Summary: (Harry Potter / Hetalia Axis Powers Crossover) England decides to teach at Hogwarts to keep an eye on the Boy Who Lived. But the famous Trio (Harry, Ron, Hermione) are becoming suspicious of their new professor... Can England keep his status as a country a secret? And what does Voldemort want with him?
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Hetalia. Those rights go to Rowling and Hidekez~
"Do you ever wish we could be a family again Matthew?"
The somewhat curly-haired country lifted his gaze so as to squint at his twin. The two of them had been resting in a Washington D.C. hotel room for a few hours now, tending to wounds acquired from their most recent scuffle with death eaters in the downtown area. The room was a bit dingy, but that served the brothers' purposes just fine. The more discreet and nondescript their surroundings, the better and safer for them. Avoiding detection from death eaters looking to repercuss was a must.
Utterly spent, the North American nations were each seated, or more accurately slumped on one of the two twin-sized beds, with the bear cub Kumachunga lounging lazily in his owner's lap. Matthew himself was nursing a nasty slash on his upper thigh, which was slowly healing thanks to rudimentary tissue-restoring magic, while his brother was sporting multiple massive bruises and a broken wrist. All would heal in time though, with or without magical aid...
What had been most disturbing to Canada during the altercation hadn't been their injuries, however. He'd been most frightened by the mix of nationalities they'd faced in the death eaters' ranks. The presence of Americans, some scattered Canadians, and even a sole Chinese witch among the dark wizards that had originally been predominantly, no, solely British, was troubling. Voldemort's fanaticism was spreading like an contagion, a flood of polluted water that could not be contained by a damn designed by even the best of architects.
And now Alfred was mumbling nonsense that was probably pain-derived. As if their problems hadn't mounted to a sufficient height already...
"What do you mean Alfred? We are still a family." As much as I'd like to deny it some days, you'll always be my brother, and not one thing on this planet Earth can change that.
"No no," Alfred croaked. "I mean, like, with England, and France for you too."
Confusion turning to concern now, Canada gently replied, "They're still our older brothers too, you know that. I don't quite understand where you're going with this."
"I know that, I know. I just... it's not the same, y'know? I miss when we were little, and innocent. Arthur would tell us stories most nights, hell, even sing us lullabies if we were convincing and cried enough. 'Always had a soft spot for tears... We'd climb that tree whenever you were down for a visit, I'd go chasing after rabbits, you'd scold me half-heartedly like you were some kind of adult. Our worst worries were the most trivial of shit. Damn it, don't you wish... don't you wish that we could go back to that? Stay little forever?"
This was surprising, coming from America. He always prided himself, at least publically, on being so "grown up". Canada had a feeling that he didn't necessarily regret his independence, just the innocence he'd lost along the way. It cost a great deal for a country to mature... There was a sort of invincibility, however illusionary, that came with innocence. That was what Alfred was trying to say in his own ineloquent but heart-felt and honest way.
Swallowing, Canada considered this, chewing over the question for a moment within the privacy of his own memories.
"Almost everyday Alfred, almost everyday..."
The school was all a-chatter for the remainder of the semester. There had already been talk of the expedition into the Department of Mysteries, the ensuing scuffle, the return of Voldemort reluctantly advertised in the Daily Prophet, and even of the sightings of Kirkland's body in the hospital wing. Many students had mourned at that last detail (with the exception of Malfoy and his goons), for now Binns would have to take over the full-time teaching of History of Magic classes once more. Not only that, but many students had grown personally fond of the gruff Professor and his sometimes peculiar teaching methods. This had all been old news to the student populace of Hogwarts, but when word leaked out of the unexplained disappearance of the Assistant Professor's body, gossip around all four houses multiplied by ten-fold.
It was all anyone ever talked about for days. There were endless explanations floating around from ear to ear to account for the event, each one more ridiculous than the last. Harry had heard tall-tales of Kirkland being chopped up into small portions to satisfy some sadistic medical-curiosity of Pomfrey's, devoured by a cannibalistic Dolores Umbridge, and even one that claimed that the new potted plant in the hospital wing was in fact a transfigured Kirkland. The truth however, was just as if not more implausible, and only a few people knew it. Harry and his friends were of course among that number.
