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Title: Arthur
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: Harry Potter/Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Warnings: Minor spoilers for HBP and DH, crossover
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Axis Powers Hetalia and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: A stranger-who-isn't thanks Harry on the day of Dumbledore's funeral.
AN: I've wanted to write this since I started watching Hetalia.
The men stood by the edge of the lake, watching the funeral from a distance. One was tall and nervous looking, handsome with his long blond hair and his blue eyes but he was clearly uncomfortable. The other looked marginally more relaxed, albeit drawn and tired. His large eyebrows were furrowed in displeasure as green eyes darted over the castle, the congregation, and the body that lay on a marble slab before them all. They weren’t students, and Harry didn’t think they were part of the Ministry or the press either. Death Eaters wouldn’t have shown themselves; not at Dumbledore’s funeral.
For a split second, Harry’s eyes met those of the green-eyed man. He saw the man smile gently, reassuringly, though there was a twist to his mouth that spoke of power. He seemed oddly familiar, somehow, as if they'd met before and Harry could only just remember.
When the funeral was over, he excused himself from Ron and Hermione. They barely noticed him go, caught up in comforting each other in their love and their grief, though he felt Ginny watching him as he made his way to the lake. The men watched him approach and stood, unmoving, waiting for him to come to them.
“Pardon, mon cher,” the taller of the two said. “I will make myself scarce.”
The shorter nodded. “Stay close,” he said. “And don’t do anything stupid.”
A snort. “You wound me, petit rosbif. I am not l’Amerique.”
He did as asked, though, stepping out of earshot and turning to watch the squid trail its tentacles through the still water.
“Forgive him. He’s a good Catholic, Francis, and the only way he’ll suffer a witch is if he’s sleeping with one.”
Harry didn’t quite know what to make of that. “Who are you?” he asked.
“You can call me Arthur,” the man replied. He smiled again. “Arthur Kirkland. It’s my official name, these days.”
“What was it originally?” Harry asked.
Arthur didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I came here to thank you, Mr Potter, for what you’re going to do.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t, I mean – what do you know about what I’m going to do?”
Arthur grinned. “Enough,” he said. “Probably more than you’d like, but the secret’s safe with me. There’s no one I would tell.”
Harry glanced towards the tall man watching the squid.
“No one who doesn’t already know,” Arthur amended. “And while Francis isn’t always the most trustworthy person, he is with things like this.”
“I don’t need people to thank me,” Harry said after a moment. “Voldemort needs to be stopped. That’s all there is to it.”
Arthur laughed. “Then thank you,” he said, “for taking that responsibility on. You could have shirked it. You could have pointed out that there are far more capable, qualified wizards able to do the job. Reminded people that you and your friends are not the only ones who Voldemort will target, and that they will have to make sacrifices too. But then, I suppose you wouldn’t have been able to do it at all.”
“Who are you really?” Harry asked.
Arthur laughed at him. “Live, Mr Potter, and I’ll tell you.”
*
The funerals were held two days after Voldemort’s fall. Harry stood among the grieving, holding Ginny’s hand and cradling Teddy to his chest. He didn’t know what made him look up, part way through the service, but he soon spotted the reason why. Arthur was there – alone this time – standing to the side and wearing what looked like an old Muggle military uniform. He looked thin and pale, as though he’d been ill recently, but he stood with his head held high.
Harry caught up with him afterwards, leaving Teddy with Andromeda and Ginny with her family. He could feel Ginny watching him again. Some things hadn’t changed.
“England,” Arthur said by way of greeting.
Harry blinked. He looked again. Arthur was small and blonde, with bushy eyebrows and brilliant green eyes. He was good looking, but unremarkable and incredibly familiar. But there was something strange about him. His eyes seemed too old for his face, and his smile was wearier than anything Harry had seen even in the mirror, and he realised –
“I know,” he said. “I’ve always known.”
Arthur grinned. “I imagine so,” he said. “People always tend to say that when they find out.”
He held his hand out, and Harry shook it. It was far rougher than it looked – scarred and calloused – and his grip was unnaturally strong.
He wanted to ask all sorts of things. Were there other countries like him? Was his friend Francis one? He knew that Hermione would have been ecstatic to meet him, and would be furious with Harry if she ever found out that he’d passed a way to interview a nation.
