I do not own Hetalia or Harry Potter

The Blossoming Stars

Her name didn't matter. Her face did not matter either. What mattered, what people saw, was her abdomen. It was large, swollen smooth with new, forming life. An infant was being created, floating the dim red light, kicking occasionally. Each cell was put together, one by one, quickly, and adding to each soft layer of skin, to a nail here, to a follicle of hair, to an eye.

And, across the abdomen, was a long, gnarled, red scar. The angry gash was a telltale sign of what had happened to the woman, the night she was pulled into the woods. Hush, now, the wind might carry your voice. Two things became a part of her body that night. An infant and an everlasting wound, which dripped its potency into the child, changing his life.

The woman didn't want anyone to see it. She wore scarves or dresses to cover it up. When the doctor came to visit, out of her free will, she explained that the scar had been inflicted by a fell she took as a child. The doctor didn't believe her. Something else had happened. Something she refused to talk about. Something that she hid under a veil and turned her face away whenever it was brought up.

She didn't talk about it, what was inside of that stomach. Maybe because behind the dark scar, there was me.

The old man stopped suddenly. His cloudy eyes swung upwards at the woman sitting before him. The woman, going by the name Hermione, barely had time to enchant her quill into running over the paper when he began speaking. Now the quill waited impatiently, hovering over the parchment. In her hand she had a mechanical pencil and a small notepad. She had made three points going vertically about how she would organize the pending book.

Hermione gave the man a strained smile. "Mr. Kirkland? Would you like some tea?" She asked.

Arthur Kirkland shook his ancient head, heaving a sigh. "I needed a break, young lady. I beg your pardon." His green eyes glittered in amusement. "You are quite able."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush. "No, not at all."

"Ah, I start speaking before I even introduce myself." He shifted on his desk chair, leaning forwards. A patch had been cleared of books, papers, quills, ink pots, and globes to create space for Hermione. Hermione tried to take as little of it up as possible. She wasn't one to intrude, no matter how starved she was for what he was about to tell her.

The rest of the room was a larger version of the cluttered desk. The bookshelves were piled high, some shelves spilling novels of varying shapes and age. Maps hung on the walls, tucked beneath posters and notes and three different clocks. Hermione sat comfortably in a leather chair, her professional robes spilling to the ground. Luckily she had worn long black boots with thick soles, so no unexpected sharp objects would impale her. Arthur wore muggle clothing, much to her surprise. A green tweed suit.

He shifted forwards and sighed deeply, glancing out the window.

"I meant to test you. Once you get to my age and status you can very well do what you please to others." He said. "I apologize for doing such."

Hermione shook her head politely. "Not at all. I do enjoy tests."

"Yes, a good friend told me about that." Arthur said with a tight grin.

Her eyes widened despite the thought bubbling in her head saying he's still testing you, you dimwitted girl. Listen!

"Then again he knew you when you still attended school. Dear, you had a rough life Miss Granger." Arthur flashed her a smile. She relaxed. His friend may have been Dumbledore. Both seemed like venerable old wizards. Being in contact would hardly come as a surprise.

"And I never got to tell you why I came here." Hermione said.

Arthur made her stop speaking without even looking her way. He bent down and opened a drawer. He rifled for a moment, dipping his hands into the folders. He pulled out an opened, yellowed letter. On the front was Hermione's address.

"Yes, but I was vague in there." Hermione protested.

"You said enough, dear." Arthur sat, cutting her off gently again. He set the letter aside. "I have received so many requests to come visit me." He picked up the manilla folder and showed her a bundle of letters. "This is only a small portion."

Setting them back, he straightened and steadily watched her movements. She was charming the wand again. Her lips barely moved with the incantation and her wrist flicked lightly. An artist carefully applying paint to make the image no less than perfect.

"Blasted Erina Wittlie. She wrote one story about me into her damned book and I become a celebrity with all sorts of curious bookworms. It would not have been so bad, and this is on my part. If I had denied her permission to say I was living and to give my location then I never would have to sit here and sift through a thousand whiny voices, trying to decide how to best break their heart."

The quill paused. Hermione waited too. Her heart seemed to beat too slowly and too quickly at the same time.

