Basically an elaborative segment explaining the beginning through Arthur's eyes, and expanding the whole 'talk that unloaded loads of baggage off of Harry's shoulders' thing since I never liked that wording anyway. It's shorter than the original and it just came around cause it struck my fancy to try something sad again.

Also yes, dear Anon, this is really truly different from the first chapter.

That said, beware of heartbreak.

Arthur was attuned to the emotions of all his citizens. He knew their feelings at any given moment, but for the most part had learned to ignore it in order to give his people their privacy. It was only when truly powerful emotions surged in a big part of him, his land and people, that he felt a jolt of the emotion passing down his spine and electrifying the tips of his fingers. It didn't happen often. Mostly when on the battlefield the fear and the bloodlust would jumble his brain and he would tear into his enemy with ferocious abandon to work off the shock, and often at protests he would feel the indignation of the masses and storm the Parliament to tear the ones responsible for the anger of the people a new one.

But nowadays things were calm. The magical war was over, the after-parties too, and hard work on the reconstruction of the wizarding world had begun. No bloodsheds, no reason for protests yet. Even his normal citizens were enjoying a serene war-free life, with the politicians kicked into high gear to prevent reason for uprisings. So far so good.

Then one typical rainy afternoon it happened. Heartbreaking anguish shocked his brain so fast and so suddenly that he threw his head back and nearly spilt his tea on his shirt. Thankfully, he was alone so no one would bear witness even if he had, but that was the least of his concern at the moment. Instantly, many possible reasons for the feeling flashed through his mind. Revolt? No. War? He'd have known long before that. A national tragedy?

He turned on the TV quickly and surfed the news channels, looking for any breaking news. None.

Therefore, he did the only thing left he could do: he relaxed back into his chair and delved into himself, into the feeling. He inspected it carefully from every possible angle and when he found the thin trail leading back to the geographical source, he quickly traced it and pinned the location of the feeling to an old abandoned house. Now, what would anyone be doing there?

Despite the pouring rain, Arthur grabbed an umbrella and his car keys and he was out the door.

He only understood the situation when he saw the blazing ruins of the old house already being extinguished by the storm and the figure crouched in the middle of the apocalyptic grounds, clutching a lifeless body and crying uncontrollably. Ah, yes, old magic did tend to favour the Masters of Death.

With a quick scan of the surroundings and a jog of his memory of recent wizarding events, he quickly pieced together what happened. Vindictive satisfaction passed through his gut at the knowledge of what had happened to the perpetrators – presumably some neo-Death Eaters with the element of surprise.

Arthur got out of the car and approached the two fallen kindred spirits. He tipped the umbrella so that it sheltered them from the rain. He didn't mind getting himself soaked; it was a small sacrifice to let the grieving grieve in peace.

Watching the mangled body of the girl, memories of wars and battles long gone resurfaced like a skeleton straight out of Davy Jones' locker and bit at his conscious with the power of a hungry shark.

He didn't know how long he stood there, like that, but he came to when the man under the umbrella stirred and, finally noticing Arthur, startled into a wary stance. Arthur himself didn't move a muscle. He had long learned how to deal with PTSD soldiers and the boy in front of him was nothing short of one.

No movements until the initial alertness is gone. No sudden movements at all. Don't speak sharply or loudly. Let the man calm himself first before offering support.

He watched the raven-haired youth with a serene calmness, envisioning in front of him to be standing an easing field of roses instead of the very concerning ragged man. It worked for the most part, and his serenity bled into the wizard eventually, making him pass out in Arthur's arms.

With a solemn silence, he picked up the man and laid him in the back seat of the car. Then, he scavenged the ruins of the house and, finding nothing but the burned beyond recognition bodies of the attackers and the mangled, but untouched by the flames bodies of all the victims, made a phone call to the Auror office.

Before leaving the site, he made sure to kneel and bow his head in respect in front of each of the victims. They deserved at least that much, if posthumously. That those children who had suffered so much during their life had had it ended in such a cruel way formed a lump in his throat and a sob tore its way to the top. It's been thousands of years and every time, every single damn time it felt as gut-wrenching as the last.

The Aurors came. Arthur slid on his stony mask and directed the men what to do with the bodies: the neo-Death Eaters in a mass grave to rot, and the victims to be buried in a way that would do their sacrifice justice.

He then took the famous Harry Potter home to his mansion. Silently, he cleaned and redressed the man before putting him in bed to sleep off his magical and emotional exhaustion. Some might more poetically say he was exhausted spiritually as well.

Then, once again, Arthur was left alone with his thoughts, and only then did he allow himself to mourn.

The dawn of a new day came and went. Harry Potter slept and slept, and Arthur didn't blame him – he needed all the rest he could get, after all. When the boy who lived (and lived, and lived again) woke up, the first thing he did was stare up at the ceiling, eyes heavy with disorientation. The next thing he did was turn to the side and hurl what little contents his stomach had.

Arthur, who had been sitting by his bedside at that time, grimaced and vanished the mess. Harry, just barely taking note of that fact, looked up into mirroring green eyes blearily, hollowly. They stared at each other, and stared. And stared. Finally, it was Arthur who averted his eyes and stood up fluidly, clearing his throat and offering Harry to get up and have a cup of tea with the nation in the living room. Dazed, the wizarding savior followed his directions and soon they were sitting on the comfortable chairs in front of the blazing hearth while yesterday's storm continued ravaging the world outside. Arthur was slumped backwards on the armchair while Harry was curled vulnerably on the sofa, cups of tea in hand.

"Who are you?"

"Arthur Kirkland, Harry Potter."

Said Harry Potter chuckled bitterly, "T'was the scar, wasn't it," he murmured. He had nothing to speak loud and clear for. Both of them were staring into the fire instead at one another, leaving its crackle to battle against the storm and fill the air between them.

"Afraid not, m'boy," Arthur sighed and sipped his tea, "it was the eyes that gave it away." He tapped the cheek right under his eye shortly, knowing he now had the listlessly questioning gaze of the other upon himself.

"My mother's eyes," Harry quoted every other person in his life. He should have felt torn apart; he felt numb. But Arthur only shook his head.

"The eyes of someone seen far too much, far too soon."

Harry curled around the warmth of the cup of tea, taking a sip. It felt like the blazing fire had come again, only this time raging its way through his insides instead.

"They're gone," he confirmed disbelievingly, his voice cracking. Saying it out loud suddenly made it all the more real, all the more anguishing, and Harry felt the numbness fade away to reveal the gaping hole beneath. Empty.

"They are," Arthur echoed sadly, quietly. It was the simple truth.

"I couldn't protect them," the man who couldn't die trembled like a leaf, curling childishly into the warmth of his tea. The words were hollow, as if stating a fact.

Arthur pursed his lips and set his cup on the coffee table. If there was one thing he wouldn't stand for, it was blaming oneself needlessly. But he couldn't snap a sharp answer, not in this situation. Instead, he got up and sat next to Harry on the sofa, taking his cup and placing it also on the table before enveloping the man in a hug.

"You did your best," he murmured firmly, and averted his eyes as Harry broke apart in his arms.

Outside, the rain poured on.

Psh, that turned out a lot more clichéd and dramatic than I intended. Silly geese, those two. Anyway, please review and tell me if you liked it! :)