Dumbledore made a minimal effort to quell these outrageous rumours, probably because the nature of the stories distracted from the accurate cause of Kirkland's strange departure. During dinner in the Great Hall, he'd been purposefully vague in what he'd announced regarding the escapade in the Ministry and Kirkland's "death". Presumably, the more secrecy around the issue, the better. Pomfrey made no comment whatsoever on the curiosity directed at Kirkland from the students, preferring to lock herself in the Hospital Wing these days and only admitting those who were seriously sick. McGonagall allowed no discussing of the matter to enter her classroom, and enforced this with the utmost strictness.
Luckily, the lack of time left in the school year did not allow for these infectious rumours to spread and fester for very long. All too soon, the day of departure arrived, and Harry was forced to reconcile with the fact that his fifth year at Hogwarts was almost at an end.
Packing was an awful affair that he had procrastinated from doing until the very last conceivable chance. Scattered articles of clothing, broom-stick care supplies, chocolate frog cards and other random oddities were retrieved from assorted spots around his bed to be stuffed away for the return trip to London. Each item he piled onto the growing heap in his trunk only added to his indisposition at the thought of leaving. He stalled for a few minutes, debating on whether or not to put his last set of robes inside. Eventually he gave in, closing the filled trunk with a sense of terrible finality.
He'd be back next fall of course, but three months couldn't pass quickly enough until then.
Not-so-horseless carriages carted them to the train station in Homemade, where they would be boarding the noon train that would take them back to their families. Luna managed to snag a separate compartment just for them, so they had a space all to themselves to relax, talk, and eat sweets. Fifth years or not, one never grew out of eating sweets.
The train ride was a quiet and uneventful journey into London, but it was not a tedious one. For a while, all of Harry's worries melted away as the express rattled over kilometres upon kilometres of scenic rail. Harry quite enjoyed just relaxing for a few hours, looking out the window as the rolling hills of the Scottish landscape went by and blurred into the similarly featured English land. His friends chatted amongst each other with him joining in every once in a while, the topics varying from what they would do over the summer, to career ideas for after their graduation in two years.
Before Harry knew it, the tranquil passage was over with, and it was time to disembark. He got off onto the platform with a certain amount of disappointment, bracing himself for the inevitable, initial encounter with the Dursleys as his friends took turns walking through the magical barrier behind the ticketbox. Then, it was a matter of trekking through the countless bodies of other human beings.
King's Cross station was especially busy at this time, and the new influx of Hogwarts students flooding the scene did little to help that. Despite the innumerable faces surrounding Harry, one face in particular got caught in his sight and stayed there, captivating him. His footing faltered as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing, convinced that his eyes must be deceiving him.
There was Kirkland, boldly standing in the middle of bustling King's Cross Station without a care in the world and seemingly without reason. In place of his regular robes that covered his muggle dress-clothes was a black trenchcoat, which looked a little ridiculous hanging off his lean frame. Despite that, it was still an intimidating and regal choice of dress that somehow suited him. His calico she-cat revealed herself by poking her head out of the top of the coat, peering around at the throng of train-goers before darting back inside to be concealed once more.
No one else seemed to see him, though crowds parted around him in a wide berth, like he was a rock in the midst of a sea of destination-bound Londoners. Even Ron and Hermione didn't notice the resurrected Professor that was in plain sight. He must've been working some magic to achieve this effect. A sort of selective invisibility in combination with muggle-repelling spells, perhaps? Was that even possible? Well, if there was one thing Harry knew about Kirkland, it was that he had a habit of defying the established norms of "possible".
Kirkland slowly raised a finger to his lips, in the universal sign for "quiet", and beckoned. Curiosity bade Harry to be helpless to that call, and he scurried over before his friends could notice his attempted absence. As he drew closer, he could clearly make out the moving, breathing bulge in Kirkland's long coat where his cat was nestled away.
"It's you," Harry breathed once he was close enough to be heard over the squall of muggles. Only later after he'd said it did he realise that it was an unintelligent greeting, but what else could one say to a man who had been dead mere days ago?
Kirkland sighed heavily. "Yes, it's me. Remarkable that you noticed. You must be such an observant boy..."
