I apologize for the atrocity that is this mess of a story. I apologize for the unrecognizable plot lines, the clichéd lines, and the bad characters. This story fills me with bitterness each time I glance at it. So here is a short (and mind you short) addition to this story.

There was something very strange about the man who called himself Arthur Kirkland. When he wielded his wand he looked more terrifying than a soldier raising a claymore. When he chuckled he was more heartrendingly comely than a child's image of Saint Nicolas.

Hermione Granger saw him once when she visited the countryside. He stood so still he may as well had sprouted roots into the ground and shot forwards from the earth like a towering tree. His hair swayed and his green eyes gleamed with a proud, kingly look. He was dressed in civilian's clothing and his hands were held akimbo, as though soaking up the country and sun. She realized then that he really was an old man, a man older than any wizard in the world. Finally, he moved. He stepped forwards and waved at someone behind the trees near a red barn. A cow lowed not far away and a farmer ignored Arthur, even when he seemed to shine a spectacular gold.

The man was a nation, Hermione caught herself thinking. No, she was a grown woman, cut away from any childish whimsies. But the more she stared at the man who seemed to collect the world and its powers the more she believed in her thought. The more she stared at the sheer power a nation has, supported by history far greater than any epic and a people so large and so proud of this man they put young men to war, the more she believed that a nation was more than an imaginary line on a map, as she had once been told before.

Her heart thundered in her ears. She couldn't hear Ron calling her over. She knew when she tore her eyes away the magical warmth and pride in her would wilt. Eventually she had to. Arthur had vanished into the trees, laughing in a way that seemed to shake the earth. She returned to Ron and never spoke of it again.