*slinks in* Sorry... I may have left that a teeny bit too long... It's a great chapter but probably not worth such a long wait. So, anyway, I'm imagining Oliver as having a Northern accent if Arthur speaks in RP. It just seems like that would be natural. Oh, yes, new headcanon - in civil wars, the nations battle their 2Ps! I just thought of it, if anyone wants to write a fanfic on it then make like a fish and let minnow (punderful) so I can read it!

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Cosplay England (tumblr)

CoxieDoesCosplay (deviantart)

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C.O.M.M.E.N.T

"Move." Arthur felt a sharp jab in his back, quite probably from a baseball bat.

"Ouch! You bloody pillock!"

"Language, poppet." Oliver said in a honeyed voice.

"Don't get me started with you…" The further away from Azkaban they were, the more England could feel his strength return. He could almost feel the magic flowing back into his body. "When I am through with you, Oliver, there will be a little pile of pink cashmere and a singular whiff of cupcake batter for your loved ones to collect at their leisure."

Another jab in his back. This time, Arthur could feel the cold of a knife against his skin. He shuddered away from it, but was held in a surprisingly firm grip by the aforementioned cashmere wearing man.

"Careful, duckie. If you don't tread carefully then I might just…" Oliver's knife traced a scar on Arthur's back. "…snap."

Arthur licked his lips nervously and waited for the slight pressure to recede. It soon did and he let out a short sigh of relief.

"Looks like he's nice and calm now." Oliver's visage was suddenly sunny again, "Don't you think, Allen?"

"Looks like the little 1P has been subdued." Allen admitted grudgingly. "Well done, Oliver."

England clucked his tongue, straightening his back.

"You can't subdue the British Empire! The sun shall never set upon my glorious years, sure, some may say that the empire is gone, they ARE WRONG! You can't hold me down, 2Ps. I know that you are supposedly stronger but, as they say, brains before brawn!"

He attempted to disapperate but before he could turn ninety degrees, he felt his left wrist be tugged downwards as something heavy was fastened to it.

"Cheeky…" Allen grinned, raising the bat.

"No! Allen, you wazzock, we need to keep him conscious!" Oliver screeched, as the nail-driven wood smacked into Arthur's head with a thwack.

Arthur keeled over backwards, dimly aware of an excruciating pain in his head.

Harry Potter woke up, gasping for breath. He grasped in the pitch blackness of the dormitory for his sheets, only to smack his head on the bedpost and tumble onto the carpet in a tangle of legs and sheets.

"'Arry, mate, you a'right?" Ron's sleep filled voice croaked.

Harry only then realised that he must have called out, either in his sleep or when he had fallen out of bed.

"Fell out of bed."

But Ron was snoring again. Harry stood up, brushing down his lime pyjamas and dumped his duvet in a messy pile on the bed, blanket on top. He crept to the stairwell and started to go down the stairs, shaken fingers gripping the bannister tightly.

He knew where he had to go.

It was only the third day of term, yet he knew that Mr Jones would be very interested in what he had to say, particularly as it involved Professor Kirkland, the green-eyed Assistant Teacher from last year. Mr Jones had declined to teach his fourth year class on the first day of term, retiring to his room, in what Dumbledore called 'compassionate leave'. There was only one thing that could have caused it. Harry had noticed what his classmates had not. A small corner article in the daily prophet spoke of the 'unscheduled release' of a high security Azkaban prisoner. An A. Kirkland.

That must have meant an escape, the ministry covering their tracks. It would not have looked good to lose two high security inmates in two years. Harry pulled the invisibility cloak out from his locker and draped it over his shoulders as he left the room, covering his head as he swung the Fat Lady open.

"Who's there?" She demanded haughtily, painted eyes searching for the misbehaving student. "I warn you, I could tell the headmaster…"

Harry ignored her and pulled the cloak about him, breaking into a run.

His bare feet made muffled taps on the cold stone floors, sliding slightly as he tried to grip with his toes. The fifteen year-old wheezed with exertation as he rounded a corner and climbed a staircase at breakneck speed, willing his feet to move faster, to propel him to his goal.

