger person than he would probably ever be, she knocked on the door. Allen played anxiously with the fingers of his mismatched gloves as he could hear footsteps sounding in various places around the orphanage. Sharp, clicking footsteps pattered across the floor, distinctly sounding like high heels. Allen would bet all the money he had made playing poker with grown men - he had no memory of learning how to play (or cheat) - that his companion couldn't hear them yet. The heavy door at the front of the building swung open to reveal a motherly, kind face framed with auburn hair. She wore a long, black dress with a white cardigan sitting on her wide shoulders. Her nose was crooked and her lips were thin but there was something about the way that she smiled with her dark eyes and thin, painted mouth that made Allen think she was beautiful.

"Oh!" She looked at them with surprise "hello dears, can I help you?"

"Yes," Allen's companion smiled "This is Allen," She gently pushed him forwards and he looked up. With a face like his it was almost akin to testing the waters, seeing how a person would react to the scar he desperately wished he knew the origin of. The middle-aged woman recoiled minutely before attempting to hide her surprise.

"We would like you to take him in," Allen's companion told her "We found him abandoned nine years ago and the man that looked after him died recently," Allen's eyes turned stormy and he kicked a stone "The rest of us do not believe our living conditions are what is best for him,"

"Well thank you, can I show you both in so we can fill out the necessary forms?"

"Sure,"

So they walked into the long, narrow hallway and relished in the sudden warmth. The woman silently led them to a room at the end of the corridor. They walked in through the door and sat on dark wooden chairs with patterned cushions as the woman took a seat on the other side of the desk that was littered with neat stacks of paperwork and haphazard stationary. There was a fish tank in the corner filled with brightly coloured fish that Allen chose to watch rather than the woman's tan face.

The door behind them opened and closed with a loud noise and dress shoes tapped on the floor. The man stopped in front of Allen, standing tall between him and the rectangular tank. He bent his knees and leant back on his heels so that he was on the same level as Allen.

"Hello," He smiled, holding out a brown hand for Allen to shake. Not wanting to seem rude, he took it.

"Hello," he returned in a soft, young voice that managed to cover some of his nervousness. He raised his head and tore his eyes from the fish.

"What's your name?" The man asked.

"Allen," he smiled, feeling a little bit more comfortable in his own skin when he saw the man's distinct lack of reaction to his face and hair.

"Nice to meet you Allen," He smiled and, as the skin stretched, Allen noticed a surgical scar spanning between his upper lip and nose "I'm Joe,"

"So," the woman began with a red smile "Allen we have to answer a few questions for you, is that okay?"

"Sure," he nodded, reading the woman's name tag. It labelled her Annabelle.

Another red smile followed "Good. So, Allen, do you have a legal guardian?" Allen fiddled with the cards in his pocket, wondering how much of what he had actually done with his life was actually legal. It was a startlingly low percentage.

"Maybe legally it's still my mother?" He questioned "But no one I could possibly get you in touch with,"

"Thank you Allen," Another red-lipped smile made all past and future ones seem increasingly unbelievable "Date of birth?"

"Not sure," he shrugged, used to the answer "But we think I'm ten and old-man-Walker found me on Christmas so we call that my birthday,"

"Okay Allen," he liked Joe much more than Annabelle "Education?"

"Nil,"

She ran through a series of similar questions, many of which he had no valid answer for. He wondered how many kids showed up with the same answers as his.

"Thank you and, Allen Walker, welcome to the Little Whinging Orphanage," She took Allen's outerwear, looking at his red hand for a moment but trying not to react. She had heard about it before, when she asked about medical conditions, but she wasn't expecting it to be nearly as bright of a crimson as it was.

Joe showed him to the room that he was to share with two other boys, both three years older than him, that looked at him with fear for a moment before bursting out laughing the moment Joe left. Allen saw red. He turned around and punched the closest piece of furniture, leaving a hole in the wooden dresser. His white knuckles were suddenly red but he ignored the sting as he looked at the boys with stormy eyes. The laughter reverted back to fear as they ran out of the room wordlessly, heading to the grassy garden where a number of other squealing kids played.

Allen walked into the nearest bathroom and ran his hand under the tap, watching the blood wash away, made translucent by the cold water that helped diminish the pain which, honestly, wasn't all that bad in the first place. He wrapped his knuckles quickly in bandages he found beneath the sink with a practised ease he didn't know he had. Shaking his head, he walked back into the room, noting the distinct smell of sweat and mothballs, laying down on the spare bed and pulling the blanket up over himself. He dozed off despite the fact that the evening was only just arriving.

