Chapter Text
If there was ever going to be one impossible thing, one question that no nation no matter how old was ever going to have a simple, succinct answer to, it was involvement. How close was too close? How soon was too soon?
There would always be an inkling of things about to go wrong, a light fever that barely registered in the morning but which hung on for days and weeks at a time. An unconscious tremor or subtle restlessness that burrowed right down to the bone and sank its teeth in for the long haul.
And to be perfectly honest, even after his thousands of years of life the Nation now known as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland still wouldn't have noticed the issue at all if it hadn't sprung up right under his nose.
Or.
To be a bit more literal.
It sprung right out of his chimney flue.
"Mister Kirkland! Terribly sorry to intrude!" It was a portly old man in an indigo robe, a lopsided green hat with yellow tassels swinging from the side like Romani coins: terribly out of fashion but there none the less. "Would have sent an owl you see but there was no, oh- uh- Hello!" And he was traipsing green gas and smoke across Arthur Kirkland's study.
The ash was long gone from the converted fireplace as it had been sealed at some point over the last three decades, but that wasn't enough to stop someone like this. No, in fact the decorative grate set in front of the hearth was doing a much better job of getting in the short little man's way as he fumbled and fought and eventually tripped his way properly into the room, knocking that florescent hat off his head and exposing a rusty crown of thin red hair combed with grey.
"M... Mister Weasley..." Under these circumstances, Arthur Kirkland gave himself credit for not losing his composure all at once and jumping up screaming for the old man to get out of his office. For once, he managed to keep calm with a raging pulse and bile in his throat. "I'm in the middle of something."
Something, meaning his two guests: a pair of men in suits who'd both twisted around in their chairs to look at the fireplace when it exploded with green flames. One was done up in charcoal grey with a white collar flattened around his throat, the other steel blue with expensive leather shoes creaking somewhere out of sight as he shifted. They were both wearing fine wool with polished cufflinks, fashionable ties and starched shirts.
Not the sort of people he wanted exposed to a frumpy wizard, because that was Arthur Weasley in a nutshell: frumpy, well-meaning, and nearly as witless as the rest of the magical community.
But then it struck him that there was far too much silence in the office for one of the wizarding world's usual check-ins.
"Mister Weasley?" Dropping the title, Kirkland watched the man in the brilliant robe do something he never did in front of muggles: he went terribly pale and started to shake. "Arthur?"
Even calling him by his first name didn't inspire a change, but before the Nation could stand up and try something else, one of the men across the desk from him stood up first.
"Please, have a seat, signore. You seem faint."
"Weasley?" the question was for Kirkland and he looked at the speaker directly, not afraid of irritated green eyes telling him how annoying this interruption was and how much he didn't want to be slouched over in that chair for much longer not getting anything done. Trying to come up with as solution, Kirkland held his breath for a moment before remembering himself and finding the words for an introduction.
"Gentlemen, this is Arthur Weasley, my domestic contact from the department of Muggle Relations here in London. Mister Weasley," and a quick look at his guests before confirming which names to use. "These men are the Vargas Brothers, my international counter-parts from Rome, Italy."
"A pleasure, I- actually no."Weasley spoke first and stopped the rest of them from saying anything. The wizard wasn't looking at any of them anymore, he was still staring blankly at the seat the younger brother, North Italy, had just offered him. It was like he'd forgotten what a chair was as he shook his head, wearing his age on his face as he looked up with sad grey eyes. "Not a pleasure at all, I'm afraid. Mister Kirkland you must come with me at once."
"What? I'm in the middle of-"
"There's no time," Hearing someone who was usually bumbling and good-natured lower his voice so was uncanny, but Weasley brought it down just enough to sound desperate. "We must go."
Kirkland checked his watch and when he looked back up Weasley was staring at the floor.
"It's ten in the morning, man, there's no reason-"
"Sir there's been a death!" Weasley hissed, frightened by his own words and just standing there trying not to shake.
"A death where?" He asked.
"Two. Two deaths, sir..."
"Where?" He pressed.
