It was a taste that he had long forgotten, that of Florence Fortescue's ice cream.
Now it's seems like England will never be able to taste the sweetness of his vanilla ice cream with smooth caramel again.
The windows were boarded up, the sign, advertising the famous ice cream shoppe shook in the window, the chain rattling eerily in the empty street.
He had never seen it so empty before.
No even in the first Wizarding War.
But then again, it had been an eventful summer to say the least.
His sister's screams of unification had quieted to talks, lacking the fire of her Sinn Féin.
He felt it in Manchester though, 212 of his children dressed in red with the bloody IRA claiming their injuries at their hand.
America's blood had spilled from his lips again, the overwhelming scent of the Mississippi flooded by sea salt and blood as Bertha ripped across him, leaving yet another set of swirling scars across his stomach.
The Sinn Féin reared their ugly heads yet again, attacking upon their own land, his sister's smirk wiped clean off her face.
Sickly sleep bedded Japan for a week with 6,000 fatalities and counting from E coli; gray eyes dull and cheeks wan, it was peaceful compared to his condition 40 years ago.
The Olympics came and went, but not without blood shed by the hands of protesters ruining its glory, not even games held is friendly competition can resist the slight of gore.
As usual the messy marriages of his royalty decorated the papers with the prince and princess of Wales' divorce, leaving him unsurprised and unamused.
On Russia's neck lines another scar, this time for 141 dead in the mountains, the ruins of their plane burned into their flesh.
The Second Wizarding War had commenced.
Hell, Truth and Fear broke loose from their chains of ignorance and denial in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries.
With not so much as a whisper in the wind, but with a steady hand, no need for imagination, pointing at the guilty, Maker of Wands Ollivander disappeared.
And so had the talented Florence Fortescue.
England remembers when these streets used to be filled with witches and wizards alike, the occasional drunkard wheedling a much clichéd verse of one of Celestina Warbeck's beloved songs.
Shadows now roam Diagon Alley instead of people.
Shadows that rush in packs, constantly looking over their shoulders.
Parents clutching children to their breasts and people huddled in groups, exchanging news of the latest deaths and disappearances.
But the street was empty now.
The ghost-green lights of the lampposts cast odd shadows, the posts and signs starring in the play of shadows and puppets.
England was alone.
He was always alone, it seemed.
He stared plaintively at the abandoned ice cream shop, turned on his heel, grasped his trunk off the ground, and slowly made his was back down the alley.
The groan and clacks of the trunk were the only sound besides the occasional flap of wings over head, or the flutter of a cloak and the click of footsteps- Ministry members patrolling against a threat that they had denied for so long.
No one stopped him.
He was hidden in the shadows, fading into the background of the stores, his tattered and well worn blue travelling cloak blowing faintly in the whispering fall breeze.
If you looked carefully, out of the very corner of your eye, you might have caught the sight of a very great lion, prowling the foggy English night with eyes that gleamed like emeralds and a growl that roared like thunder.
But who looked out of the corner of their eyes these days? Much rather look round the corner in the street, praying and hoping only air would meet war-weary eyes.
And silence too, you hoped would meet your ears, rather than the hissing of a red-tongued snake or the guttural cackle of those who call themselves Death Eaters.
But he rather liked the quiet; it let him fill in all the cracks of his little world with his imagination, rather then with his children's screams of reality.
He passed through the archway to the Leaky Cauldron.
He doesn't even notice it anymore, just another part of the background, another shiny toy that has dulled over time and found it's way to the back of the closet, making way for newer shiner tricks.
Tom was awake when he entered the hall, eyeing the empty bar and dim candlelight hungrily, appreciating the shelter from the cold night air that seemed to dampen his very soul, despite its constant companionship through the years.
"Ev'n'ng, Mis'er Kirkl'nd. Dumbledore told me ta expect ya," Tom crooned from behind the bar, swirling a kerchief round and round a dusty mug, the candlelight glinting off of his bald head.
"Good Evening, Tom. It's good to see you again," Kirkland smiled lightly, leaning on his trunk and pulling his hood back from his head, shaking his damp locks ever so slightly; Kirkland really needed a new cloak.
"I got yer room for ya, and made sure that bloody maid dunnit right and all proper," Tom muttered as he put his work away and limped out from behind the bar, motioning for the wet man to follow him up the stair well," I can take ya trunk for ya too."
"Many thanks Tom, and its alright, I'll take my trunk myself," Kirkland quickly replied, not eager to force his heavy baggage upon the bartender.
"If you say so lad," Tom muttered and led Kirkland onward, marching up the creaky stairs with little effort, he followed Tom through the labyrinth of hallways lined with rooms above the bar.
" H're ya ar', n'mb'r 927," Tom muttered gruffly, rapping lightly on the wooden door, causing the brass '9' to shake and swing free from the nail holding its base in place. Muttering a curse sharply and grumbling something about 'cheap maggot eye glue' and he stormed off after handing Kirkland his key.
Kirkland chuckled lightly as he watched as Tom gruffly stomped his way back to the bar and to bed and then returned his focus to the door in front of him, the bronze key to it held tightly in his grasp.
He eyed the number warily, noting its irony and wondering to himself if the Leaky Cauldron actually had that many rooms, pressed the key into the lock and swung the door open.
He shuffled inside, swung his trunk to the foot of the bed, and without ado or preparation, flung himself face first onto the bed.
"I could murder a cup of tea," he groaned into the linen covers, inhaling the smell of soap and the musty odor of magic permeated into the fabric.
After an inner argument that spanned at least a couple of minutes, Kirkland decided against undressing and getting into proper sleeping attire, preferring to just fall asleep as he was now and deal with the consequences of his laziness in the morning.
After all, sleeping in his uncomfortable and slightly stifling travelling cloak and suffering a stiff neck in the morning was better than a pounding head and a hangover any day.
But alcohol, cape or not he was still plagued by nightmares.
Throwing away the beautiful mirage of sleep aside, Kirkland struggled to his feet, wretched open his trunk, sought out a well-worn leather bound book, and buried himself in the Tales of Beedle the Bard; figuring that the horror of the truth held in that book was tamer than any nightmare his past could throw at him.
He stayed that way, sitting stiffly in the wooden rocking chair in the corner, with his eyes pouring over the text he had read so many time before that he could recite each line from memory; till the sun bled into the dark horizon, pouring over the familiar image of his head buried deep in his book, fast asleep.
Just as Arthur Kirkland, more formally known as England, after that Great Britain, and even more so as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, closed his green eyed and succumbed to his much feared sleep, miles away a boy know as Harry Potter, more informally as the Boy-Who-Lived, jolted awake, with cold sweat pouring down his brow and his own green eyes wide with fear.
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