I am swamped! Literally. So. Much. Work. Also, I have two NATIONAL events next week, Schools' Head and the Scullery! Fun Fun Fun!

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CoMmEnT

Arthur knocked firmly on the door, heart in his head. His stomach felt like there was a large gobstone in it and although the day was warm, he shivered slightly.

Don't let him in. Blank. You are fine. You are fine. You are fine.

His subconscious set up a long stream of soothing mantras and eventually he was able to summon up enough conviction to place his hand on the brass knob. It was warm and smooth, decades of similar hands having grasped it in this way, and strangely soft, like rubber. He twisted it, and slipped inside.

Once inside, Arthur almost let out a low chuckle, instead disguising it behind a hasty cough. The room was exactly as he had imagined. Actually, more so. It was a long thin room, almost like a corridor, and tall, enchanted windows at the far end illuminated an ebony desk with a faint glow. The torches on the walls guttered and fizzled furiously in their brackets, casting eclectic shadows on the walls.

A man was standing at the other end of the room, back to England. Arthur gave a small, dry cough, his mouth feeling like it was made of sandpaper. The man turned around, flashing Arthur with his scarlet eyes.

"Yes?"

"…" Arthur opened his mouth but only a choked stutter came out. Months of being forced away from his loved ones, from others such as him, had rendered him weaker than he had previously thought.

"Ah, you're here." Voldemort hissed. "It's nice to see you again, Arthuur."

England hated the emphasis put on his given name. It twisted in his gut, making him feel exceedingly uncomfortable. He bristled slightly, shooting the Dark Lord a death glare that would have made even Germany weak-kneed. Voldemort, however, laughed.

"Damn you!" Arthur spat, acid green eyes firey and strong. "Don't call me that. You have no right!"

"I have the right to do as I wish." Voldemort smiled serenely. "You're only one half of the country. Oliver!" He snapped his fingers, as one would call a dog, and grinned at the shocked look on Arthur's face.

Oliver walked carefully into the room, looking warily at Voldemort.

"Sir?" His blue eyes were darting around the room.

"I want you to show England here the price of your freedom."

Oliver's eyes widened. He clasped at his neck, tossing his strawberry blonde hair out of his eyes and stepped backwards.

Voldemort grinned all the more. "No matter. You'll do as I say when I give you your reward."

At that moment, he clapped his hands once, and two 2Ps entered, Luciano and his more dapper looking brother, carrying a struggling man between them. Arthur let out a low, pained whistle through his teeth. It was the former muggle prime minister.

"No." He muttered. "You can't!"

Voldemort looked on like a benevolent Grandfather as he took Oliver by the shoulders and handed him a long silver knife. Oliver looked at the struggling human with real hunger evident in his expression, face excited. He was held fast by the Dark Lord's long, pale hands and shifted edgily from foot to foot. A longing whimper broke from his lips, making Voldemort smile.

"Oliver, you shall have this human." This statement made Arthur cringe away from the horrific sight. "And… You, England, shall watch."

"England?" The PM looked up desperately. "England! Help me. Don't let him – I have a family, you know them… They can't survive without me."

England stepped forward, laying a hand on the man's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry." He choked, vision hazing behind a film of tears. "I can't help you. You're going to die."

"No..." The PM looked down, stilling his previous struggles. "Are you sure, England?"

"Yes. I can't stop it. They might kill me as well."

The Prime Minister looked down at the younger looking man, with real pity in his reddened eyes. Over their time together he had started to see the country as a real friend, a protégé of sorts, even though England was many millennia older than he.

"Fine."

"What?" Hissed England frantically. "No! You can't die! I saw it. You were supposed to live many more decades, to have grandchildren. You were supposed to die in your bed at the age of one hundred and two, surrounded by your family. T-the state funeral… You can't die now!"

"You are a good man, Arthur." The PM said warmly, a trace of hesitance in his tone. "Don't let them will you otherwise."

He stood up taller and stuck his chin up in the air.

"Do your worst." Said the greatest post-war prime minister that Britain had ever had.

"Oliver… You may attack." Said Voldemort, indolently, a lazy smile on the corners of his mouth. He let go.

Arthur watched in horror as Oliver Kirkland smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile, but a manic grin spread onto his face, as bright as any star.

"Hallo!" He said cheerily, running the knife along his finger until it was saturated with his own blood. "I've come to kill you!"

The PM shuddered but stood strong, eying the shorter man with great distaste.

"So I've heard."

Oliver gave a jaunty wink and checked his grip on the knife.

"I've never killed a PM before… Which is odd, because you know how much I enjoy this. I've had to cut back in recent years but-" Here he sucked the blossoming blood off his finger. "Blood is as sweet as ever."

Arthur saw the intent in Oliver's eyes before the PM. He gasped, a hollow strangled sound, as Oliver ran the knife clean through his friend's body.

"Doesn't take long, does it?" Oliver whispered, twisting the knife. It made no effect. The older man was already dead.

Whatever force that had fixed Arthur to his spot broke, and he ran to the dead body, grabbing it and pulling the man into an embrace. Blood seeped into his clothes but Arthur didn't care. This man had shown all of the bravery of a true English hero and he deserved dignity in death. He gently closed the PM's eyes, still so gentle, even in death.

A wave of emotion hit him so hard he should have toppled. It took his breath away. He felt a sharp pain in his chest pierce his body, his heart breaking. England was stuck there like a butterfly on a pin. The pain was tremendous, cataclysmic, beyond what any creature should feel and survive.

Someone nearby was sobbing, the sound rising by degrees, a penetrating, heartbroken sound that filled all the space in Arthur's head and in the room too. His body began to shake uncontrollably, as if lightning had struck from the sky and was grounding through him. His eyes burned. He realised eventually, as though he had fallen from a great height and only just hit the ground, that the sobs were his own.

"I – loved you." He whispered to the man's still corpse. "You were like my brother."

"So, England." Voldemort said, smoothly. "Do I have your loyalty? Or will I have to do the same to your Alfred? Or Francis? Or even that sweet little Matthew?"

"Cha bhithidh a leithid ami riamh."

"English, please, you despicable excuse of a landmass."

"I said, 'His equal will never be among us again.'."

"Answer me, please."

"Fine." England looked down. "As long as they are not harmed."

"Excellent." Voldemort reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of black leather with a buckle.

"Hell no."

The cold hands gripped him with surprising strength and the collar was fastened snugly around his neck.

"You will wear this at all times." Said Voldemort, placing a permanent sticking charm on it.

Oliver was looking at Arthur with an unreadable expression. There was exhaustion and a distant kind of sadness in his eyes as he reached under his collar and pulled his blue bow tie undone so that Arthur could see the black leather encircling his neck.