Chapter 2

I am so so so sorry it took me so long to get this out! After the first chapter I moved out of home and started university and it kinda ate all my free time. I'm not 100% happy with this chapter either. I have rewritten it so many times but just decided to post it. I hope you all enjoy anyway :)

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Is it true?"

"I'm afraid so"

England slumped back into the chair with a heavy sigh of despair. He raked his hands through his already messy hair before dragging them down to rest over his face.

"This cannot be happening again" he mumbled into his palms.

Across the cluttered desk, Dumbledore eyed the country, his usually twinkling blue eyes dull, his face bearing a sombre expression.

"We had our suspicions from the beginning that he was not truly gone. It was only a matter of time before he found his way back" came Dumbledore's weary response.

England, slumped lower in his armchair, his gaze focused in the distance but his mind a million miles away. After stumbling upon the news in Diagon Alley that Voldemort was reborn, England had been at a loss for what to do. He had spent hours wandering around the streets in a daze, not aware of his actions or where his feet were taking him, lost in a whirlwind of memories and despair. He had eventually found himself in a pub, fully prepared to lose himself at the bottom of a whiskey bottle – or two.

The pub was dark and smelt mildly of mildew, but the bottles of liquor lining the wall behind the counter gleamed enticingly at him. Despite the early hour, there were already a scattering of witches and wizards occupying tables, nursing drinks of their own. All of them looked as grim as England.

They're probably here for the same reason as I, he mused.

Ordering a whiskey, England slid onto a barstool away from the other patrons. He was in no mood for chit-chat.

His mind was cycling through the first wizarding war on a never-ending cycle – the pain, the deaths.

He had fought side by side with his citizens back then and had watched as one by one they fell to the dark lord's power. It had slowly broken his will. He could feel his body becoming weaker and weaker as the shadow of evil consumed his country; strangling out all light and hope wherever it spread. Despite all of England's best efforts, Voldemort was winning the war and it was killing him. He was afraid. He was weak. He was dying…

England shook himself out of the dark memories.

'What am I doing?' he internally berated himself. From England's memory, the daily prophet was little more than a gossip rag, filled with lies and misconceptions. 'I can't sit here moping over a rumour. I need facts!'

England slid off the barstool with every intention of hunting down the truth, wherever it may be. His legs, however, had other intentions as they buckled under his weight and the nation barely managed to catch himself on the bar before falling flat on his face. Somehow during his musings, he had managed to consume more alcohol then he had intended. Despite this, the nation was not deterred from his pursuit of information. Turning to the middle-aged witch manning the bar, he pointed a wobbly finger at her.

"I need to use your owl" he slurred out, finger still pointed, albeit waveringly, at the witch.

She gave him a disgusted look, annoyed at having to do something other than run a rag over a glass.

"3 sickles" she grunted

"What?"

"3 sickles. To use the owl"

England rummaged his hand around his pockets, all whilst grumbling under his breath about his own people robbing him, and slammed a handful of coins on the counter. The witch picked out 3 bronze coins before walking out a door behind the bar. She returned a short time later with a very disgruntled looking owl. She placed the owl down on the counter in front of England and promptly returned to wiping glasses.

"What? No ink or parchment?" England called after her. She didn't look up from her glass so, grumbling again with more anger than before, England fumbled in all the pockets in his suit and managed to scrounge up a pen and an old receipt.

'This'll do´ He thought, turning the receipt to the blank side and uncapping his pen. He wrote only four words on the receipt before sending it off to its recipient and returning to his drinking.

'We need to talk'

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The following morning found the island nation in the presence of Albus Dumbledore; hair and clothes disheveled and the smell of hard liquor still lingering on his breath. After receiving a reply from Albus, he had immediately set off to talk to the man; skipping the return home to change, his need for information to pressing. It was a decision he was now regretting as he faced the impeccably, if not a little oddly, dressed wizard. Dumbledore knew his true identity having had dealings with each other in the past. He was the only man in the wizarding community who knew.

England could feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on from the sheer amount of alcohol he had consumed and the bad news he was receiving was doing nothing to alleviate his pain. The nation massaged his temples before lowering his hands and shooting the elderly wizard a confused and frustrated glare.

"But how is this possible? He was hit with the killing curse; his body was completely destroyed! How can he be back?" he asked incredulously, gesticulating wildly with his hands.

"Tom went to great lengths to ensure his continued survival. Even I am not sure as to what dark magic he utilised to extend his life."

"I can't believe this" England started mumbling, despair overcoming him again.

For a while, the only sound in the office was the soft whirring and dinging of the magical knickknacks scattered throughout the room. Eventually, Dumbledore broke the silence with a question.

"You remember the prophecy, do you not?"

The prophecy. How could he forget? He was there the night it was made after all.

'…Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives … the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…'

Total bullshit if you asked England. How could a mere child be expected to fight the Dark Lord? Not even England, a near-immortal nation, could destroy Voldemort one on one, but a baby could?

England snorted in derision.

"Yes, I remember"

"Before we thought the prophecy to be fulfilled when Voldemort attacked the Potters, but now, with his return …"

"It is active again! Then the boy is in danger!"

"Yes I'm afraid so"

Albus fixed England with a pointed stare, blue eyes locked with green.

"I think, old friend, that it is time you were filled in on the events you have missed in your absence"

England felt a pang of guilt at this and lowered his gaze. Dumbledore had tried valiantly to contact the nation during his self-isolation but England had ignored his attempts – the letters sat in the drawer of an old, unused desk – unopened. England nodded his head in assent, eyes still lowered.

It was sometime later that Dumbledore finished his tale. He had recounted everything from the night Voldemort was destroyed to the present day. He had told England about the numerous attacks on Hogwarts, starting the same year Potter had joined the school, up until the Triwizard tournament. He recounted the story of how Voldemort reclaimed his body and how Dumbledore had revived his old Order of the Phoenix. And last of all, he talked extensively about Harry Potter – the boy who lived.

Despite this, England had a sense that Dumbledore had not told him everything, that he was withholding some crucial facts, but he decided not to press the matter. He was sure Albus would tell him when he thought the nation was ready.

Once Dumbledore had finished his tale, silence descended upon the office. England's head felt like it was close to bursting with all the new information he had been bombarded with. His magical community had been having troubles for some time it seems. The feeling of guilt was starting to make itself familiar in his chest. England should have been there to help.

"Will you fight with us again, England?" Dumbledore asked softy.

For a second England thought of refusing. His body could not forget the pain of the last war and his mind was instantly struck with terror. However, this reaction lasted no more than a heartbeat. Dumbledore watched as the nation's prominent brows furrowed over eyes suddenly filled with steely determination. England was frightened but he was a nation goddammit, and he would not be scared into submission by one of his own citizens.

When did I become so weak? England thought in disgust.

Filled with a fire in his soul that had been absent far too long, the nation locked eyes with the man seated across from him. Dumbledore was slightly taken aback by the ferocity in his gaze. He saw there a desire to fight that was reminiscent to the countries pirate days when he had sailed and conquered the world.

A small spark of hope ignited in his chest. The England of old was back. The England who fought by his side during many battles and who had the power to turn the tides of war. A smile graced his lips as England spoke two words that he had been longing to hear for fifteen years.

"I'm in."