The man's bitter sarcasm and adopted mannerisms of aloofness could not mask that he was in rough shape. His face had been reduced to the pale, gaunt face of a ghoul, and his form was thinner than usual under the dark coat. Haunted shadows hung under his weary eyes, which once had reflected the quality of only the purest emeralds, but now were the colour of dead foliage, a sort of grayish-green...
All in all, the Professor looked like he had seen better days, and that was worrying to Harry since he was supposedly the personification of England to boot. Did his worse-for-wear condition bode of some serious omen? Did Kirkland's health reflect the state of the literal country, or was it the other way around? A sneaking thought compelled Harry to wager that it was the former, although he couldn't be 100% sure in this case. This was more Luna's territory, and he was a stranger to such concepts.
"Like shite?" he finished, snorting. "Nonsense, I'm the pinnacle of health!"
Harry looked on dubiously as the sardonic man was overcome by a storm of harsh coughing. A handkerchief was dabbed to his lips during all this, the cloth coming away slightly red-speckled when Harry looked closely at it. Once he'd recovered his voice, Kirkland shakily continued.
"Pathetic, I know. Trust me, it's more nasty for me than it is for you. I'll survive though. I always do... Though my heart may stop, and my lungs cease to fill with air, my life endures." Though poetic, his words had a sullen inflection to them that betrayed a deep and long-running resentfulness.
"What's wrong with you anyway?" Hopefully that wasn't too rude or direct of a question.
"Not that it is entirely your business, but I believe it's a combination of a few things, the poisonous effects of that curse being one. But that bit should fade soon." He didn't delve at all into any of the other reasons, and that evasiveness was probably for Harry's own good.
"But enough about me... You, Potter. I wanted to talk to you. Tell me, are you..." He ran a hand back through his messy hair, fighting for words for a moment and finally settling on a less-than-eloquent: "OK...?"
That is what he's here for? Why is everyone so intent on coddling me? And where are they during the summer, anyway, when I need them?
"Fine." Harry answered perhaps a tad too quickly. That plus the stiffness in his voice instantly gave him away.
"Honest now," he chided delicately. "How are you holding up? You can trust me, lad. I know it's hard to believe, but you can tell me anything."
"I'd rather not." He should've left it at that, but wounded pride compelled him to continue out of a desire to hurt and silence the offending interrogator. "And it is hard to believe. You may not be affiliated with Voldemort, and hell, you might be England like he said back in the Ministry, but you're still dark. Admit it."
Instant regret flooded over him like a tidal wave when Arthur's face tightened up defensively.
"...I'm sorry," he hastily remedied. "That was a twat thing of me to say. I didn't really mean it." That last bit was only partially a lie... "Truth is, I guess I've been thinking about Sirius these days." It still stung to say his name. "And I've been thinking... well, if I'm being honest... It might as well have been me holding the wand that took his life. I practically murdered my own godfather, my dad's best friend."
At first Kirkland said nothing, his face twisting and his brows furrowing with unreadable emotions for a few moments. Harry felt a tension building inside him at the suspense, convinced that he had somehow offended or otherwise distressed the country.
Finally, Kirkland said, "Don't you dare say something so utterly irrational as that again, let alone think it. Just hearing yourself speak it aloud should alert a sane young man such as yourself to how brainless it sounds. It was hardly your fault, directly or indirectly. Don't. Spew. Shit."
"...Right, s-sorry." Harry's ears flushed cherry red. Kirkland was not always gentle with his words, and whether that was a good or bad thing went beyond Harry's personal opinions into the obscure unknown. One thing was for certain though, and that was that it wasn't the greatest feeling to be publicly scolded. Glancing around and fidgeting, Harry wondered just how many had heard. ...But wait...
It came to Harry's attention that they were having a passive conversation in an environment that was the exact opposite of peaceful. Muggles moved around them in a gentle curve from all sides, never coming close enough to jostle them. It was if Kirkland and he were nestled up in their own little protective bubble that other people could not penetrate. Furthermore, no one's eyes ever directly focused on them, straying distractedly overtop just as they would if in Harry's place there was only standard air. Harry concluded that he must've been included in the overlaying blanket of Kirkland's magic once he'd gotten close enough to be concealed.
