It's your beloved Author here. What do you mean 'It's about time'? It's up now... I hope this makes up for the long wait... I have had several extremely negative reviews over the past few days and, I know I say 'any comment is a good comment' but still - try to be nice! Check out the reviews to see what I mean : ( I'm really sorry, I didn't know that calling Americans Yanks was racist - I don't do it myself but I thought it was OK for Scotland to say it? I'm sorry for any offence caused. I am not really obsessed with the war of Independance and I'm sure that no one else in England is either. It was hundreds of years ago... You can have your freedom. I do not begrudge you it, RusAmeFTW. Have it, I really could not care less.

Comment

Follow

Favourite

Dear Mr Kirkland.

I don't usually do this - I mean, write letters to complete strangers. I don't think that I ever will again. I just want you to know that from the moment you stepped into that tournament you were signing a deep and hopefully unbreakable bond. You WILL protect Harry Potter - as the closest thing that that boy has to a mother I give my word, if you don't protect him and he gets so much as a scratch, you will regret it. I love Harry as much as if he was my own child, the idea of his already tragic childhood being further hurt fills me with as much sadness as if he were my own flesh and blood. Protect Lily and James' son, protect my son.

Sincerely,

Molly Weasley.

Arthur stared at the letter for a few seconds, before folding it carefully and placing it upon his chest of drawers. He felt a hard, tight knot of anxiety gnawing away in his stomach; he had forgotten that the first task was to be accomplished that Wednesday. Today was Sunday and he still hadn't a clue about what the task was. Arthur grimaced and found a sheet of parchment. Placing his quill on the creamy yellow surface, he wrote:

Molly Weasley,

He then stopped, his thoughts not having caught up with his actions. What was he to write to her? 'I will protect Harry?' No, that would never do. It sounded too presumptuous of his own abilities. What then? What on earth could he write that would sound mature, humble and protective? Nothing. He crumpled up and threw the sheet in the bin, where it lay next to another unfinished letter, that he had been planning on sending to Francis, to tell him… something.

He got up and left his bedroom, ignoring the stares of the students as he passed. He had been here for quite a long time now, had taught most of them. Surely the novelty of his military suit had worn off… Then he realised that the whispers were not about his 'muggle' dress. They were about him, the champions and the first task. Brilliant.

He caught sight of Harry up ahead, walking alone down the corridor. This was the best thing that had happened all day.

"Potter? A word, please."

Harry turned and Arthur saw him hitch his schoolbag up on his back as he turned around and sauntered back down the passage.

"Yeah?"

"Come with me…"

Harry followed Arthur into an empty classroom and Arthur quickly shut the door.

"Do you know what is happing in the first task?"

Harry shifted guiltily on his feet and Arthur glared sharply at him.

"Um… I kind of do…"

"What?" Arthur looked desperately at the boy, he needed to know.

"Dragons," said Harry.

"Dragons?"

"They've got three, one for each team, and we've got to get past them."

"Are you sure?" Arthur said in a hushed voice.

"Dead sure," said Harry. "I've seen them."

"That is…" Arthur gaped at Harry. "Excellent."

"What?" It was Harry's turn to look confused.

"You can fly. Broomstick, Harry. You can match the dragon's skill with your own."

"What about you?" Harry asked. Arthur felt the colour rise up in his cheeks.

"I don't have one." He said truthfully. "Quidditch wasn't as big in my day."

Harry looked thoughtful.

"I suppose you could climb on the back of the firebolt. It is quite strong and you're smaller than Ron, we rode double on it over the summer."

0000000000

England sat in his room the morning before the first task, breathing shallowly and holding a small bowl under his face.

"Bleugh. Dammit. I don't feel too good today." He said to nobody in particular.

He felt the area above his heart with one hand and massaged it gently, hoping that the pain would cease. It had been getting stronger ever since last summer - when Black had escaped. Arthur could feel Voldemort getting stronger, each death feeling like a stab to his own chest. He had been bedridden for months last time; he hoped that that would not be necessary this time around.

Part of him was looking forward to the task today, looking forward to seeing Allistor. His brother lived just up the road and Arthur was sure that he would not miss such an important occasion for his younger brother - even if the two of them were not on the best of terms at this moment in time.

He walked down to the tent at the edge of the grounds, fiddling with the collar of the special red and gold sports robes that had been sent to his study that morning. The fabric was very well made - functional and strong, yet light and comfortable to wear on the faintly drizzly morning.

He entered the tent, which already contained the four other competitors, talking softly in their pairs, ignoring the others. He could just hear Professor McGonagall briefing Harry as Harry was shepherded to the tent by some Hogwarts teachers.

"Now, don't panic," she said, in a voice implying that she might be. "Just keep a cool head... We've got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand… Professor Kirkland is more than up to this task... The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you... Are you all right?"

"Yes," Arthur heard Harry say. "Yes, I'm fine."

"You're to go in here with the other champions," said Professor McGonagall, in a rather shaky sort of voice, "And wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bondevik is in coming... he'll be telling you the - the procedure… Good luck."

"Thanks," said Harry, in a flat, distant voice. The tent-flap opened and Arthur saw the boy, clad in robes as iridescent as his own, looking quite nervous. Arthur placed a calm mask on his face and smiled at Harry, looking like he had the situation firmly in hand.

"Hello, Harry. Sit down here… There you go. This should be an interesting endeavour, should it not?"

"Yeah…" The boy looked terrified, his dark eyes hollow and with dark circles around them.

At that moment, Francis burst into the tent. If it were possible for a flap to slam it would have done so.

