Disclaimer: I don't any of the Hetalia or Harry Potter characters. I'm just borrowing them for the moment. :3

Contains: Implied ArthurK/HarryP; AvatarOfMagic!Harry

So it's my first fic (even if it's a really short one) so if you could give me any feedback, it'd be much appreciated. :) Any grammatical mistakes, dangling modifiers and such are so easily overlooked by my biased eyes. Forgive me~ xP

His

Nobody really believes England whenever he says that magic is real. It's impossible, irrational and just overall unbelievable. Yet no matter how strange the things that occur around them can be –no matter how glaringly obvious they may be– only a few people would acknowledge magic's existence.

Arthur Kirkland may well be the only nation that knows magic well (sans Norge and his other brother islands) and even then he knew it a bit more intimately. He knew magic so well that he could practically make volumes and volumes of how it works, its secrets, the complexities of how it came to be, its different forms, its uses, etc. He knew magic inside and out.

The whole world didn't know that in every country lies a hidden society teeming with all the evidence that would finally prove England right. Of course, England wasn't desperate enough to expose these societies to them. He knew the risks – the magicals would be perceived as threats and be killed! After all, he only aimed to prove that magic was real, not that magic had its own power base in every nation.

Still, no matter what England did, no one would ever see magic for what it is beyond the commercial parlor tricks that they'd rather choose over real sorcery.

Magic was misunderstood, England can conclude. They didn't know it was magic that made them –representations of their nations– exist. They didn't see that it was magic that bound them to their land and to their people; that tethered their longevity and near immortality; that made them who they are. They were unaware that their very life depended on magic and didn't notice that magic had nearly killed them.

And if it weren't for England's recent hero, the very person prophesied to save the world from the tyranny of a power-hungry madman, they wouldn't have lasted beyond 1980.

That was why whenever Arthur would depress over the stubbornness and narrow-mindedness of the other nations (most especially the twit that was his former colony America and the over-indulgent yet disbelieving wino France), Harry Potter, the wonderful lad that he is, would sit next to the blond Briton, envelop his nation in a comforting hug and say, "I don't need them to believe in me, Arthur. I only need you."

And England would smile and return the gesture, inwardly marveling at just how wonderful it is to know that the avatar of magic, the very personification of the force that he was raised to believe in, was his to care and his to cherish. His, his, his.

But despite the very solid assurance that the lack of acknowledgement of his existence was fine, Harry knew that England would continue his quest to prove him, the human-turned-personification, real if only to rub into the faces of other disbelieving nations that the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland owned the hero of the world and now the avatar of all things magical. He would prove to the world that Harry Potter was real and very much England's.