Arthur Weasley was not a wizard known for holding his tongue or getting scared of anything. He was a veteran of two magical wars with children and children-in-law decorated as heroes and soldiers. But he didn't speak up now, sixty years of hard work and magic made a lively wizard appear old and rugged, so when he looked up he found Feliciano Vargas first where he was standing next to the vacant chair, then looked to Lovino who was still seated across from Kirkland at the desk and watching closely. It brought a kind of weight to the moment that their host had to admire and take seriously when it was finally his turn to carry that stare again.
"At Hogwarts, sir. This morning, nine o'clock: they found them."
One of his guests gasped, Arthur just felt cold.
"Tell me they weren't students." It was the only thing he could say.
"One fifth year, one seventh. Siblings sir."
"Tell me they-"
"International students, sir, which is why the Minister of Magic and Headmistress are both asking for you."
It was a mechanical response, still sitting behind his desk, for the representation of England to look at the dual personas of the Italian Republic and try to address them. South Italy spoke first:
"We can reschedule, my brother and I can keep busy at the consulate for today."
"Or we can come with you."
South Italy did not like this idea, but Kirkland really didn't have the presence of mind to worry about that, he just spoke up with a different question for Weasley:
"International: from where?" Who was Arthur going to have to call and visit to discuss this with?
"I don't know if I can give information like-"
"Weasley!" Now was not the time to be keeping information from him, there was precious little space left in his brain for anything that wasn't trying to piece together the situation and work out where precisely he had left his wand and robes.
"Italian, sir. Sirs."
That settled it. From the way South Italy closed his eyes to North Italy's fingertips biting into the wooden back of the chair, Kirkland stood up immediately and spoke to his original guests.
"Do you have any of your materials?" Robes, wands, anything that would let them easily move around in Wizarding London. Of course, North Italy was the only once to answer with a quick shake of his head, but he was already speaking quickly to his brother in their own language:
"I'll go with them and learn what I can, but one of us has to be in Rome."
"I'll be on the next flight home this morning and contact our ministry while I'm in the air. Fuck." South Italy already had his phone out and was surfing through apps to find a ticket, and Kirkland knew why he didn't simply suggest magic: it was too difficult to explain to muggle bosses.
"Minister Kirkland-"
"Eng- Arthur, I need to borrow robes."
"Yes, this way."
"Kirkland!"
"Do you expect us to wander around wandless in suits and ties, Weasley? Hurry up, there's another fireplace downstairs!" While Kirkland spoke, South Italy was stuffing papers in a brief-case and already had his brother's laptop bag over his shoulder. The host quickly led the other two away. He heard Feliciano call back with a question but the answer was a shout to hurry up and not worry so much. Whatever rude feelings came from abandoning a guest to see himself out of the house were washed away by the reason why.
Thank god they weren't at Parliament today. It was always better to take fellow nations to meetings at his private home: there was nothing stressful between himself and Italy at the moment anyways. It was 2017, the recession that had strangled Europe was slowly fading day by day and as Kirkland hurried down into the basement of his London Townhouse he wasn't edgy about showing North Italy where he kept his magical closet.
A locked door with a simple charm to recognize who he was when he touched the knob, and a trio of fairy friends fluttering around the corner that Weasley saw at once and ducked away from while Italy put on a face like he might sneeze without recognizing them.
His basement wasn't to code, not London building code at least, but the heavy stones reached almost too far into the ground so a bit of magic had been needed to bend the sewer pipes out of the way. Tall closets, dusty tables: he didn't come down here as often as he'd like anymore but still knew where everything was. No electric lights, just candle stubs charmed to light up when the door opened so they could give the dingy space a murky glow.
"Here, pull this on." The second closet he passed was full of wizarding robes, a midnight blue with green cuffs coming out first as he rifled through the folded clothes and shook one out. They were nearly the same height, but Italy made a terrible face as he quickly took the velvet and started opening the buttons and toggles.
"Even I can see that this is out of style." But that didn't stop him from pulling it on. The blue didn't look very good with the auburn wash of his hair or the sun-kissed look of his skin, but he didn't complain about the permanent wrinkles or shower of dust as his expensive grey suit was covered up completely.
The grey robe Kirkland found for himself was threadbare in a few places and he wouldn't look like much of a minister with the trodden hem, but he was more concerned with hiding muggle office clothes as he pulled the heavy thing on and kept walking, leaving the closet open and rifled through as he immediately went hunting for his wand.