"...Why did you leave?" asked Harry, smoothly switching the subject with an underhanded deftness.
"To escape some hot water. Let's just say I'm not a fan of being gawked at."
Harry could relate to that. For years people had been ogling at him, their attentions directed especially at the scar on his forehead. God, how he detested that scar. It'd been cool enough when he was an ordinary kid living with the Dursleys, as one of the only features of his appearance that he'd actually liked. Nowadays it felt more like a curse than anything, especially when he discovered that it came along with pains that acted as an alarm for Voldemort's many mood swings.
"...Is that all that's bothering you Potter? Sirius, I mean."
How had he known? Kirkland's intuitive, probing nature was a little unsettling to deal with, but nevertheless Harry humoured him.
"Dumbledore told me some things a few nights ago... Things I think I would rather not know, but at the same time, I'm glad to know them."
Kirkland's eyes closed, his emotions indiscernible on the completely blank slate of his face. Without opening his eyes, he inferred, "...The Prophecy?"
"You know about it?" Harry said incredulously.
"Of course I do. It directly concerns me as well, does it not?"
"Well... I suppose. I guess I hadn't really thought of it that way..."
"Potter, I'm truly, deeply sorry about all this. Your godfather, the prophecy... but you have to conquer this. You can't let it beat you."
That was a lot of nerve, in essence telling a troubled boy to simply "get over it". Harry didn't know how to respond, and opted to take the easy way out and just leave. It wasn't running, exactly, but he was just done with this conversation.
"...It's... fine. I have to be going, now, the Dursley's-"
"Boy, I am not trying to preach. I am trying to give you advice. A coping mechanism. If you were wise, you'd trust me and take it."
"I got it, I got it. You're old so you know stuff," Harry snapped dryly, failing to conceal his acidic inner feelings.
"Ha! If only that was all. You don't understand, Potter, and it's time you did. It's time someone told you the blunt truth, and it's time you took the brunt of it, since it seems you haven't figured it out for yourself yet."
The words closely paralleled ones Harry had heard not that long ago. His mind flashed back to that time in Dumbledore's office, when the Headmaster had similarly told him: "It is time for me to tell you what I should have told you five years ago, Harry. Please sit down. I am going to tell you everything." Fateful words like those never entailed something good, but nothing could be worse at this point.
Better let him just blather away... I'm no baby. I can hear anything he has to say, but that doesn't make it valuable.
"I don't 'know stuff' because I have lived a long time. The length of one's life is not always the dictating factor for what they may know. You could put a man in an empty room, and make him live there for his entire life, until he surpassed his nineties, and he would still know nothing. Even if you threw in a full library of books from the outside world, he would still know nothing of true value. He'd be knowledgeable, perhaps, but wise? The outside world and it's brutal inner workings would remain obscure, veiled. He'd be nothing more than a naïve hermit with some sourced facts in his head, ready to recall. The world and our rich society is not written in statistics and studies. It is fathomed only in experience. And no, not the quantity, but the quality of experience; age and experience do not always go hand in hand."
"...And you're telling me this, why?"
"Because the tragedy that was Sirius' downfall has served one purpose: to make you wise. You will need that, in the future. Take comfort in that. Look for the opportunities and not the obstacles. Think of this as a learning experience."
"A learning experience?! My godfather, the only family I had left, is dead! It's different for you, you have brothers!" Heads turned in their direction as the concealing spell somehow wavered under the volume of Harry's voice. Kirkland's weak state might've contributed to the temporary lapse as well.
"My brothers... I don't really see them, and they are of no consequence to this. I am not saying that it was a good thing that Sirius is dead. His passing is a great loss, to you and to the Order, and its cause. You will look back at him with fond but pained memories, probably forever," England defended. "But know this. Where there is loss, there is gain. It is an exchange. To learn, one must loose something. Innocence, fantasies, a loved one, hope... happiness..." His voice drifted off, and Harry could've sworn he heard him choke up.
He continued, "Sirius would want you to move past this, remember him, and use that emotion to drive you. Use your time to mourn, not as an occasion to depress yourself further, but to come to terms with it. Write down what you remember about him, make plans, goals, retribution. You-know-who-, Voldemort, and his followers, will not stop at your Godfather. That is all I will say on the matter. What's done is done."