Arthur frowned. "You are the only one I have responded to. You are the only apt pupil, the only one who would get anywhere. The only one who was serious about the proposal and not hoping for a manic stroke of luck and a book published under their name, using someone else's story. And, as I have said before, a friend has told me about how brilliant you are."

Hermione thanked him.

Arthur picked up a wand and, twisting it in the air, caused a teapot to trundle over, pouring Hermione a cup of steaming, deep red liquid, before gliding back to its station at the corner of the room, on a wooden trolley.

Hermione took a sip of the best tea in the world. Once she finished, Arthur began telling his story again. Still without asking what her motives were.

Mother did not bleed out once I arrived into the world. Some said that would have been too kind. She had to raise me and, later from an unknown man, a little girl. She didn't care much for the girl and often ignored her, but I will get to that part a little later on.

Rather than describe to you my life's story and my daily routine—which was poor and troublesome, even for a young witch who could afford to feed and house us—I will tell you, in detail, about three days. I remember these days strongly. They have been burned into my mind and I doubt they could ever escape. Once death comes to take me home they may as well stay right here, in this library, haunting anyone who comes by. And perhaps by telling you this I am cursing you.

But you've come prepared for that. Haven't you?

The day I remember from this portion of my life, before the little sister, was in my sixth spring. That month mother had decided that she wanted me to go to a little country home to visit her mother. A mother who had directed her to a doctor in the first place. The mother didn't understand what it could be and she thought it was a rare sort of infection. She did not know that her daughter was a witch, living under her father's protection and being nurtured in the magical arts. Her mother had assumed she had ran off or done something inadvertently asinine.

Mother loved me, but she also feared me. This day, the day I will begin with, she was trying to get me home. Or at least to a little cold shack off to the side of the forest. There I could suffer in peace and not worry her mother. For as many light squeezes mother gave to my hand or how many kisses to my hairline or how many times she had apologized for my agony, she would not go near me when the full moon rose.

In the city she enchanted a closet to be bigger and to conceal noise. She put me in there, kissing my cheek, threw a blanket in, and left. She shut the door. She wouldn't wait by it. These nights she went to a lover or to some place far away.

Now she had a reason to keep me distanced. I knew that I could be dangerous. I had scars even then. But I didn't know that she had left me. I learned that later. But, as a toddling six year old, she was a mystery. I knew my time was coming close. When there was not enough time to catch a train back, due to her mother's incessant excuses and desires to see her darling grandchild, we were delayed.

I recall that morning playing in the fields. Grandmother had a white sheep dog, one she called Limestone. I played with him, running after him and letting him gently push me down and lick my hands and cheeks. He was an excellent dog. I recall being excessively fond of him. I played with him that morning, knowing my fate was the day after. He acted strangely, barking at shadows, or giving me an odd look: like he understood me. I would pat his head and tell him what a good dog he was.

"Arthur, boy, get in here! Look at the sky!" Grandmother called sharply. Her hair was a wispy red.

I looked up as directed. The sky was clouded over, dark rain was bound to come. I ran in with Limestone. Grandmother patted my back and directed me to a bowl of pudding dusted with sugar. I went to it and ate my small treat, Limestone at my feet.

"Where's mummy?" I asked.

Limestone wanted a bite but I told him it wasn't good for dogs.

Grandmother tied an apron around her thick waist. "Aye, beats me if I know. She went walking into the forest. Haven't seen her since. Might be lost, that foul girl." I winced, but grandmother laughed good-naturedly and I allowed a smile to pass over my lips. Grandmother was like that. She insulted those she loved and laughed as she did. It was the way she showed she cared, I suppose.

"When do you think she'll come back?" I spooned a chunk into my mouth, catching a tasty lump of sugar.

"Hopefully 'fore the rain starts. Now, you play inside. Limestone can go out into his doghouse, don't want his fur all over my newly cleaned home. I have books in one of the rooms. Go and take a look. I also have some toys you can play with. Some of them were your mother's. Though I doubt girl trinkets would be of much interest."

I didn't really mind. Limestone whimpered when I let him out. It broke my little boy heart doing that, but I had to. I had many difficult decisions later on. Once Limestone had dragged his shaggy big paws to the dog house, which was speckled with the danger of rain, I went to the bookshelves.