"You really do live like muggles, don't you? None of this has been touched in ages!"
"Twenty years." Kirkland answered, following a path between dusty tables of abandoned maps and discarded potion materials, a little bit of fairy light helping him along to the small podium resting against the far wall.
"That makes sense, but Signore Weasley, please: my wand is in Rome, can't you do something about these wrinkles? Or the colour?"
"To travel so far without magic, I wish I was young enough to try something like that again."
Arthur Kirkland's wand was one of the most heavily protected items in his home. He didn't use it very often: he could still remember a time before wide-spread wand usage, and he'd learned from nations who'd never imagined endowing so much power on a simple wooden rod. Thirteen inches of English Oak with a lock from a chimera's mane serving as the core, that last part was something of a secret after the banning of chimera hunts back in the eighteenth century. The golden lustre of the old wood was alluring, almost hypnotizing, with decals of roses winding around the base to form a grip.
Three enchantments were set over the wand and its stand. One fell away simply by Kirkland himself reaching through it, the next needed a few ancient words, and the last...
A small pocket knife and a tiny nick on his thumb next to the nail, just a little bit of blood to make the last hex break apart and stop him from bursting into flame or being tossed right across the Thames for daring to come too close.
It was like saying hello to an old, sleepy friend who was happy to be of use again as his hand closed over the roses. There was a warmth that came to him before the hazy question of why began to nag at the air, but that question did not have a pleasant answer.
"Alright, let’s go!" The podium had a little cabinet door and Arthur quickly rifled through that for what he needed: a bag of pocket change with at least one gold galleon as emergency money, and a leather sleeve for his wand that hooked up under his robe to stow the old rod out of sight until he needed it.
There was another fireplace down here just like he'd said, looking back at the others just in time to see North Italy's face as he flinched from the gust of wind from Weasley's wand. It blew a terrible mess of dust from the floor and fabric and he didn't look much better for the experience, but at least they both came hurrying along.
"Are you sure you want to come with us?" A stash of Floo Powder in a china tea pot rattled as he pulled back his wand for the first time in twenty years, rolling the oak rod between his fingers and setting off a gout of red fire directly into the hearth. There was no wood: it didn't need any to burn for a little while.
"You just told me two Italian children are dead at your school." Kirkland expected to turn and see Weasley next to him, but the footsteps were Italy's, and an uncharacteristically harsh expression was on his narrow face. "Of course I’m coming."
"That settles it." A pinch of floo powder between his fingers and with a sudden blast of light and sound, the red flames turned brilliant green and Kirkland looked for Weasley. "Lead on, where are they waiting?"
"Hogsmeade Village, sir."
"You first then, show us the way."
Both nations stepped back enough to let the Wizard through first. Arthur Weasley's stooped shoulders and balding head made the flames lick and swirl around him so high the grandfatherly old man almost vanished without saying a word.
"Hogsmeade Station!" He declared in a full voice, and with a loud roar of flames Arthur Weasley vanished, leaving Kirkland and North Italy standing in a London basement.
"Feliciano," Kirkland offered the floo powder to Italy first, watching him nervously take a pinch between his fingers as the flames settled back to a crimson glow. "However this turns out, please know that I'm sorry."
It almost looked like Italy tried to grin at him or say something foolish, but reality came back too quickly and it crushed the forced cheer. He took the breath and wore the smile, but they both faltered and slipped silently back to the dusty floor.
"I wanted to take expense reports home with me, England. Not caskets."
He didn't apologize again. Maybe in his heart, or in the brief silence that hung there with red light splashed over their faces did he feel it, but he didn't say it again. He just held Italy's gaze until the other Nation broke away first, tossing the silver powder into the fire and letting it change to a safe green again before hesitantly stepping forward. It was hard getting used to magic after decades of equating fire with burns.
A deep breath that looked like it almost pulled old soot into his mouth, and with an accented voice raised high enough to make sure the words were clear:
"Hogsmeade station!"
Italy vanished in a storm of green sparks, and England soon followed.
-.-
Twenty years ago, one of the most terrifying wizards in modern history had been brought down for the second and, hopefully, final time.
