A/N: I let people live who didn't live. I killed people who didn't die. AU. Actually, this is almost a test sketch to a longer story I'm considering writing... if you do feel this awful piece of writing good enough for a response, please let me know if you would read the story of what is discussed in the speech.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter
The Man Who Died
Sixteen years ago, the world was given a hero. A week ago, that hero saved the world. A week ago, that hero sacrificed himself.
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Hermione Granger stood between a row of pompous dignitaries, ambassadors and big-wigs. She wrapped her arms around in her shoulders in a vain effort to keep from crying. There was no way she could hold it together throughout her speech. From her perch on the podium – it hadn't been her choice, Professor McGonagall had asked her to give a personal speech, as the only member of Harry Potter's infamous trio able to attend the ceremony, and one of the five – she could see the shattered, broken people who had survived. But Harry wasn't there, Harry hadn't survived... The tears leaked from Hermione's eyes and she was only vaguely aware of the Bulgaria Prime Minister laying a hand on her shoulder and apologizing in an heavy accent.
George Weasley stood with his family. His only sister was pressed against his side, her eyes deceivingly dry. Little Ginny hadn't spoke in a week. The surviving twin surveyed his brothers, Bill and Charlie both still alive. Percy and Fred dead. Ron still in medical care. Ickle-Ronnikins trapped in a coma; the odds weren't good. George swallowed. He felt Bill lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and on the other side of him, Fleur was sniffling. Their family felt so incomplete. A gaping hole had been torn through the center of his life. He squeezed his sister a little tighter, trying to assure himself that she was still there. "George," Ginny whispered, "George, you're hurting me." The first thing she spoke... George loosened his hug on the young girl and tried to keep from breaking down. If there was one thing he hated, it was memorial services.
On the stage, Daphne Greengrass adjust her list of names and stared out at the tear-filled audience below her. Not one person at the service had not been affected be the war. In her heart, the Slytherin child knew that her parents deserved their impending imprisonment. She cleared her throat and started to read. "For two years, we have been at war. At the Battle of Hogwarts, we made a stand, and we won, but not without a price." A huge price... "I stand before you now, to honor those who sacrificed their lives for the safety of the future." It sounded corny, in her own ears. Professor McGonagall had written it for her; complied the list; made one of the decent Slytherins read it. Daphne wasn't stupid. She knew her own reputation had placed her on this podium, reading the names of the dead. She choked away the bile that rose in her throat and tried not to cry.
Kingsley Shacklebolt stood with his teammates and friends. His best friend was sobbing onto his shoulder, her normally strong, resistant shields have tumbled down into nothing but dust over the past two days. The war had hit Nymphadora Tonks and hit her hard. Kingsley listened to the names of the fallen, his heart thudding painfully at each word. Yet, the names not on the list provided the most hope: Ronald Weasley, Patricia Devonport, Remus Lupin. Injured, but fighting; still only a slim chance of survival. But they were alive. Frankly, Kingsley speculated, knowing that Remus wasn't dead yet was the only thing keeping Tonks alive. The aurors around him shifted, uneasily. All of them lived with the pain and the death, almost constantly. But the crowd wasn't used to this. The crowd wasn't used to the shear weight of death being poored onto their shoulders as the list of names ran on. And on. And on. And on.
Several stages of exhaustion stuck Ponoma Sprout in the middle of the recitation of the dead. Each name that she recognized felt like a knife being driven into her heart and twisted. At the name, Longbottom, Neville, she collapsed. Tears cascaded down her face as the joined the multitude of mourners. It was the curse of being a Hufflepuff, really. She could feel the rippling pain coming from almost everyone attending the memorial service. The world had seen death and was only just starting to recover. The poor girl, Ponoma thought, watching the eldest Greengrass girl struggle through the list of names. Anybody with eyes could see how much this was affecting her. She had been Head Girl this year; and she had remained strong in the face of every adversity that faced her. Ponoma was proud of her students and ex-students. They had fought and they had won. But knowing that didn't change the fact that it still hurt.
Ginerva Weasley hurt. Everything hurt. Her hands hurt. Her chest hurt. Her brain hurt. Her heart had been torn into pieces and all she could do was stand sandwiched between George and Charlie and listen to the names, the dreaded, dreaded names. Daphne had just started listing the names that started with 'p'. Ginny started to shake. She couldn't handle it. She couldn't accept that he was dead. Hermione had tried to explain it. Hermione had tried to make everything make sense. But it didn't make sense. He had sacrificed himself so that Voldemort could die. It wasn't fair! Ginny's heart throbbed. He hadn't even been the hero, in the end. The ending spell had been cast by five people: Professor Lupin, last of the Marauders; Hermione Granger, Harry's closest friend; Neville Longbottom, one of the strongest people she had ever met; Professor Snape, the meanest, most despicable good guy in the world; and Luna Lovegood, the craziest best friend she had ever had. It simply wasn't fair, Ginny thought, why did Harry have to sacrifice himself? And the annoying little voice inside her head insisted that Harry wouldn't have wanted to live if Voldemort kept living as well. Not fair.
Winky perched with Kreacher and the rest of the elfs, looking down at the memorial service below them. She was sad for all the people. Because all the people were sad. They had lost friends and companions. The poor people. Kreacher had been insufferable since the victory; he was so happy that they had won. Because he never stopped to think about what everybody lost. Harry Potter, Dobby's hero, had died. Harry Potter, the world's hero, had died. Winky wasn't stupid; she understood how that would affect the people, the world, everyone. But the bad people were gone. And in the end, Winky didn't begrudge Kreacher his celebration, because the bad people were gone, and that was all that mattered.
