Death is near. Death is inevitable. The words of the fortune teller rung in his head. Not being one to shoot down ideas, he believed them. The fortune teller had gone into that rigid state when she said it, henceforth it must be true. He believed his death was close by, and possibly that night. He was awoken from his thoughts by a gentle voice.

"Care to dance?" France asked carefully, holding out a hand to England, who sat idly. It was the Yule Ball, dancing pairs pranced about the floor, clicking heels, swooshing dresses, polite laughs and polite remarks resounded through the hall. England looked at the hand, unsure of the gesture. "Really I," France pulled his hand away and turned around shyly. "You've been terribly glum these days. I thought I'd give you a break," he sat down and England daren't say a word. "At least tell me what's got you so down?" England looked up suddenly.

"Shush," England stood suddenly. All the other folk were having far too much fun to take care.

"What are you—"

"I said, shut your bloody mouth!" England hissed, staring at the wall. His brows furrowed the way they do when he's either mad or upset. France felt worried, his mouth set in a frown. It did not fade when England sat down, seemingly regaining himself. "I'm sorry, I thought I spotted something," he laughed blankly. A simple ha, ha, ha.

France bit his lip and turned away. He heard something strange, like children whispering and giggling. France turned behind him, only seeing Harry and Ron chatting quietly. "Are there any small children here?" he asked Harry, having roamed over without excusing himself.

Harry started, looking up at France. "No, youngest are 11, if that's what you mean by small,"

The voices erupted, sounding like multiple children at once screaming in agony. France winced and looked around. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" Ron asked curiously, as if genuinely interested.

"Hearing voices isn't normal, not even for wizards," Harry recited the long lost words. Words that had lived a short while, ages ago, and died with hardly a whimper.

France shushed them with a wave of his hand. The voices died back down, dimming into scared whispers and giggles. "It sounds like children being tortured!" France exclaimed, slamming his hands on his ears when the screams came back. They were louder this time, tearing into the air. Multiple screams resonated through the air, multiple children screaming in harmony.

Hermione, who was busily crying on the stairway looked up. She heard the yells. Standing and gathering her dress, she hurried back to Harry and Ron, who were watching France in simple amusement. "Did you hear that?" she hissed, quivering.

"Bloody hell, why are your eyes so red?" Ron muttered, taking no notice of what she had said.

"The screams! They were clear as the nose on your face, we need to do something!" she stressed, wincing in anger.

"Go back to your crying, 'Mione," Harry added in rudely.

France turned and looked at Hermione, who had her face in a tart contraction, obviously fuming with boiling rage. "You heard?" he asked.

Hermione looked at him, smiling in relief. "See, I'm n-not mad!" she sobbed, covering her face. Ron and Harry had the same distant look Fred and George had, their eyes… Something was different there. Their eyes were blank, a blue color and paper white skin. Hermione looked around, the other students were the same. Dull eyes, unsmiling faces, even the music had come to a halt. The dancers stopped dancing and everyone looked on blankly. The couples stopped moving, every person but three stood as if they were made of stone. England, France, and Hermione were the last living things, so to speak. Hermione walked closely to Ron and touched his cheek. His eyes shifted to look at her, and for a flickering second there was a glimmer of plea, a call of help. She knelt down, "oh Ron… Ron…" she pleaded him to return. Ron's body shivered and his head knelt down, tumbling to the floor along with everyone else. Their bodies fell coldly to the floor with a dull thump. The teachers, who were merrily laughing only a moment ago were staring coldly ahead, their eyes dead. Hermione took a deep breath. She touched Ron's neck. No pulse. "He's dead!" she cried, stumbling back into the arms of the two men. France looked at England, wanting an answer.

"They're not dead, my dear," he touched Hermione's head gently and turned her face towards him. He peered into her eyes, studying her frantic features. "Good… Jolly good!" he smiled and hugged her close. "Remember those poems I told you? Remember what Quinn told you? I'm Britain, that's France, Bulgaria is drunk somewhere… But you have to believe me. We are the nations. That—" he gestured to the witches and wizards around, "—didn't happen to us because we are nations. It didn't affect you because I preformed a spell on you. Now, tell me, have you memorized the Phoenix Call?"

She nodded, "I haven't tried it yet," she didn't even fathom not believing him, she was far too distressed over Ron and Harry.

"Perfect!" England nodded, and pulled out his wand. It seemed to melt, dripping low to the floor. Like a candle's wax, the white material lengthened but lost no matter. With dim little vibrating shimmers, it became a gallant white staff.

Holding it in hand, he began to run, beckoning Hermione and France to follow. "What's with the staff? Isn't a wand just as good?" France asked.

"The wand was only a compact staff, the staff has oodles more power than a wand. I don't use this often, I would look silly!"England replied and turned a right. Hermione and France exchanged a look and followed.

"Why are we running?" Hermione asked, kicking off her shoes. "What's going on? What were those screams? What is going on?!"