What had been terrifying about that sorcerer, in Feliciano's world, had been his reach. There had probably been worse wizards, blacker souls, crueler hearts, but no name in the Italian records kept in Rome or any of the northern cities came with the same far reaching chill as Tom Marvolo Riddle: Lord Voldemort.
He'd spread a fever across Wizarding Europe that had brought Feliciano and those like him directly back into the magical world and its politics for the first time in decades. For some nations, like Germany, it had been their first major contact with the Wizarding world: something more than a strange letter or a snarky giggle from the looking glass. England and his brothers had born the worst of it: the mountains where Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sat were Scottish in origin, and the major Wizarding families were mostly collected around London and out across the Welsh and English countrysides.
But Albania had suffered the fever and wracking pains of a population in turmoil. Poland had reached the nerve-wracking state of vomiting blood when the fear and paranoia grew too strong. Feliciano himself had dusted off spell books while his brother, just trying to hold onto his sanity, had snapped his wand and thrown the pieces into the Strait of Messina.
Plunging back into the magical world with no warning was a shock. He almost choked on the green flames and the taste of burnt flesh from the Floo powder. He knew the last part was just his mind playing tricks on him, Floo powder tasted like any kind of soot, but the connection stuck.
From Hogsmeade station there was a thestral carriage waiting for them: terrifying creatures with only bones and no real head, but they were the best way to get around without flying. It was impossible to Apparate up the steep mountainside to the peak where Hogwarts castle loomed with its towers and high windows, furthermore, it was impossible to expect Feliciano or England to perform magic like that out of the blue. If given a wand Feliciano would have been lucky if he could set the tip aglow, nevermind vanish into thin air and reappear miles away at will.
In the carriage he heard the next piece of terrible news, not the first or the last: just the next.
"Marco and Angela Rosetti, they-"
He couldn't stop the noise he made, doubling over with elbows on his knees, hands up rubbing his face and eyes squeezed shut, praying this was a dream.
"You know them?" Of course England would ask a question like that.
"They're mine: they're from Florence..." Had he known them personally? No, but he knew their name. He knew their ancestral home. He knew their parents' generation had nearly been torn to shreds by the in-fighting between pure-blood members of an ancient house. Feliciano couldn't see the way ahead exactly, but he knew that if this didn't destroy one of his oldest Wizarding families, then they would still be left standing on their one last crippled leg.
"Marco was just finishing his seventh year, exams are at the end of the month." The school year was almost over, there was no kind way to take something like this. "Angela was in the same house, two years younger. They were both found this morning."
"What do you mean 'found'?" Feliciano had to pick his head up when he asked, groping through the borrowed blue robes trying to find his phone. Of course, by the time he pulled the device out and into his hand, they'd gone too far for it to work anymore. The electric current died and he watched the shocked little screen try to flash the power sign at him before it abruptly cut out. He'd have to send an owl to Rome when they reached the school.
"It... it looks like suicide, sir."
"I don't believe that."
"We'll see when we get there." England cut in so quickly Feliciano had to stop and try to hear what tone he'd just used on the wizard sitting across from him. Maybe he'd been too harsh, but where dead children were concerned he couldn't pretend to see any other issues.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There were older schools in Italy, there was even one down in his brother's territories that matched Hogwarts in terms of prestige and honours, but that didn't mean England and Scotland's high fortress with its odd name wasn't impressive. Something was lacking from the high towers and dark stones as they approached however, the gates opening and closing behind them as the grounds rattled along outside the carriage. They were moving faster than if it had been horses, but Feliciano found himself craving a car engine to drag them up the mountain with the pedal pressed down to the floor.
For a school with several hundred students, it was silent when they finally left the carriage and moved through the grand entrance hall. Four hourglasses twice as tall as Feliciano stood glittering under the sun's filtered rays: rubies, emeralds, sapphires and topaz stones denoting points for the four major houses.
"Which house did you say?" The first words he'd uttered since the carriage stopped the wizard in the purple robe from hurrying off without them, but the old man looked so sad when he answered.
"Slytherin, sir. The green ones." Slytherin, the wide glass body with a silver snake coiled protectively over the hoard of house points.