The next morning when he took the bandage off he saw that the skin had already knitted itself back together and there was no trace of bruising to be found.

Harry lead Allen back to the orphanage before hesitantly returning to the Dursley's awful home where he had to quickly change into clothes that were not his school uniform so that he could make dinner for the grown man and woman that were far too lazy to make their own. He turned the oven on and poured the drinks.

As they sat around the table eating Dudley decided to bring up Allen. Harry was more than happy to talk about his new friend but the way that Dudley was talking about him made harry angry, angrier than he had been for a long while. Dudley's glass shook for a moment before the glass broke and the sugary soda spilled all over the table cloth. Harry dug his teeth into his lip - he'd have to clean that up when the Dursleys were done with their dinner, before they let him anywhere near their leftovers.

Dudley stared at the stain and pile of broken glass in wonder as Harry noticed the eyes of his aunt and uncle focusing on him aggressively. He didn't understand why but he desperately wanted to shrink away, even if it meant returning to that cramped cupboards with all of its spiders, cobwebs and dust.

They went on a field trip a few weeks later, to the British museum. The drive to London wasn't too long but it was long enough. Harry sat on the cramped coach next to Allen, talking to the white-haired boy non-stop as the hours ticked by. When they arrived they were taken straight through to the section displaying the Victorian era. They looked at the grand ball gowns and whale-bone corsets that Harry could practically feel crushing his ribs. As they walked around in a unit Harry listened intently as Allen rattled off little titbits about the era and its inventions and culture that, much like the French from the class when they had first met, there was no logical way that he should know.

They looked at the sculptures and paintings and pottery and all the other decorative pieces in awe, wondering just how long many of them had survived and how well preserved they had been.

"I wonder," Allen said, resting his chin in his hand. Harry noticed he was, yet again, wearing gloves that were definitely not part of the uniform and, almost certainly, against the school rules. Still, the teachers said nothing about them so harry wasn't about to pretend that he had any authority or, really, any reason to notify Allen "Just how many pieces like this," he pointed up at a nearby renaissance painting of a woman in an extravagant dress "have been lost to time?"

Harry had never really thought of that before, but the moment that Allen inserted the thought into his head he couldn't remove it. How many things that were considered important, monumental or life-changing at their point of relevance had since disappeared? How many people had done the same? What about he and Allen? Would they do the same?

Allen gently tugged at the fairly long strands of his straight, alabaster hair as the group moved on and they stayed behind for a moment. Harry had never had a friend before, but he had watched people and their friends conversing and chatting and gossiping and having fun while he sat on the sidelines. Inclusion felt nice.

"Come on," he urged Harry as they watched their class round a corner and Allen, knowing himself, became scared of getting lost somewhere within the massive building.

Harry nodded his mute response.

They sat and ate their packed lunches at wooden picnic tables beneath colourful trees that were well on their way to becoming bare. They were spread across a number of benches, the other children avoiding Allen and Harry like the two boys. with their scars, short statures and knobbly, wiry limbs. were some sort of communicable disease.

They didn't mind. In the entirety of their day in London they hadn't gotten a whiff of fresh air but the park smelled cleaner than the rest of the city and, in the cold, during a school day, there were very few people aside from the odd jogger or toddler and parent or group of teenagers passing through. They could hear rock music, playing from a nearby open window through speakers that were very clearly turned way up. Allen absentmindedly drummed his fingers to the familiar beat, feeling the worn, unevenness of the table even through his gloves. They opened their lunch boxes and a glance around the area proved to Harry that theirs were far less well-stocked than most. He stared at the bread and butter, pushing the yogurt pot back and forth with his spoon as he pulled out a bottle of water. The only difference between his lunch and Allen's was something that Allen pointed out after explaining the scarcity of his own meal.

"The orphanage isn't rich and they've got a lot of mouths to feed," he dismissed, but his stomach rumbled as though there was no hope of satiating it. Harry went to peel the seal off of the top of his yogurt before Allen stopped him.

"I wouldn't recommend eating that," he warned, brandishing a pale plastic spoon "check the date - you don't want to give yourself food poisoning,"

Harry glanced at the seal between his thumb and forefinger, wishing he had been given the food the month before when it had first been purchased. With a groan he threw it over his shoulder, towards the bin he knew was there.