"Arthur Kirkland." He gasped, looking at Arthur, whose emerald eyes softened, just slightly, for a moment. Then they went hard again and he stared at 'Bonnefoy'.

"Yes? What is your business here, oh worthy judicious judge?"

"Talk. Now."

Arthur shook his head to apologise to Harry and followed France out of the tent and into the trees. Francis reached into the pocket of his ridiculous star-studded judge robes and handed Arthur a yellowed scroll of paper, dog-eared and water-stained but still bound with that same velvet ribbon, the colour of a rose.

"You gave zis to me a long time ago… Before all of zis… happened. I think. I think it is time zat it was returned to you."

Arthur looked away, but took the scroll.

"I remember." He breathed. "Thank you. I- I'm sorry."

"Don't worry." France said, gravely, taking Arthur's face in his hands and looking him in the eyes. "Love is something zat should not be forced upon others…"

Arthur turned on his heel and fled back to the tent, wiping his eyes as he did and stowing the scroll carefully in his pocket.

Lukas was already in there, briefing the champions on what they had to do - as if any of them didn't know already… Arthur sat next to Harry as Norway held a cloth bag out to each of the students in turn, each champion taking out a small model dragon.

"Swedish Short-Snout."

"Common Welsh Green."

"Oh sh*t." Arthur cursed as Harry reached into the bag and, sure enough, pulled out a black, writhing replication.

"Hungarian Horntail."

0000000000

The minutes passed in what, at the time, felt like hours but in reality were only that, minutes. Arthur longed for that moment at the end when he could see Allistor, they could talk and maybe Allistor could be convinced to stay with the UK brothers for a little while longer. Scotland had a history of coming and going and he had only been with them three hundred years - now was too soon to go.

Then…

"AND DURMSTRANG ARE FINISHED! THEY HAVE THE EGG!"

He stood up, noticing dimly that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. Arthur waited, pulling a dazed looking Harry up with him.

And then they heard the whistle blow. They walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic beating fast in both of their hearts. And now they were walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence.

Arthur saw everything in front of him as though it was a very highly coloured dream. There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands that had been magicked there since he'd last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, heaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, but whether friendly or not, England didn't know or care. It was time to do what he had to do . . . to focus his mind, entirely and absolutely, upon the thing that was his only chance.

He nudged Harry, and the boy raised his wand.

"Accio Firebolt!" Harry shouted.

They waited, every fibre of them hoping, praying. . . . If it hadn't worked. . . if it wasn't coming. . . Arthur seemed to be looking at everything around him through some sort of shimmering, transparent barrier, like a heat haze, which made the enclosure and the hundreds of faces around him swim strangely...

And then he heard it, speeding through the air behind him; he turned and saw Harry Potter's Firebolt hurtling toward them around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopping dead in mid-air beside Harry, waiting for him to mount. Harry climbed on at once, Arthur gingerly swinging his legs over at the same time, holding onto the thin piece of wood as hard as he physically could. Then Harry kicked off and they flew into the air, riding two-up on the fastest racing broom in the world.

Harry seemed almost to be enjoying himself now. Arthur screamed over the roaring in his ears,

"What's so bloody funny?"

"It's just another game of Quidditch!" Laughed Harry, swerving to avoid a jet of bright, hot flames. Arthur rolled his eyes irritably. Young wizards and Quidditch. Hopeless. He would never understand the sport. Give him a football any day.

The Horntail didn't seem to want to take off, she was too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on the Firebolt, she was afraid to move too far from them. . . but he had to persuade her to do it, or he'd never get near them. . . . The trick was to do it carefully, gradually...

Suddenly, the Horntail shot a great plume of flame at them. Arthur yelled. Harry laughed and spun the broom 180 degrees and then…

Arthur…

Fell…

BAM He hit the hard, slippery scales of the dragon, gasping in horror as he realised where he was. The Horntail turned her head to look at him and Arthur started to climb up to where he could be even slightly safe, directly behind her head. Fingers slipping over smooth scales, feet not gripping, his heart pounding like a steam engine in his chest, he pulled himself up on the vicious crest of spines on her back.

"AGH!" He screamed, as the Horntail's great spiked tail hit him in the small of the back. He could feel blood spreading warmly from the searing wound. "F*cking hell!"

He pulled himself up, behind her head and held on tightly. He could see Harry taking this opportunity to dive, a streak of red against the grey sky and then…

He had done it!

Harry soared out of the enclosure, to the judges table, egg under one arm. There was a lot of shouting and bright flashes of light. The Horntail was growing drowsy, she swayed on her feet, making it exceedingly difficult for Arthur to hang on. The last thing that Arthur felt was the giddy drop as the Horntail's massive head dropped to the ground, stunned. He saw the dusty ground rushing up towards him, felt a pain to rival the one in his back fill his head and then… Blackness engulfed him.

The letter fell out of Arthur Kirkland's pocket as he fell a hundred feet from the sky. It bounced once, then unrolled and lay in the dirt, the carefully preserved words becoming smudged and torn on the wet surface. Men trampled it as they rushed to the unconscious dragon, trying to pull the Professor's body from underneath its great, heavy head. The poem that the Englishman had written was lost for all but the two that it had been meant for.

The life that I have

Is all that I have

And the life that I have

Is yours.

The love that I have

Of the life that I have

Is yours and yours and yours.

A sleep I shall have

A rest I shall have

Yet death will be but a pause.

For the peace of my years

In the long green grass

Will be yours and yours and yours.