For a while I read, then I played with one of mother's old dolls, taking her on adventures through the house I pretended was a labyrinth, and then I read again. For several hours I did this, waiting for the rain to end and for mother to return.

She returned when I had taken the doll to the living room. I poised her on a couch, mumbling under my breath about an approaching monster in the distance. My magic was weak, then, and it would remain so. Even the spell of retrieving the teapot has drained me. I won't be able to do much for another few hours. But that, too, is a story I will save for later.

Mother entered the house, her coat drenched. She smiled at me. During dinner she didn't explain where she went. She didn't have to. She went to the forest and found an abandoned shed once used by a house that had burned several years back. She charmed it, set it up, and had returned. She must have put some potent magic around it, for her cheeks were pale and her hands trembled.

I worried about her. I also worried about Limestone.

That night I slept poorly. I always did before a full moon. I woke from nightmares, sick, and then fell back asleep to new terrors. Mother knew what happened. She distanced herself then, too. When I most needed her. I don't hate her for it. She was a frightened, wounded person. Her brother had been the same way.

I saw a picture of him in that month. It was on the bookshelf, black and white and clean. It showed a younger grandmother, her hair fuller. Next to her was a broad man with a stern, but clever face. Between them were two children: mother and her brother. Her brother did not have any magic. And if he was, it would have been too weak to trace.

From the stories I heard, he was weak of character. He often fidgeted and when he found work he lost it right away because of some minor difficult. Grandmother said, later, that it was due to something that happened to him as a child. A noise frightened him and afterwards he became a nervous infant. He hit his head with his small fists or tore out his hair. I doubt a thunderclap or dog bark had caused such hysteria. Whatever the reason, grandmother never said. Perhaps out of shame.

The boy didn't live long after my mother left with her father to live in the city. Her father had once been a powerful wizard but had settled out of love for a muggle woman. No shame in that. But now his daughter had magic, his son most likely a squib, so he escaped. Grandmother said he had found a better job and once settled he would bring her over. He never called. Or perhaps Grandmother said, she was confused, she had grown too attached to the country and refused to leave. Regardless of the circumstances, the family split. The boy grew sicker without his older sister for support, not that she was much but she was something. He walked through the forest and was never found again.

Anyway, once the fitful night passed, the day went even slower. I ate, played with Limestone in the soggy grass, and then it was time. Before the sun had a chance to set, mother said she had found a nice camping spot in the forest and quickly whisked me away. I said goodbye to Limestone tearfully. The dog howled at my absence.

We walked for a long time. My legs began to ache. Or maybe the pain came from the change already beginning. I don't know. And—I see your inquisitive look, dear—mother did not change. It leads me to believe that she had been cursed. She would watch her child suffer. She could not escape that through her own suffering.

She took me to the cabin and opened the door. Inside it smelled of dust and wet leaves. There was a blanket draped across the ground. Nothing sharp, nothing that could cause a splinter. Mother was nervous. She kissed my forehead, the way she always did.

"Remember what I said?" She asked.

I nodded. "Don't escape, keep calm, try to sleep."

"And?"

"And you love me."

"Good boy." She said weakly. I noticed a hole in the side of the cabin. I wanted to point it out, but then I remember who mother pointed her wand and said a few words. I understood magic, regardless of how young I was.

"Bye mummy." I said.

She nodded and shut the door. It clicked shut. I took the blanket and curled up into a corner, waiting for the last golden rays of day to depart.

I began to drift to sleep by the time the moonbeams pierced the wall.

When they did I reluctantly snapped awake. The painful process began. My bones twisted and grew, snapping this way and that. I gave a lupine howl, fur creeping across my skin. As a child the process went slowly and deeply. My body racked with pain. And yet I didn't weep. This was life. This was what I knew. Each month I experienced the pain of change and the inability to control my own mind.

My mind went blank, white, like a sheet had been thrown over my head. Yet I could still see. I knew what was happening. I had no control over it. My body through my senses out for instinct. I followed my muscles, not my brain. I felt like I was locked in a chamber. Numbly I felt the claws move or the tail swish or the clothing rip.

