Merry Ol' England

Sitting

America slumped in the half-hidden stall he'd commandeered after the interview/meeting with a crazy, colorblind old man. (And how the old man had even found him, America didn't even want to consider.) He gulped down his fifth pint of something at this backwater London pub, before thunking down the glass and glaring at it balefully, as if his current misery was being caused by the tankard. Then again, while he didn't usually drink so much, not alone at least, the tankard was hardly to blame, but he figured he could make an exception for anything tonight.

If it wasn't bad enough that he'd been given a teaching job, because, yeah resident super awesome heroes aren't really suitable as teachers. (Just look at his States, for God's sake!)

But anyway, it was a) in Scotland, and b) magical. (And Jesus, that hurt more than he cared to think about, because he'd been right, and God, America thinks, I need more to drink if I'm gonna make it through the night.) Not to mention, he's surrounded by that British lilt, and even though he hadn't liked the man, when a fellow Country disappears for over a decade and a half, America feels justified with his current desire to drink himself into a coma.

"You know, I don't want to imagine what your liver must be saying to you right now." A bemused voice commented from the barside end of his stall.

America blinked blearily, drunken eyes taking in a pair of smirking bottle green eyes (just like his) over his empty - how many times was it now, seven? Eight? A dozen? - glass, and snorted. "Yeah, well, don't see why you're caring. Ain't like you're my mother."

The man snorted and slid in opposite him, "And I'd hate to be. But obviously you're bloody confident of your abilities to drink yourself under the table, so I figured you'd need someone to make sure you didn't drown. Since, you know, despite misery loving company, it'd be illegal for me to steal your drink."

America squints at the man over his glasses, his brain sloshing drunkenly to the conclusion that, yes, in fact it was a teenager, not quite yet a man, maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen, just under the legal age here in Britain. And definitely not supposed to be in a bar, but what the hell, America was past caring.

"Alrighty then. Get me another name and tell me your beer." The boy cocked an eyebrow as America blinked slowly, trying to figure out what was wrong with what he'd said. The boy's face twisted into something between a patronizing smile and a pained grimace, although America couldn't figure out why he would bear either look. "My name is Harry, Harry Potter. And I'll see if Tom can't find more of whatever you're drinking."

And as America watched the boy saunter up to the bar, he couldn't help but feel that if he'd been sober that name would have meant more than it did, in more ways than one.

Watching

France watches out of the corner of his eye as America twitches as more and more eyes fall on the two of them, the new Defense teachers, at Britain's utterly dreary magical academie.

Why oh why, could he not be at his own beautiful Beauxbatons?

Because America, fool that he is, still is disbelieving of magic. As if he were ignorant of what happened with his own people! Every Country has magic, even if they weren't like ... z'biggest idiot of them all, that annoying little ... grr! Thinking about that would only make more impossible to not strangle that uncouth barbarian sitting next to him! How dare England disappear and leave him with ... with ... with AMERICA! Constantly coming and going, demanding information and giving insults in return for what little France knew. That rude, uncultured churl! To think, that once he'd wanted to be the oaf's frère!

Luckily for America, France merely daydreamed of what he wished to do to America. Unluckily for America, France was also planning some redecorations (let's not ask what, shall we?) and wasn't able to save him when Dumbledore introduced him to the smirking green eyes of Harry Potter.

Which cut briefly to the figure chuckling dementedly beside him, before looking back at America, eyebrow cocked questioningly. America, of course, could only respond with a shrug. (Because he didn't know what the hell France was planning, and really didn't want to.)

At that the boy's stare became mirthful, "Well, if you have to deal with that damned frog all the time, no wonder you were trying to drown. Anyway," Harry said with a shrug, "I'm supposed to be showing you the castle, and while most of it can wait until tomorrow, I believe you'll be wanting your beds at some point. So," here Harry waved his hand in France's direction, "make sure he follows along, will you?"

And once again, America watched the boy saunter away, fleetingly feeling like that what had just happened really, really should mean something important.

Waiting

Eventually, it becomes something of a waiting game for them both, as they wonder exactly how long it will take for a) Britain to wake up and b) America to realize Britain was Harry Potter.

On one side, Francis Bonnefoy, also known as France, or to the students, the second coming of Lockhart, but with slightly more brains.

On the other, Hermione Granger, also known as London, or the know-it-all, who had accidentally on purpose followed her friend to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. (And yes, while this entire fiasco counted, she had to make sure he didn't die or anything!)

The betting, I mean, friendly, parties sat on the sidelines of yet another DADA class, watching the pair snipe at each other over some fact or another. The rest of the class was enraptured, so Hermione subtly leaned over and whispered to Francis, "I wonder if it's UST."

France had to physically keep himself from laughing out loud, although he couldn't completely keep his facial muscles from twitching in amusement.

Hermione took that as a challenge, and if France had been looking, he would have seen her eyes glinting much like England's did when he had a prank planned. (And feared for his life, but what else is new?) "It's just, I've heard it can really wreak havoc with the brain's ability to think rationally." Hermione whispered, after checking again to make sure no one was listening.

France knew that if she kept talking, it would only be a matter of time before he started laughing. So, after schooling his features, and making sure he wouldn't start laughing when he opened his mouth, he whispered back, equally attentive to whether anyone was listening. "Zhen, what is it you suggest we do?"

Hermione smiled, her eyes sparkling like the sun. "Ask?"