It had been at least two hundred years since Feliciano had set foot in this school. It wasn't entirely different, but he didn't have the time to wonder about where they were going until they were already there. A tall, noble looking witch, older than the Wizard who'd brought them this far, was waiting for them atop several flights of shifting stairs. Her crimson robes were edged with black mink, a pointed hat with short, tightly clipped black feathers on her head, and there was a heavy gold ring on her left hand, wireframe glasses perched over her tiny pointed nose.
"Headmistress McGonagall," Weasley spoke up first, the platform they were standing on now was directly in front of a pair of wide double-doors, the old wood stained white with some kind of varnish. "Here with me I've brought-"
"Arthur Kirkland." The witch's voice was as thin as her painfully white face, and there was a tremor through her pale lips that looked like it didn't belong there after the way she'd stood so still waiting for them to come closer. The smile she drew up was a mask that didn't fit quite right. "As unchanged as ever, I see. Time does not touch you."
"Headmistress." England stepped forward and bowed his scruffy blonde head, kissing the witch's hand with a reverence that told Feliciano to keep the nervous twitch in his feet under control. She was worth the respect England was paying her. "I wish I could say you looked well, Minerva: this can't be easy."
"No." He appreciated the weight she put on that one word, and there was sympathy when he saw how her frail hands were shaking before she clasped them tight in front of herself. "I'm afraid this morning marks my final year at Hogwarts, I..." Her pause was delicate, it almost felt like she did it on purpose: if her eyes hadn't lost focus like that, Feliciano could have believed it. "I cannot abide to see any more young lives extinguished in what should be the safest of havens."
His patience was rewarded, because while England tried to whisper kind words in a voice that couldn't be overheard, the Headmistress lifted her black eyes to Feliciano and spoke straight over her nation's quiet voice.
"And I'm sorry, sir, your name?"
"Ah-" clearly England didn't want him to speak, or he was just being himself and trying to appear as utterly polite and in control as he always wanted to be in a crisis. He straightened up immediately and Feliciano just took the few short steps to come closer as he was introduced. "This is my Italian counterpart, Feliciano Vargas. Everything I do for England, Ma'am, he does for Italy."
The way England said it made it clear she knew more than Weasley, because the Headmistress almost seemed to wilt before straightening back up again. Her hand moved from its clasped position into his, but before Feliciano could mutter a condolence or try to kiss her fingers the way England had done, he felt thin fingers clutch and hold onto his with a strength that denied the shakes invading her body. She also met his eyes directly, unflinching, and that was something very few foreign nationals could usually accomplish.
"Then you, sir," But when she spoke, her voice was fragile. "Have my deepest, and most sincere apologies. My school could not keep your children safe."
He hadn't known he was angry, Feliciano hadn't felt it creep up on him until it was suddenly extinguished. It took a genuine soul to reach as far as the one clinging to his hand was doing, and he felt himself respond and appreciate every ounce of strength she summoned to do it with.
"The children, Ma’am." Was all he said.
"Of course, please follow me: the School Healer and Head of Slytherin House is waiting inside."
She swept away from him and Feliciano watched the shaking vanish and tremors disappear under sweeping red and dower black. The white doors opened and a wide hall of hospital beds and curtains unfolded before them.
The silence persisted as they walked, even their footsteps were muffled over the polished stones. Where Feliciano expected two people, he found himself approaching only one as they passed rows of empty white beds and curtains tied back to open the space a little more. The chamber felt like they were walking into the mouth of a beast, so he was thankful when the wizard they met next seemed as apprehensive about the silence as he was.
The wizard was tall, pale, and his slicked back white hair was pulled up across his scalp as if to make his face seem even pointier. He was wearing robes with long white panels broken up with stripes of green, a thick silver belt cinched his narrow waist where a white leather case for his wand hung. He was wiping his hands off on a thick square of white cloth when he noticed them coming, quietly folding the fabric without a sound and setting it on a bronze tray hovering at his elbow. The tray floated off once he was done with it, but the wizard didn't move towards them or say a single word until Feliciano and the rest of them were properly in front of him.
It took that long for Feliciano to realize that this new, younger person wasn't looking at the Headmistress or England, but right at him. He probably stood out too much with his darker skin, even the smallest resemblance would...