"Girls, you always ask so many questions," England sighed, "We haven't the time, please keep running," and so they ran in silence. Unexpectedly, England stopped and faced a wall. He tapped it with the staff and the walls slid open. "Brilliant, really… Brilliant architects, wish I'd met them. Oh, wait, I did," he chuckled and stepped in. Inside was a long passageway, unused for many a year, and a musty smell loomed inside. Cobwebs hung like Christmas decorations. England pulled off his shoes. "Do the same, these walls echo," France complied, Hermione looked in as she had already taken off her shoes. Such uncomfortable high-heels, she had thought, I ought to make enchanted ones that turn to more comfortable penny-loafers for running.

Besides the smell of mold and grime, underlying was a smell of iron—particularly blood. Scrunching her nose at the rank smell, the witch drew back finding her wand which she had hidden in the folds of her dress. "Where does this lead to?" she asked, holding out her wand. England placed a hand on her wand, stopping her from using 'lumonous'.

"You'll soon find out. No light, the walls will lead us where we need. They were made for them after all. Now, when I give the call, repeat the spell," England instructed and turned to France who felt somewhat left out and jealous. A childish jealousy really, why was he giving more attention to her? France, with his arms crossed, stared evenly at England. "Don't look at me like that, I need your help too. Here," he held out a small, leather bag. France took it and inside was the bottle, the blade, and the arrow. "Take the blade, it hates me," he looked at it, as if to ask what the hate was for. France grabbed it, and in some manner the blade hissed at England, as if making a raspberry. "Oh don't you do that, rude blade," England scolded and brought a finger to his lips. "No sound, no light," he entered the hall, the other following closely behind.

France held the blade tightly, it shook furiously, trying to squirm from his grasp. He then shoved it in the bag and held that bag close to his chest. Wich, was a rotten idea. The whispering sounds, which never really had stopped, continued on tiredly. The voices sounded weary and trembling. As if they had no choice but to talk.

They entered a low-hanging room, the ceiling quite literally scrunched them up, their bodies lurched forward and hobbled.

"Who goes there? I smells bloods! Nice, juicy bloods!" a smothered voice said. The speaker seemed to spit rather than talk properly. A hacking sound followed the words, like some mucous had built up in the throat and was climbing its way out only to be swallowed again. "Bloods! Three! I smells three! Delicious, yummy, bloods. Mm! I's having a big feasts today!" it called again, another fit of violent hacking followed by something plopping onto the floor with a disgruntling plop.

England turned towards the other two, holding up a finger to his lips. He could hardly see them, only a thin blue light that glowed like a dying ember aided them. Even then, it hardly sufficed. They moved onto a path that was slim and lead off in two different directions. England grabbed the hand that was behind him and led to the left. They walked around in a curved path, twice Hermione nearly slipped, thrice did France (who had to do with a fussing blade, mind you), and odd enough, England stumbled not once, who seemed to know this place inside-out.

Hermione's dress was torn, but her mind was where greater matters lie. Her friends were dead, which she believed despite England's words otherwise, and she had no way to bring them back. Least she could do was to avenge them. With her eyes set forward and her features grim she followed, stumbling no more. England felt this tense change behind him and turned backwards, leaning closely he told her in a whisper to faint she barely could grab the words, let alone hold onto them, "relax. She smells emotion". Words in mind, she tried to do so. She thought of being in a great library, with a distant smell of freshly mowed grass and old books wafting through the air, and her nose in a book. Her shoulders slumped and the blue light flickered.

France kept close behind, growing heavier and wearier with each step. The great weight in his arms fumbled and the blade had pierced the leather and was steaming hot. Even through this entire struggle, it made not a sound. Feeling faint, as if the moving wasn't the only thing tiring him, he worried he would slip and fall. His vision blurred and Hermione's pink dress was hardly there. He gripped onto what he could and dropped to his knees, the bag still to his chest. He coughed and sputtered, thick drops of blood splattered out. He had grabbed a loose piece of fabric, already torn from Hermione's dress. He looked up, but his senses were failing. Reaching down to grab the bag, he found something soaking wet instead. He pulled up his hand, which shook violently, and tried to figure out the strange, hot material that dripped down his fingers. It was blood. He shivered and reached down again, unsure. The world was spinning around him and his eyes threatened to shut and remain shut. His fingers were already numb, and the strange material that had lodged itself into his chest felt like nothing. France could tell some sort of object was hidden behind the mist, then it became clear.

The blade had pierced itself into his heart.

Thoughts fluttered around in his head. He wondered if England had planned to kill him. No, England believed he would die, did he not? Either way, he could have lied. He skidded off the edge and fell down deep. He landed on something soft with a polite thump. Hardly able to even think, he muttered with his last breath, "This is how the world ends, with a whimper, and not a bang…" he closed his eyes and his breathing grew fainter and fainter until it was gone all together.