At that, France couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up. When he finally got himself under control, he looked up to find himself pinned by two angry stares, one blue and one green, and Hermione pointedly ignoring him. Despite the shiver of dread that raced down his spine at the glares, he refused to allow her to get away with making him look the fool. (Of course, he was walking right into the prank, but again, what else is new?)

So, he cleared his throat, and said "It iz nothing, just ze most amuzing theory zat Mademoiselle Granger was sharing with moi."

Harry recognized immediately that, knowing his friend, it was most likely embarrassing and that he really didn't need to know.

Unfortunately, America asked before Harry could stop him. "And what was that, Francis? Or should I be asking Miss Granger?"

Harry spared only a second to send his friend a pleading glance, but all hope died when he saw the look in her eyes. Damnit, of all the things to pick up from... Harry's mind cast about desperately, trying to figure out who he was thinking about, before finally settling on the barely remembered name of Arthur, not quite sure where the name had come from, or how he even knew it.

Hermione savored the moment, and smirked. "UST, sir."

Every eye in the room was suddenly trained on the pair, and it was all Harry could do to keep himself from burying his head in his hands.

America (unsurprisingly) was confused. And he was going to get answers, despite the fact that Harry was glaring at him. "What's UST - OWWW! What the fuck was that for!" He screamed as he hopped up and down on one foot.

Harry glared even harder, "Shut your bloody mouth, you ignorant twat!"

All thoughts of pain fled America's mind as he whipped around to glare at Harry, going so far as to get up into Harry's face. But before he could say a word, Hermione's voice rang out.

"Unresolved sexual tension."

For one eternal second, no one moved. Twin blushes spread across both America's and Harry's cheeks as they blinked slowly.

The moment was broken when America backpedaled so quickly, he nearly tripped over his desk in his attempt to plaster himself along the front wall of the classroom, thoughts of sexual harassment charges and walls of denial parading through his mind. Harry, for his part, didn't move, although he did wonder where that damnable blush had come from. Wasn't like he liked the prick, right? And why the hell the stupid frog was laughing like it was his birthday come early!

Wishing

Sometimes, Albus wished it was all someone else's responsibility. He wished that someone else was the Wizarding World's guiding light, that someone else was in charge of guiding the next generation. And most of all, he wished someone else had been given the task of protecting Harry Potter.

But, then again, who else could they have trusted, back when he and Arthur had planned it all out. And it was an honor, to have been trusted with protecting Arthur's memories, while Arthur protected the Wizarding World. (And his suggestions to hire Mr.'s Alfred and Francis had been a godsend, even though it gave Albus a little under a year to give back the memories. To prepare himself to say good-bye to the boy he'd come to see as a grandson, to prepare himself to see his old friend once more.)

However, that didn't stop a feeling of dismay from settling in his stomach as he watched Harry regain his equilibrium from the last set of memories, because Albus' time had run out. Fingering the slim black box that was the key to it all, Albus sighed with resignation as he placed the box in Harry's line of sight.

"My boy, before you leave, there is one last thing that I would like to give you. I believe you will find it ... enlightening."

Harry gave Dumbledore a quizzical look, but accepted the box. Reverently, he lifted the lid, and saw that nestled inside was a small vial of silvery liquid, resting on top of a thin oaken wand. Cautiously, he removed the vial, keeping a careful hold on it as he examined the wand, which seemed so familiar, more so than even his own holly one. With preoccupied grace, he strode over to the pensive, keeping a firm hold on the wand, seemingly forgetting that Dumbledore was in the room.

And then, Albus was, for all intents and purposes, alone in his office. Not for long however, as first Miss Granger, then both Mr. Jones and Mr. Bonnefoy appeared, as if drawn like moths to the flame. Silently, they all waited, although Albus alone knew what for.

Then, suddenly, Harry emerged from the pensive. Alfred moved first, going to steady him. "You alright?"

He considered the question for a second, before his lips turned up into a familiar smirk and his entire frame straightened. "Yes, Alfie, I've never been better."

AN: Ah, Hetalia, where have you been all my life? So, this is the result of a Netflix Hetalia marathon - 52 episodes, 2 days - and the thought that while I've seen quite a few London!Harry stories, I've never seen a England!Harry one. And then America demanded to be included, and France and London snuck in too, and USUK infected my mind. And, somehow, despite my lack of computer and an uncooperative muse for all my other stuff, this story was born. (And, yes, this has been sitting, betaed and everything, waiting for the chance to be posted since the end of May. You have now idea how hard it's been not being able to post this!)

So anyway, currently, this is just a oneshot, although I am welcoming ideas because if enough people want me to, I could be persuaded to continue it.

And before I go, a few facts that I did find for this story! One, the drinking age in England - parents can buy their children drinks if they're younger than 18, but you have to be 18 or older to buy your own (Wikipedia has a wonderful page with the drinking ages across the world, and it is hilarious in its own way.) And two, England's wand - yes, it is oak, which is the national tree of Britian, and I'm currently going with gryphon feather core, because they're the closest magical animal to lions I can think of, which are Britian's national animal. Because unicorns are more for Scotland actually, so that wasn't going to happen. And dragons tend to be associated with London, more so than Britian as a whole. (So Hermione's wand with dragon heartstring was right all along!)

And yes, I am talking about the Salem Witch Trials that America is ignorant about, among other things. (And before anyone says anything about me being mean to America, I'm an American, so I can be as mean as I want. Besides, he's cute when he's flustered, and I love America!)

Ok, I'll stop rambling now! I hope you all like it, and don't forget to review!

~Ja ne!