He saw the painting of a skink in a tutu and felt in his pocket for the knife that Sirius had given him last year, that could cut through any material and undo any lock. He slipped it between the door and frame and wriggled it up and down until he heard a soft click. He stepped over the threshold.

Alfred F Jones had been having a perfectly pleasant night. He had gone to bed at a decent hour, tired by a day of teaching first-years to sit on broomsticks, and had even taken Arthur's age old solution of having a mug of hot milk with camomile tea in it to help him drift off.

However, that good night of sleeping was to be interrupted, apparently, by an apparition in his doorway.

"HOLY MOTHER OF SHIPPING!" America yelped, seeing the small figure in pyjamas silhouetted against the doorway. "Stay back, I have a wand."

He grappled in futility on his bedside table, where there should have been his glasses and wand. He soon found his glasses but his wand was on his desk. His heart sank. The ghost would surely be a malevolent one, one thousand times worse than those in the Great Hall. America knew that what he was dealing with here must be a spirit.

"Sir?" The voice was tentative.

America lit the lamp and the room flickered into colour. The first he saw was a pair of light green eyes. Eyes that reminded him so much of… yes, well, that was best left for when he was alone to brood over. He took a closer look. It was Harry Potter.

"Harry, you scared me!" Alfred gasped, adjusting his glasses with one hand and peering at the fifth former. "What's wrong? Why are you here?"

The boy paused for a moment. "I- you see, sir, I had a bad dream."

"Oh?" America couldn't think why the boy would be here of all places, why had he not gone to Minerva?

"I came to you," Honestly, it was like Harry could read his mind. "Because it was about Arthur."

Alfred flinched slightly at the name.

"Oh." He repeated.

"You see, sir, I think it might be real."

America looked at the teenager in amazement.

"Eh, what?"

"I think that the dream might have actually taken place." Harry replied earnestly.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Alfred asked gently. "Did you fall out of bed and hit your head?"

"Yeah, I did, but I'm fine! I think that Arthur may have been kidnapped from Azkaban…"

America looked the boy squarely in the eyes.

"Harry, we both have to accept this now, Arthur is gone. He may come back, he may not. I know that you felt particularly close to him last year but the fact is, he attacked a human - muggle, I mean. That is unacceptable. We need to let it go, okay?"

"But, sir." Harry protested. "This really happened! They are taking him to the Dark Lord! Oliver and Allen."

Alfred vaguely recognised the names but paid it no heed.

"Shhh." He murmured, taking the boy's temperature. "It'll be fine. Come on, Harry." He got out of bed, showing garish hamburger pyjamas. "I'm taking you to the hospital wing."

"I'm telling the truth." Harry snapped, green eyes blazing.

"I know you had a dream, Harry. You're a little warm, it was just a hallucination. You saw Arthur in the Daily Prophet and your mind linked it to this. It happens to us all. Let's go, you can have a fever reduction potion and a bed for the night, where Madame Pomfrey can take care of you. Sound good, right?"

"Stop patronising me!" Harry was shaking with rage.

"Harry, I'm being perfectly reasonable here. You are sick. You need to rest."

"No!"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Harry." Alfred's voice was a little sharper now.

Harry huffed and rolled his eyes. "Okay then, America, I need your help to find England."

America stared at him, dumbly.

"You know?"

"Found out when facing Voldemort last year, after that it was sort of obvious, you and he being… you know… an item. You had to be America if he was England."

The boy swayed on his feet. His face had rapidly grown ashen.

"I think I might take you up on that offer of a bed in the hospital wing."

His eyes clouded over slightly and, without warning, he fell back onto the floor in an exhausted faint.

"Harry!" Alfred checked the boy's pulse. He was fine, just unconscious. America took the shimmery silver cloak from Harry's cold hands and placed it in a draw of his dresser – it looked expensive. He then scooped the boy up and walked down the corridor, mind racing.

Were the dreams real?

Was Harry just making things up?

What on Earth was that silver cloak?