"I've searched them." No introductions this time, no quiet words or even condolences. This wizard had as hard a time as everyone else meeting his eyes, but at least he spoke: it was refreshing to be handled bluntly. "I've combed over them for enchantments, hexes, charms, anything. I've barred anyone from entering the Slytherin dormitories until you arrived."
"Gentlemen, this is Professor Malfoy: Hogwarts' resident Healer and Head of Slytherin House." The headmistress' voice introduced him and Feliciano mechanically offered and followed through with a handshake. They were standing in front of the only closed curtains in the hospital wing, and neither he nor the wizard in charge said anything: Malfoy just turned away and gently touched the white sheets, pulling one back without asking who Feliciano was or what right he had to be there.
Feliciano silently passed under the sheet and then heard it fall shut behind him. He was alone and it was better that way.
He was left facing two beds under the ambient white light, the sounds of voices muffled behind him as he took a moment to collect himself. White sheets with the shapes of childrens' bodies underneath them, tented over noses and toes, draped over rigid arms and silent chests.
One was longer than the other- one had been taller than the other. A brother and sister, he approached the smaller bed: he took the worst blow first.
It was hard to see dead children, and he liked to think that it was a universal thing. Nationality didn't mean as much when the victim was too young to face death, because pride and legacy and hope and all the things the nation stood for all failed when life was snuffed out. As he peeled back the crisp linen, Feliciano prayed for peace and his God failed him at once.
Her face was not beautiful. Under the scars, maybe, under the shallow cuts and rough gouges cut into full cheeks and blistering white lips. The wounds had been fresh and now they were clean. Her long black hair was newly combed and braided down the side of her head under the covers over her shoulder. She had been a small thing at sixteen, and when Feliciano touched the gouges down her cheeks he counted fours and threes in parallel lines.
He looked for her hand under the white sheet. Her nails were clean, suspiciously pure, but the length and the size and the spaces between them... If no enchantment had driven a child to carve up her own face with her own hands, then what had?
There was a silver chain around her neck, a heavy cross coming loose when he gently tugged to bring it to light. It was studded with small white crystals and there was a hum of magic to it, but when Feliciano turned it over in his palm he saw where the silver had worn away from nervous rubbing. When he looked to her hands again, her thumbs were calloused from the abrasion.
She didn't look like she was asleep, she wasn't resting or at peace. To Feliciano's eyes, the young girl who'd taken her own life a world away from home looked like she was about to weep and wail from the next life back into this one.
He undid the clasp on the chain. He vowed to deliver it to her mother when they returned home, kissed her marred forehead, and replaced the sheet.
Her brother only made things harder, because whatever had tormented the young girl in robes edged with green had stolen the life from a boy whose knuckles were bruised and palms sliced open. And Feliciano made sure to look at his hands first, to pick up cold flesh and touch them, beg stiff fingers to bend after rigor had already set in, whispering over them for secrets like callouses and clean nails had revealed from his sister.
This one had a strong face, but the bruises on his knuckles found partners with the old dark stains painting the side of his mouth, straight chin tarnished with yellow patches where older blows had healed. His hair had a similar curl to his sister's black locks, except tighter and close like ringlets across the top of his head. Eighteen and weeks away from escaping school into the world beyond enchantments and walls. The headmistress had called this a safe haven, but if he let his fingers wander Feliciano was afraid to find more bruises, more sore places and black marks on bloodless skin.
This one had been a fighter, so why had it come to this?
Maybe the answer was in the wand sleeve still pinned to a shallow chest crossed with Slytherin green and silver. He searched it, expecting the handle of a long wand, but when he pulled Feliciano found himself holding only a broken stub of black wood. A little more prying, and four pieces of shattered wand held together by the frayed grey remains of a dead phoenix feather came out and dangled from his hand.
Replacing the pieces with a fuller understanding, he unpinned the leather case. He would give this to the young man's father, looping the sister's chain around the notched edges of the abused wand sleeve before finding an old handkerchief stuffed in the pocket of his borrowed robes. Feliciano wrapped the mementos up together to keep them safe, slipped them back into the robe pocket, and replaced the sheet.
He needed a few more minutes to wipe the tears off his face where they'd flowed freely and stained the ugly blue velvet he'd pulled on in London, and then left to rejoin the others.
Italy and England were going to have a talk.