Hello all! If you are a new reader then welcome! And if you've read before then welcome back! I hope you enjoy the edited version of this fic! Remember that you can always contact me for the original version should you want to read that. There are a few major changes, especially plot wise but I think it'll be good! So hang in there with me!

Okay, disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Harry Potter and this fiction is merely for pleasure.

It was so sudden, the pain. The intense searing, the feeling of being burned alive licking against his skin. And now he was running. Out of breath and panting, he would reach his destination. He had to. If he didn't, then the world itself might collapse under his tyranny. No one had really seen it coming. So many secrets had been kept, from the entire nation. From the nation himself... He had to get there! He would make it! The pain was intensifying. The spell was growing in strength instead of diminishing. His legs felt as if they were melting. On fire.

Dumbledore. It was all Dumbledore. He was planning this all along. The bastard would pay. If they were to survive this new terror, they would need more help. Perhaps... Perhaps if the nation himself knew what was happening, he'd be able to do something. He'd be able to stop it. It was a long shot. But then again, him getting there at all was a long shot.

It was never Voldemort. That psychopath was just a pawn, as was everyone else. Oh yes, Dumbledore had created the maniac that was Voldemort himself. All through his schooling, Tom Riddle had subtly been poisoned. Day by day and year by year, the headmaster had twisted the young mind to create his own personal monster. All for the greater good of course. It was a brilliant plan, because if there was something about Dumbledore that was still true, it was that he was brilliant. He formed his enemy and knew him well, played the brat like a fiddle. Expected his every move and waited to be crowned hero at Riddle's defeat. What he hadn't seen was poor little Harry Potter. Potter had ruined his plans, momentarily. But then he decided to grasp the unsuspecting boy into his clutches as well. Harry Potter would do all his dirty work. He would control the world through his manipulations and become the most powerful of all wizards with the public none the wiser.

All of them had been dazzled when he rose from the grave he had never entered. It had been necessary, he said. They wouldn't have won if he had been there, he said. It was for the Greater Good, he said. But others could see it more clearly. The deception. Fudge was smarter on that front than most thought. But with a few words and well placed spells, he seemed the fool to those loyal to Dumbledore. Scrimgeour had been more careful, but was toppled still.

It had only become apparent with Voldemort's fall. Dumbledore's subtle rise to power couldn't be stopped, nor did most of the public realize that it should be. He had their support. He had their trust. Just like he had planned, just like he had wanted. With Dumbledore's miraculous rise from death even Harry Potter, The Savior, was put to the side and Albus Dumbledore was the name on everyone's lips. He was their hero, and they didn't even know.

Even Kingsley hadn't known, hadn't suspected. It wasn't until a grave looking Harry Potter himself came to his office and handed him a bottle of memories. Harry had said not a word until Kingsley had emerged from them, shocked and disgusted, and it was only to confirm their source. Serverus Snape.

So, Kingsley had done the only thing he could think to do, however stupidly. He had confronted Dumbledore. He had just barely managed to escape with his life after accusing the "Greatest and Most Benevolent Wizards to Ever Walk This Earth" of "such horrid, unimaginable things." Even with a spell now eating away at his body like corrosive acid he managed to remember the last defense. The thing that only few were privileged to know of and have access to. The nation himself.

Now, here he was, a former Order of the Phoenix member, and current Minister of Magic. Running for his life and the lives of everyone else at stake.

So, Kingsley Shaklebolt ran for all that he could. He tumbled down in front of the door he was searching so hard for. Well-trimmed shrubbery and nice, neat, little windows abounded on the small manor, but the effect was ruined by the sound of shouting and the smell of burnt food. Just the place he was looking for.

Kingsley tried as hard as he could to ram his body against the door, hoping to rouse the attention of those inside. He dearly hoped it worked. If he couldn't tell the message in time... The burning sensation grew. His lungs were heaving and his brow was drenched in sweat.

The shouting stopped and Kingsley weakly thumped his fist against the door. He thanked Merlin as he heard footsteps approaching. His world turned as the door opened and his slack body fell through the threshold.

"Bloody hell! Can I help you?"

"Yes, Mr. Kirkland, I think you can."