"Thank you again for coming to help me out France" England said, as France returned to the room and set England's tea on the table. France took his mug of coffee, sat beside England, and made himself at home.

"It is no problem mon chérie, Big Brother France is always here to help you." The Frenchman wrapped his arm around the Brit, as if to emphasize his point.

"Oh don't say it like that you wanker. You make it sound so dirty" England said, and slappped France's offending hand away before his 'big brother' could grope at his vital regions and reached for his tea.

"Well, I'm actually surprised you called me for this." France curled up on the couch and took a sip from his mug. He doesn't try to make another move on the island nation. "What was it you wanted to talk about?" England turned away from his friend, and took small sips from his cup.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the constant 'tick-tock' ticking of the ancient grandfather clock in the corner, as it dragged on, counting the remaining seconds until the sun would rise.

England let out a sigh and set his half empty tea cup onto its saucer and placed it on the table. He motioned for France to set his drink down as well. He obliged, his half full coffee mug follows the tea.

Their eyes meet for a split second before he shifted his focus to unbuttoning his shirt sleeve.

"You're the only one I can trust with this," he said as he slowly pulls the sleeve back, revealing a tattoo. He offers his arm to France to get a closer look.

"Oh, you've covered it up..." France says as he examined the new tattoo; it was still a bit red, but the skin was no longer peeling. He traced the slightly raised skin along the inner part of the red Fender's body, and up the neck. Where a black skull and snake used to be was now a stylish six-string.

"I got it a few weeks ago. It took a few sessions. Because of the brand the ink wouldn't take right away-"

"Oh come on now England, why is this so special? I know you have quite a few tattoos, and I've seen them all in much more intimate circumstances."

"This is serious France," he pulled his arm away and cradled it into his body, his chin touched his chest and his messy hair fell over his face, "last night, I thought I felt it burning again-"

Suddenly, France was up, placed his hands firmly upon England's shoulders and forced England to look at him. France's ocean blue eyes bore into England's forest green.

"If it really is burning you again you have to let Scotland and Norway know!"

"I already checked with Scotland, and his is fine. And I dropped by the Ministry earlier, the Aurors haven't found anything that raises much concern." England's eyes began welling up with tears. The stiff upper lip he always maintained fell apart as his voice quickened and cracked. "I just need you to tell me that I'm just being paranoid. Please Francis, I need to be told that You-Know-Who is dead and my son is safe, because I don't want to go through that again!"

France took his place back on the couch, allowed England to bury his face in his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around his body. He pulled England's sleeve back down, covering the offending ink and ran his fingers through England's messy locks, rubbing his back, trying to calm down his dearest childhood friend and lifelong enemy.

"Hush now, Arthur, mon petit lapin." France cooed in a soothing motherly voice he's only ever used for England and Canada. "You did get the tattoo just recently, it's still healing. And there's a reason Harry is called 'The Boy who Lived'."

"But You-Know-Who, not even Norway could defeat him, what if he survived..."

"The War is over, Arthur, but it's only been a year; we both know all too well how long it takes for these kinds of wounds to heal."

"Don't we know it," England laughed to himself, absent mindedly tracing the long scars along France's back that was left by the trenches of the bloodiest wars in history. And his own heart still beat in his chest, despite the scars and burns, his ugly souvenirs from 1666 and the Blitz.

"You are being paranoid." Telling England what he wants to hear, "but you don't have to be afraid. I won't let that happen to you again." France lifted England's face, brushing his hair behind his ears and wiping away the tears that England allows only France to see. "And I told you, Big Brother is always here to help. You've got me, and your brothers and even Norway and Romania to help you. And you've got Harry. Beautiful, beautiful little Harry."

With each word France inched closer, until their noses lightly brushed against each other's. France didn't remember England's lips being so rough and rugged.

Before France realized he was only kissing a gaudy throw pillow, England's fist connected with France's face.

"I only called you here to tell you about the Mark! And I'm certainly not in the mood for a shag with you tonight, you bloody frog!"

"Why must you always be so blunt, mon chérie?" France laughed, rubbing his tender tomato of a cheek. "Maybe not tonight but…"

Before England could wrap his hands around France's neck, their little dispute was cut short by wails echoing from the second floor.

"Bugger" England scoffed, throwing the pillow at France and started to make a move for the stairs. He's held back by a firm hand on his wrist.

"I'll handle it." France smiled at him as he sprinted up the stairs.

England sat back down on the couch, and finished his remaining tea before it got too cold. He pulled his sleeve back up and traced the pattern hidden under the ink. Maybe it is just nerves. Just paranoia, he thought to himself.

Just the paranoia.

And the fear.

And the guilt.

It's just the horrible memories of the gruesome actions he'd performed during those terrible years.

The first rays of the dawn began to peek through the curtains and spill into the room as France returned, a dark haired toddler wrapped in a blanket on his shoulder. "Well, I've stopped him from crying." France said as he offered the child to England. With his hands free, France retrieved his mug.

"Good morning Harry, did the frog wake you?" England cooed, brushed Harry's hair off his face and traced his lightning bolt scar with his thumb. Harry replied with a tried yawn, his curious green eyes and tiny little hand land on England's arm; the red ink getting much attention today. England pulled his sleeve down and placed a kiss on Harry's forehead. We both have our scars, he wondered to himself, but look who made it out alive, "C'mon I'll fix us some breakfast."

A horrified wheeze escaped France's mouth, nearly choking on the remaining coffee, "You've been cooking for Harry this whole time?"

"Of course I've been cooking, you bellend! Why would you ask such a stupid question?" England spat back.

"You don't have a house keeper or personal chef?! Where's Elizabeth? What about the Takehikos?" France's voice rose, clearly shocked.

"You know I can't have Hetalians anymore." England pouted.

A small gasp escaped from France's lips as he brought a hand to his chest. "Surely your Minster of Magic could make an exception for a situation like this! What an embarrassment it would be, after all we went through, for the Chosen One to die of food poisoning!"

"My cooking isn't that bad!"

"Oui, ça l'est. I'm making breakfast." France said with finality. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen, and left England with his newest adopted son.

"Your Uncle Francis is going to make us breakfast" he laughed, "can you say 'Uncle Francis'?" Harry struggled with the syllables, but managed to utter "damn frog".

A smile broke across England's face, his worries concerning You-Know-Who, forgotten.