'Neither can live while the other survives...'
"...That is an awful lot of responsibility to place on a fifteen year old..."
"Ah, yes, but won't you be sixteen soon?"
"...Is that a joke..."
"I wish it was, I really do. Goodbye, Harry Potter. Hate me if you must, but I personally think that hate would be better suited for Bellatrix Lestrange, and the master she dotes on." Kirkland start to turn, a self-mocking smile slapped onto his face.
"Wait!" Harry called, catching Kirkland in a halt mid-stride as he began to walk away. The country gave him an inquiring glance, half-vexed at having his egress interrupted. Now that Harry had his attention, he could ask, "So, Sir, what will you do now? What I mean is, where will you go?"
England's expression was as bleak and brutally honest as his answer. "I don't know. I hope to see you again, Mr. Potter, if future circumstances allow for it. In the meantime, don't die anytime soon, and until then..."
He thrust out his right hand, holding it out in that symbolic offer of friendship, an acknowledgement between equals. But Harry knew full well that he wasn't Kirkland's equal, and so he took that outstretched hand with a wariness that was most likely a wise sentiment. They shook hands only once, and their parting contact was much to Harry's disguised relief.
"Yeah, you too Professor. Goodbye, and good luck."
"Don't dally anymore. Your friends and family are waiting."
Somehow, Harry knew that no friends or family would be waiting for Kirkland outside King's Cross station. If Kirkland felt anything, he didn't show it on the surface, taking his leave in strides feigned with confidence and a face of neutrality. After a few paces, he melted into the crowd and was lost from Harry's sight, perchance for forever.
"Oh there you are, Harry," said Hermione, sounding relieved.
Her face lit up as he strode towards them, leaving behind the worst of the densely packed mass of people. Ron turned to peer at him, lightly punching him in the shoulder. It was friendly enough, so Harry returned the blow with an uneasy chuckle.
"We were starting to get worried we'd lost you in the crowd, or that you'd put on that fancy cloak of yours and scarpered. Don't do that again you bugger." Ron's joking grin was not entirely genuine, marred by worry.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Now now, would I do that?" he said, somewhat joshing.
"With you, you can never know. Let's go mate."
Yeah, to my Dursley-driven doom.
A swarm of smiling, friendly faces was there waiting for Harry at the exit of the station. Lupin, Moody, Tonks, the Weasley couple, the twins in fanciful suits of leathery dragon-hide... Almost all were adult members of the order that he'd befriended at one time or another.
Just outside the flustered figures of his relatives were visible, Petunia's twig-thin form contrasting almost comically with Vernom and Dudley's obese ones. As usual, they were less than pleased to see him. To Harry's pleasant surprise however, their gazes were mostly fixated on the company of older witches and wizards, and he was delighted to find that fear overshadowed their distaste.
After enthusiastically squeezing the life out of Ron, Molly Weasley graciously took Harry into her arms with an accompanying peck on the forehead. As usual, her hands went to smooth down his hair in a noble but futile effort. Hardly hearing her concerned comments that were as equally sharp as they were gentle, Harry came to the realisation that he had missed Mrs. Weasley a lot over his time at school. The Weasley clan in general was like a cherished second family to him, and more of a family than the Dursleys or his dead parents had ever been. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd be able to visit the burrow this summer...
Best not to get my hopes up.
"What are you guys doing here?" Harry wheezed, his lungs still recovering from Mrs. Weasley's crushing embrace.
A rhythmic clacking of wood on hard flooring preceded the ex-Auror Moody, whose hobbling gait also bore testament to his peg-leg. Moody winked in a gesture that was intended to be friendly, but instead came across as creepy with his one magical eye.
His voice was as gravelly as ever when he spoke, "Thought we'd have a little chat with your aunt and uncle before sending you off, make sure they'll be treating you right this summer... Shall we go meet them?"
Harry grinned. For once while walking to his relatives, he felt a glimmer of happiness. It was a tentative happiness, but it was there all the same. Maybe the summer holidays would be a bit more bearable this time around. Killing Voldemort could always wait until a later date. For now he was just a kid, and he fully intended to cherish his time as one, even with the Dursleys for company.