The shed was charmed not to snap against my size. I huddled in it, restricted. At least I couldn't scratch myself or hit my body. That happened often. In those mornings mother found me bleeding, dotted with bruises. Maybe I reminded her of her brother.

I thought this would be another night, inwardly. I noticed the patch of emptiness again. My body reacted against its cage. I dug a claw into it. Here mother's magic had faltered out of her nerves. She should have been more careful. I pulled upwards, ripping the wood free from its frame. I tried to struggle out, pushing against the electric boundary. My body buzzed with pain but I fought, tapping into magic far more powerful than hers. I broke through, looking around the quiet forest.

The blue-black trees rustled, their silhouettes dancing against the dark sky. It was wet and smelled of pine. My eyes swiveled in my head, searching for something to destroy, to bite, to eat.

I heard a bark. I snapped to the side, my body of tightly-wound muscle twitching. I saw a white figure in the distance, galloping towards me. I raced straight towards it. The bark ensued and I slowed, looking at the creature. Recognition flickered through my veins.

It was Limestone. Limestone looked up at me, barking and wagging his tail in happiness. He had found me. The loyal dog had followed me! My heart started to beat wildly. The sleeping, idle part of my brain tried to wake up and fight against the poignant magic draped over me

"Lime… Stone…" My canine mouth grunted, sounded disjointed, monstrous.

Limestone barked, as if saying good job!

I forced my arm down to pet him, my claws stained with my own blood trembling. I touched his head. Oh what grand relief flooded my blood, elating me. I had control over this beast, at six years old.

Then, against my will, my muscles snapped. My arm went up, then swung down. With a dull thud I smacked Limestone across the head. He rolled over and away, skidding across the grass. My claws had cut through his fur. I pounced on him. I knew he was already dead. I pummeled him, feeling hot tears trickle down my muzzle. And…

"Oh, don't cry." Arthur said gently, sitting up.

Hermione looked at him, her eyes tinged red and wet. She dabbed away the budding tears with a corner of her handkerchief. She smiled apologetically.

"I'm terribly sorry. I shouldn't cry, but I felt so bad for Limestone. All he wanted was to see his loving owner, and he received death instead." Her voice cracked and she fell quiet.

Arthur pitied her with a sympathetic look. His own eyes were swimming in sorrow. He hid it well, however. He licked his lips and plucked a sugary sweet from the bowl that appeared on his desk. He popped it in his mouth, waiting for Hermione to quiet down and to resume writing. As he spoke she had been periodically jotting down notes or staring at him in awe. Something in his story moved her. The quill at her side, taking his story down ad verbatim, drifted languidly in the silence.

"Are you prepared for me to go on?" Arthur asked.

Hermione tried to imagine Arthur as a young boy. Now, he was old but not so that you thought of him as a wise old man. More like a wise older man. He had a shock of wheat-blond hair peppered with streaks of white. His eyebrows were heavy and comical, giving each expression so much more weight. His hands were thick and large, now laced over his desk.

She had trouble shrinking the man back to youth.

Hermione nodded. "Yes, I think so."

Have more tea, it will calm you down.

I don't recall the rest of the night. I did not stray far from the shed. It called me back to it. Partially due to the spell that, even in her nervousness, she had extended a small perimeter around the shed. And partially due to my best friend now bleeding into the grass. I went back in and tried to sleep.

Mother returned the next day as promise. She bundled me up in fresh new clothes and a blanket over my shoulder. She took me away, apologizing under her breath.

One she had said "sorry" for what would be the twentieth time, she turned to me. We had started to walk away and she noticed the dog in the grass. Tears slid down her cheeks. She shook her head.

"Infernal creature." She said. "Tried to chase you out of love. I told mother to chain him up. She said a dog does what a dog does. How could I have been so foolish."

I looked at the dog, too. My heart splintered and shattered once more. I wailed at the sight. I wanted to run to him, my six year old mind shaking in grief. She held me back.

"He's gone now. Do you see who dangerous you are? You need to be careful." She scolded me.

I nodded numbly, still aquiver with tears.