"Mm, fresh bloods! Killed already, saves work for poor Arrksha!" The voice howled in delight and a scuttling sound headed in the opposite direction. England turned to Hermione, grinning in triumph. He ran forward, skidding down a slope and looking about. The source of the blue light appeared to be a grand globe, shimmering like the moon and just as proud. Hermione peered in, and saw something distantly glimmer. A face it was. A face that looked an awful lot like Harry's, crying help! Help!

"They're in here!" she said in a barely contained whisper, looking at England who tapped his staff on the walls. England had been pondering what caused the Arrksha to run away. Perhaps Hermione's dress led it away.

"Oh, grand, I know. Where's that blade, France?" he called and looked around. His glorified face dimmed and was replaced by panic. "France?!" he cried out and ran around; trying to find what had been lost. "France! This isn't funny, you know, not in the least bit… France…!" he mumbled and threw his staff on the ground, "Hermione, break the globe with my staff, and do it quickly!" he ordered and ran in the direction the Arrksha went.

He found some giant form, that strongly resembled a spider, hawk, and woman stood in front of him, standing over some limp figure. It hissed at England, "Ah! Hello, dear Arrksha, what a pleasure!" he said hoarsely. The figure leaned down, it's eight legs, which were jet-black and furry crouched, showing a feathered body and upper torso of a woman. The woman was strangely familiar. It was the ghost he had seen, England recognized. The feathers, grimy in some unfamiliar substance gleamed with white light, as the black and red eyes winced. The white light had come shortly after a shattering sound. Hermione had broken the globe, with fury by the looks of it. Screams sounded and blue figures flew overhead and out of the hallway. Hermione ran back, throwing the staff into England's outstretched hand. "Stay back," he said, "and when I say so, do the spell," he turned back to Arrksha. "What happened to you! Blimey you got a make-over, and not the best, if I might say,"

"It insults us!" it cried, three voices in one. Another hacking sound. The voices were that of a large man (the bird), a dying raspy sound (the spider) and the woman. And another hacking sound. "But it wishes to knows, doesn't it?"

England nodded, stepping back. Sadly, the Arrksha did not move forward, as he had hoped. "Yes, I wish to know. Tell me, all three of you, what happened?" he demanded, stepping back again. The creature only swayed on its legs.

"Masters wished for you blood!" it hissed and jumped forward.

"Przychodzą do mnie, po wielkim pożarze pana! Z dziobów tak szybkiego i ogona tak śmiałego. I szukania schronienia w pierś !" Hermione screamed, and a bright light filled the room. The creature was attacked by none other than Fawkes. The lightest touch and it burst into flames, England gave Hermione a mean look and ran around, coming to a halt in front of the figure.

The creature ignited and burned, turning to a pile of ash. "What was that look for?!" Hermione asked, when the room grew silent again.

"I DIDN'T SAY TO DO THAT! I WAS GETTING INFORMATION!" England shrieked, ready to tear out his hair.

"SHE WAS ABOUT TO KILL YOU!" Hermione responded just as madly.

England stopped and quivered with anger, "GO! Just… Just go! Go see to Harry and the others, see if they're okay," he turned and knelt by the figure. Hermione recognized France's face and understood. She turned and ran back to the hall.

England leaned over the body and shuddered, starting to sob. "It wasn't me who was going to die…" he whispered and pulled the damned blade out of France's chest. He stared at it long and hard, before slamming it on a rock, snapping the blade in two.

France's pale, lifeless face, with eyes closed lay bloody and motionless on the stone, cold floor. "What a bitter place to d-die… No, he can't die," England fought with himself and went back to France, he undid the jacket and tie. He felt at the wound and drew closer, his quivering lips touched France's temple. Cold as ice. His hand touched the chest, where dried blood curdled up. No pulse or breath. Shivering and cursing, England's tears fell to France's cheeks, falling limply down the sides and in a ceremony of complete nothingness, waved good-bye to England. Leaving him forever. Those tears he would never see again, or feel. He would never see France laugh again, or flirt, he would never feel his warm and soft hands.

"Dammit, why didn't I take that dance… My best friend…" he said barely above a whisper and lay down besides France, holding the hand so tight in hopes of returning warmth and life. He looked at France, and fancied himself speaking again. "Re-remember how we went to America? How we went to India? How we colonized the world? How our monarchs ruled? Remember all that?" he brushed away the long, curly hair from France's face. England held it in his hands for a moment, the soft, silky thing lay calmly in his grasp, the last bit of life. He dropped it, unable to see clearly from the tears swelling in his eyes like massive balloons. For minutes on end, he remained there, in the dark with only the dim luminous charm hanging out from his staff. When he felt himself droop into a sleep, he sat up and wiped his eyes. "well, good-bye old chap. I… I…" he kissed France's forehead and stood up, and bid his farewell.

"I'm sorry, I'll do what I can. Which isn't much, I'm just an old man who looks too young,"


How did you all like my story? Review and tell me what you think! This is my intended end, and yes I know there are many unanswered questions. I guess I will leave it to you to decided upon those answers. Perhaps someday in the future I'll answer those questions. Perhaps. So do you like my stories? Would you read more? Tell me! Tell me your thoughts!