Cornelius Fudge was in a rotten mood.
His office had always felt too big for him, but now as he sat twiddling his thumbs in it, it suddenly felt a million times more immense. It was like he was in a palace, a portly man with hardly an ounce of political talent forced to sit on a throne twice his size, as if he were actually worth something. On the other hand, it also suddenly reminded him of a prison cell, like he was being held in Azkaban, awaiting his final sentence... Cornelius had always been incapable, somehow he'd known that from the start. Denial could only get a man so far.
He'd fucked up, to put it impolitely.
It is a general, nigh-universal rule that all great ones must fall eventually, Fudge elegiacally reminded himself, although that thought was hardly a comfort. Besides, Fudge was neither great, nor had his "fall" been spectacular in any way. Pathetic, more like. It'd been the steady deterioration of his reputation from the foundation up, and there was nothing noble about that. Whatever little political popularity and prestige he'd once held was in shambles, and soon the very last thing he had left, his position as Minister, would be up for grabs.
With no ounce of anything resembling respect or decency, aspiring candidates-to-be were already openly campaigning for the prized spot. Like hungry hounds, they ambitiously scrambled for future votes as if they were scraps of meat. In Cornelius' humble and slightly hurt opinion, such rallying vies and cries for support were a tad premature. Had they no shame at all?
Speaking of shame... If Cornelius was being honest with himself, he was full to the brim of it.
Maybe it was all for the best? Cornelius was not exactly a brave man. He had no iron in his resolve, and no backbone. The image of him as a general-like figure was laughable. A full out war against You-know-who with Fudge at the head of the opposition would prove ill for both him and the wizarding world at large. He'd done his duty, poorly, and now it was time to move on.
Fudge floundered in his seat when something flat and square landed neatly in his lap. A letter of crisply folded paper. The revelation that it was an inanimate object did little to soothe his nerves. It sat patiently in the process of awaiting its opening, and Fudge could swear that it was somehow staring at him, into his very soul. There was a seal of green ink on its front, pressed with a design of a roaring lion's semblance. Simple, and yet extravagant at the same time.
The carrier of the letter had been a plain barn owl that lazed atop the edge of his desk, regarding him indifferently with eyes of soulless black now that its delivery was complete. This hadn't been a normal in-ministry message then, as the letter had arrived by owl and not in the usual form of an enchanted paper-airplane. Nor did it really look like the hate mail he'd been treated to over the past few days; it was much too fancy for that... Then again, it was best not to get his hopes up. Mayhap some high and mighty wizarding family of some wealth and power had decided to drop him a few passive-aggressive observations in regards to his work. And yet...
What secrets do you hold me friend...?
For obscure reasons that Fudge could not name, his hands would not stop shaking as they fumbled to lift the envelope's seal. Temporarily-handicapped though he was, Fudge succeeded in opening the letter at long last. His reading-glasses on, the frazzled Minister lifted the paper to eye level. The first thing that struck him was the flowing handwriting. It was elegant, and yet not so intricate to be illegible. The letters were neat and created from crisp strokes, arranged in proper lines that were perfectly straight, even inhumanely so.
Addressed in his full name, it read in formal tones:
History has been made as I write to you today, the first time in years that I have contacted someone in your station. You will not know me, but you may have heard of me or came across my name in carious ministry records of decades, even centuries past.'
"What is this blighter rambling on about...?" Flustered, Fudge adjusted his spectacles and continued.
'I go by Arthur Kirkland-'
That was familiar, but where had he seen it...? In the margins of some dusty scrolls, a signature at the end of some passed bill. He'd hardly thought much of it. Those documents had been horribly old though, and definably ancient in some cases. It just wasn't possible... Unless... Maybe 'Arthur Kirkland' was a higher alias, of some sort? Fudge could always interpret it as multiple individuals succeeding one another and going by the same specific name rather than a single man who lived far longer than the average wizard. Wait, there had always been a title accompanying that name. Without fail, the words "Physio-National Representative', 'The United Kingdom', or something similar had been present.
He skipped through the rest of the letter to the very end to confirm his suspicions.