We walked one. She told me the lie she told grandmother, how we had stayed in a lovely cabin. We saw a rat. We slept by the fireplace and she told me all sorts of lovely stories from her youth. As she described the scene, etching it into each wall. She created a place infinitely more likable than the one I was in the night before. I loved it, I wanted to believe it, so I tried to.

Not that I would ever likely forget the truth.

When we returned, Grandmother was looking for Limestone. My heart broke all over again. I covered my face with me hands and sobbed. Mother had prepared another lie in her never-ending web. She had wanted to say the dog had rushed off and would soon come back. Grandmother caught my tears and interrogated us with what happened.

Finally I mustered out a lie, one like my mother's. I had learned well.

"Wolf had eaten him… We found him when we came back from the house." I mumbled.

"Oh." Was all Grandmother said. She gave me a tense hug and walked back inside. That's all she ever said on the matter. Imagine my heartache, but happening worse inside an old woman.

The day after that painful course of the sun, mother and I returned home. We took a train and came home.

Arthur finished this portion of the story with a sidelong glance at Hermione.

"I didn't give you much detail about the third day, I'm afraid. But at times it's far too painful to recall."

"Don't worry. I think I have enough details for now." She insisted. "I think we should rest."

Arthur agreed. He stood heavily and picked his way through the books lithely. He knew the room inside out. His feet were bare, too, Hermione noticed in amusement. He went to the door and cracked it open. He poked his head out and called for a young girl. The girl padded up to him, holding a wet towel.

"See our lady guest? Let's not starve. How about to get us some lunch."

Hermione began to protest, but pinched her lips. If Arthur had began to kindly ask his servants to bring lunch, then he meant for Hermione to stay awhile. She didn't have a problem with that. Not at all.

Arthur went back, clearing a few books with his toes.

"I didn't know servants still existed. I thought House Elves were being used." Hermione said, sitting up.

Arthur sat down, looking at her. "I would hardly call these servants. After my mention in the book and past successes, I have more money than I can handle. So I seek out men and women who can only do household tasks and I ask them to tend to an old man such as myself. I treat them kindly. They get paid and they are fed and dressed. They can also support their families."

"What a nobleman." Hermione smiled.

Arthur shrugged listlessly. "I suppose you could call me that. But I only do what I can to fill the time."

A pause passed between them. It was slow and pensive, the best kind of pause. Hermione glanced down her notes, thinking about what was useful and what was not. She made several scribbles in the margins.

"How do you suggest I split the story up?" She asked professionally.

"I am going to tell you it in four parts. I just told you the first. Four parts for four seasons." Arthur said.

She cast him a curious glance.

To this he raised his eyebrows. "You are a bright one. I have been waiting a long time to tell this story. And finally I have found the perfect listener."

Hermione felt she would burst from so many compliments. It was one thing in her schooling days to have a teacher give her house points or congratulate her on having the highest grade. And now to have a wizard—a famous one at that—give her words of the same nature, she could barely hide her elation.

Arthur cleared his throat.

"How is he?"

"Harry?" Hermione asked. Arthur nodded. She didn't look up from her notes. "Training for his job in the Ministry. Same as always, a bit more cold-hearted and sometimes he becomes distant." She knew a "fine" would not suffice.

Arthur digested the information. "Poor boy. And what about you? Do you feel the trauma?"

"Of course." Hermione said, setting the notebook aside. "I've had nightmares to complete collapses in public. I've frozen while buying groceries from a muggle market, simply seized up and started to cry. Luckily a kind woman pulled me aside and comforted me. I said I had been in war and she patted my back. I wonder if she thought I was mad."

"So what if someone thinks you're mad. You still are a hero."

"Yes, I suppose…"

"And Ronald?"

She gave him the same curious glance as earlier.

"Do you think I wouldn't know about your Golden Trio? You made headlines."

"I thought you had dissolved into the mortal world."

"I did. But, I had connections."

Had.

"I see." Hermione nodded.

She made another note. Regarding the information, she pushed her hair back into a bun. Arthur looked out the window, his chin resting in his lap. He was livelier than she had imagined, especially for his age. And happier, too, despite what had happened.

He turned to her suddenly.

"The food may take a while. Shall we continue?"