He swallowed the questions on his tongue.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: Harry Potter/Axis Powers Hetalia
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Warnings: Minor spoilers for HBP and DH, crossover
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Axis Powers Hetalia and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: A stranger-who-isn't thanks Harry on the day of Dumbledore's funeral.
AN: I've wanted to write this since I started watching Hetalia.
The men stood by the edge of the lake, watching the funeral from a distance. One was tall and nervous looking, handsome with his long blond hair and his blue eyes but he was clearly uncomfortable. The other looked marginally more relaxed, albeit drawn and tired. His large eyebrows were furrowed in displeasure as green eyes darted over the castle, the congregation, and the body that lay on a marble slab before them all. They weren’t students, and Harry didn’t think they were part of the Ministry or the press either. Death Eaters wouldn’t have shown themselves; not at Dumbledore’s funeral.
For a split second, Harry’s eyes met those of the green-eyed man. He saw the man smile gently, reassuringly, though there was a twist to his mouth that spoke of power. He seemed oddly familiar, somehow, as if they'd met before and Harry could only just remember.
When the funeral was over, he excused himself from Ron and Hermione. They barely noticed him go, caught up in comforting each other in their love and their grief, though he felt Ginny watching him as he made his way to the lake. The men watched him approach and stood, unmoving, waiting for him to come to them.
“Pardon, mon cher,” the taller of the two said. “I will make myself scarce.”
The shorter nodded. “Stay close,” he said. “And don’t do anything stupid.”
A snort. “You wound me, petit rosbif. I am not l’Amerique.”
He did as asked, though, stepping out of earshot and turning to watch the squid trail its tentacles through the still water.
“Forgive him. He’s a good Catholic, Francis, and the only way he’ll suffer a witch is if he’s sleeping with one.”
Harry didn’t quite know what to make of that. “Who are you?” he asked.
“You can call me Arthur,” the man replied. He smiled again. “Arthur Kirkland. It’s my official name, these days.”
“What was it originally?” Harry asked.
Arthur didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I came here to thank you, Mr Potter, for what you’re going to do.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t, I mean – what do you know about what I’m going to do?”
Arthur grinned. “Enough,” he said. “Probably more than you’d like, but the secret’s safe with me. There’s no one I would tell.”
Harry glanced towards the tall man watching the squid.
“No one who doesn’t already know,” Arthur amended. “And while Francis isn’t always the most trustworthy person, he is with things like this.”
“I don’t need people to thank me,” Harry said after a moment. “Voldemort needs to be stopped. That’s all there is to it.”
Arthur laughed. “Then thank you,” he said, “for taking that responsibility on. You could have shirked it. You could have pointed out that there are far more capable, qualified wizards able to do the job. Reminded people that you and your friends are not the only ones who Voldemort will target, and that they will have to make sacrifices too. But then, I suppose you wouldn’t have been able to do it at all.”
“Who are you really?” Harry asked.
Arthur laughed at him. “Live, Mr Potter, and I’ll tell you.”
*
The funerals were held two days after Voldemort’s fall. Harry stood among the grieving, holding Ginny’s hand and cradling Teddy to his chest. He didn’t know what made him look up, part way through the service, but he soon spotted the reason why. Arthur was there – alone this time – standing to the side and wearing what looked like an old Muggle military uniform. He looked thin and pale, as though he’d been ill recently, but he stood with his head held high.
Harry caught up with him afterwards, leaving Teddy with Andromeda and Ginny with her family. He could feel Ginny watching him again. Some things hadn’t changed.
“England,” Arthur said by way of greeting.
Harry blinked. He looked again. Arthur was small and blonde, with bushy eyebrows and brilliant green eyes. He was good looking, but unremarkable and incredibly familiar. But there was something strange about him. His eyes seemed too old for his face, and his smile was wearier than anything Harry had seen even in the mirror, and he realised –
“I know,” he said. “I’ve always known.”
Arthur grinned. “I imagine so,” he said. “People always tend to say that when they find out.”
He held his hand out, and Harry shook it. It was far rougher than it looked – scarred and calloused – and his grip was unnaturally strong.
He wanted to ask all sorts of things. Were there other countries like him? Was his friend Francis one? He knew that Hermione would have been ecstatic to meet him, and would be furious with Harry if she ever found out that he’d passed a way to interview a nation.
He swallowed the questions on his tongue.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