'Yours truly, and with your best interests, "Arthur Kirkland" England.'
That last god damn word. Suddenly it was so much harder to breathe. Fudge had to mentally force his eyes to flit back up to the beginning of the letter. He needed context... yes, context before he made any hasty conclusions.
It went on to say:
'The magical Ministry here in Great Britain has been allowed to go about its business unchecked for quite a period, and this cannot continue at the cost of the country. Contact between myself and this party must resume. Please, don't mistake me to be presumptuous in my boldness. I do not assume to hold any real power in this governing-body, after all you are technically "the boss". I am simply suggesting that you and I, or rather the one to soon replace you, can work out a compromise of sorts.
I'm sure we can agree that both the muggle and magical worlds would benefit from our mutual cooperation. I am more than willing to offer up my services in any capacity deemed fit, so long as it is not a degrading one. Advisor, Auror... it is entirely up to the Ministry, though I would remind you that denying assistance to repel the Dark Lord's forces is a... problematic option, a policy doomed to failure, especially in these dire times.
Consider my proposal well. A reply would be most welcome whenever time will allow for it, busy politician that you are-' Fudge could practically feel the hinted, hidden scorn etched in the paper. '-This owl will ensure that any further correspondences arrive safely in my hands. God speed to your quill hand.
In addition, I would leave this letter and the second sheet that I have enclosed in the hands of your (hopefully) superior successor after the coming election. When that time comes, explicitly instruct him or her to read and heed what I have written.
Yours truly, and with your best interests-'
There was no need to finish from there, so Fudge didn't bother himself with the rest. After all, only a few words remained, words that the Minister had already read before.
'Yours truly, and with your best interests, "Arthur Kirkland" England.'
Author's Note (and final words):
The End... OR NOT? DUNDUNDUN!
(I'm sorry there's no anon review replies here. I honestly hate to make my A.N.s any longer than they already are, as I feel that's deceiving to the word count : ( Rest assured that I read and loved them though eee)
First of all, another sorry because of the late(-er? not really?) update. I've been super pressed for time, plus I had my grad gala/dance one weekend (among other events, hey, I'm turning 18 this 2nd of June too! Crazy eh?), and then fanfiction had that weird glitch for a week-ish where you couldn't read newer reviews or update chapters, so I decided to wait for a wee while after that gongshow just to be safe X'D.
HOLY SHIT GUYS. IT'S DONE. I can't believe it's done! I started this fanfiction at the very start of 2014 and holyyyy cow has it been a roller coaster since then! I've learned a lot about writing and still have a long way to go. At over 200k words long, this is by far the longest thing I've ever written, and I think I'll have my work cut out for me trying to replicate or surpass that number haha. Thank you all for sticking with me! Some of you have been with me since chapter 1, and that's crazy as hell. I have been absolutely blown away by the positive reception and constructive feedback this silly little crossover fanfiction has received. To date, on May 24th 2016, this fic has 314,896 views, 1219 follows (1st for Hetalia crossovers on this site) 982 favourites (2nd for APH crossovers) and 2222 reviews! (MOST AMOUNT OF REVIEWS FOR ANY APH CROSSOVER ON THIS SITE?!)
Seriously, I can't thank you all enough, and I wish I could thank you all individually from that bottom of my heart (I'll still try to reply to reviews as best I can with my schedule though! Mightnotgetaroundtoallofthemthough.)
NOW. The answer to the question you've all been waiting for... Will this fanfiction have a sequel? The answer to that is a yes. I'm tentative to announce the date that the first chapter will be coming out (hopefully not too long!) but there will definitely be a sequel. A sequel, only one, that will combine the events of both book six and seven, (mostly grazing over the down bits of each book, and focusing mostly on Deathly Hallows).
The sequel already has a title, "The Cause of Calamity", so keep an eye out for it! I am VERY excited to write it! I was thinking of putting a draft of the summary here in the A.N., but I'm having troubles coming up with something clever. Eh, the more ambiguous the better I suppose. ;3
For the final time, I'm signing off. I hope to see you all soon!
A note from "These Fates":
"THE STORY WILL LIVE ON IN OUR HEARTS. I AM SEXY AND AUTHOR PHAN IS MINE."
-Jynx was here