"You missed," Allen commented dryly. Harry let out another groan as he got up to pick up the pot and actually throw it away properly. He had an urge to crawl inside the bin with it, feeling tired and worn down and hungry.

He and Allen grinned and bared it as Dudley and his gang pelted the backs of their head with morsels of food that they didn't want and the packaging for their numerous snacks that both Harry and Allen would kill for even one of.

"You've never told me," harry spoke slowly as he looked at his friend. Allen already knew what the question was going to be and, because of the person who was asking it, he didn't mind answering "What the deal with the gloves is,"

Harry watched a smile bloom on Allen's face, slightly awkward but not necessarily put out - which he feared may have happened. The smile pulled at the edge of his scar. "It's not really something worth explaining," He said as he pulled off his right glove. It was the same creamy ivory as the rest of his unscarred skin. Then he pulled off the other glove and Harry understood why he wore them. The limb was rough and red, like the colour of blood, with an odd cross embedded in it.

"Oh," Harry responded dumbly.

"Yeah," Allen giggled in a childish tenor that, in a very welcome manner, drew Harry's attention from his arm to his face "oh,"

The Dursleys were fearful. It was clear their unwelcome nephew had not escaped from the freakish nature of his mother. Petunia Dursley wished she didn't dislike her own sister nearly as much as she did, that she could let go of any animosity when the poor woman had been murdered by a wand-wielding maniac. Maybe she would have in a different situation. But she couldn't. Not when the dead girl's son had been left on her doorstep. Not when she was burdened with what was supposed to be the witch's responsibility. Not when she had been roped into having some kind of unwelcome relationship with the world of freaks she regarded so bitterly and had tried for so long to separate from herself. So, when she found a baby on her doorstep, bundled in a blanket with a letter tucked into the baby blue fabric, the abhorrence swelled.

And now it was clear that he had inherited that gene of Lily's that had turned her into what she was, that had gotten her involved with that greasy little Snape boy and then that awful Potter man. Petunia had, once upon a time, been jealous of that weird gene that had cropped up out of nowhere and, though if anyone else asked she would deny it, she still harboured that same feeling that made her stomach churn and put a sour taste in her mouth. SHe wished she didn't, wished that she could feel both normal and content. Maybe she could if she had never learned about the wizarding world. But she had, because of her useless sister that her parents were oh-so proud of, and, because of that, her perfect, content, normal life was completely and utterly ruined.

Petunia Dursley vowed to do her best to pull her nephew away from the land of the wizards. She wasn't going to let Harry ruin Dudley's prospects of a perfect future like Lily had ruined hers. Or at least she was going to try. Still, she knew in some deep down, traitorous part of her body, soul and mind that would not stop screaming at her, that she couldn't. She didn't tell her husband quite how impossible it would be.

The orphanage had been in a bit of disarray since the arrival of Allen Walker, beyond just that scar on his face, the pigment of his hair and the deformity of his arm, he seemed to stir up an indescribable disturbance. Allen Walker had odd habits that caused him to have odd relationships with the other children. Certainly it meant they had little hope of him ever getting adopted - he was destined to age out of the system.

Strange things happened in Allen's presence, like the building itself wanted to react to Allen's feelings and statements. Like it wanted to display the expressions that Allen's pale face oftentimes could not. It was scary and concerning when the wall's rumbled like his stomach when he first arrived and was positively starving, sending fragments of bricks rolling down the walls and across the floor. A window had broken, seemingly without cause, as the teenagers who were only just meeting Allen jeered at him as though he existed as an outlet for their own insecurities. He could see why the old man hadn't wanted him to go there - he would admit he was somewhat tempted to run away back to the street, back to his family out there. But he couldn't. He had promised the old man, before he died but when they were well-aware that he had a few weeks left if his luck hold out as it had been, that he would take care of himself. He knew, as much as he wanted to, running away back onto the streets was not taking care of himself.

A/N

I know I have other stories that I need to update but this has been in my head for a while and I've been desperate to write something for D Gray-man for so long that I just had to write this. I've been reading a lot of DGM reincarnation fics recently (the best one I've found is by liketolaugh - it's a crossover with Marvel, it has all the exorcists and it's very good if anyone feels like checking it out) and this plot bunny appeared. It kind of grew and I needed to start writing this before I forgot it because I have a very clear idea of how this is going to go.

Any and all response is more than welcome.

All the best,

We'reAllABitOdd