There were thousands of people pressed together at the memorial service, exactly a week after the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of the Second Voldemort war. Each of them had his own story to tell, but the biggest story of all was that of Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived.
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Hermione crept on to the stage, shaking hands with Daphne as the other girl crossed back to her seat. The two of them had started talking in the past week and were well on their way to becoming very close friends. But not so close that Daphne knew what Hermione was sobbing crowd had quieted, if only somewhat. As she stepped around the podium, Hermione could see Ginny's set jaw as she fought against Charlie and George's comforting hold. Tonks looked completely drained, relying on the support of Kingsley and the other aurors just to stay standing. And... where had Luna gotten off to? A knife twisted in Hermione's chest when she once again realized that her best friends would never be coming back. Harry and Luna. Both dead. The young heroine wanted nothing more than to crawl into her shell and forget about everything, but she had a speech to give and a world to change.
"I wish there was some platitude that sounded right, in this time of struggle," she said, after casting a silent sonorus on herself. "I wish I could say something and make all the pain go away. I'm sorry." Keep talking, Hermione forced herself, if you don't stop to think, you'll get through this quicker. "Today, I was asked to speak to you about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and his mission in destroying Voldemort, as well as my own role in the final battle. Background, I believe, is essential." Auror Shacklebolt had been reticent about releasing all this information about Voldemort to the general population, but Professor McGonagall – always the teacher – insisted that the people had a right to know. Which left Hermione the job of relying the story.
"Two thousand years ago, there were three brothers." A slight murmur whispered through the crowd. Hermione knew that no one wanted to hear a fairytale. "One day, at some undisclosed time," tears formed in Hermione's eyes as she remembered all the fights she had with Ron and Luna about the timing of things, "these three brothers came upon a swift flowing river that would surely claim their lives if they tried to cross. The eldest turned to his brothers and said, 'Let us build a bridge.' And so, the three brothers built and bridge and safely crossed the river. But Death was unhappy with being cheated. He decided to trick the three brothers; he congratulated them on escaping him and promised a reward of whatever gift the brothers wished. You all know the story," Hermione continued. "The eldest brother asked for a wand so powerful it could not be beaten. The Elder Wand." She raised her wand and drew a glowing wand in front of her. "The next brother asked for a stone that would resurrect the dead. The Resurrection Stone." Again, the girl waved her wand and drew a circle around the wand. "But the youngest brother asked for a cloak that would hide him, even from Death. The Cloak of Invisibility." A triangle encased both circle and line. "The Deathly Hallows." Hermione paused, watching her audience for reaction. Almost everyone looked confused. "Years passed, and the wonder of these powerful objects faded into a bedtime story.
"I stand before you now and to tell you how the Boy Who Lived defeated Voldemort. I stand before you now to tell you that the Deathly Hallows are real. And Harry collected them. The Invisibility Cloak he inherited from his Father, through the Peverell line. The Resurrection Stone we found, buried deep among the ruins of the Temple of Orpheus. The Elder Wand belonged to Voldemort. There were seven of us, who joined Harry on his quest for the Resurrection Stone. Luna Lovegood, Ronald Weasley, Blaisie Zabini, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape and myself. There were five of us, standing alongside him in the first battle against Voldemort, as both Justin and Ronald were badly injured.
"It was Harry's quest to unite the Deathly Hallows and becoming the ultimate mage. The one who owned all three Hallows would have ultimate power. He would have a wand that could not be beaten. He would have a stone to resurrection whoever died. He would have the ability to hide from death itself. Almost a month ago now," had it really been that long? "we faced Voldemort and Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, stole the Elder Wand to become the Master of Death." Gasps darted in and among the crowd. Hermione could tell she had everyone's attention. "Ironic, this reversal of themes, isn't it?"
Her throat was clogging. It was getting harder and harder to talk. "The world made the Boy Who Lived into its own personal hero. We idolized him. The Boy Who Lived! The Boy Who Lived! The Chosen One! And what good did it bring him? Harry Potter was my best friend, and I stood along side him as the world blasphemed him, made him out to be a traitor, preyed upon his fame – fame he never asked for. Harry Potter hated being famous for something he could not even remember." Harry's last worlds rung tauntingly in the back of her mind. It must be done. Hermione Granger looked up from her script and swallowed. From here on out, she wouldn't follow the her speech. "And what did Harry Potter do that deserved fame? He sacrificed himself.
"Voldemort did not kill Harry Potter." The bombshell struck the crowd. Shock rippled in waves throughout the crowd, but no one moved. "Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived – understood that we would be free of Voldemort in one way, and one way only. The Master of the Hallows had to die. I hereby confess to the murder of Harry J. Potter, the Man Who Died." She was almost choking now, barely able to get the words out. "In hopes... in hopes that one day the world will be able to look back on their imagined Boy Who Lived and the sacrifice they forced him into. You created this!" Hermione cried, even as a few of the aurors had broken off from the main pack and jogged towards her. "The Boy Who Lived was a figment. The Man Who Died – Harry" she was truly crying now. "He was real. Please, please," Hermione Granger begged the shell-shocked world. "Please glue this world back together the way it should be. Please."
An auror laid a hand on Hermione's shoulder and cast a handcuffing charm on her wrists. "Hermione Granger, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Harry James Potter." As she walked, almost serenely now, away, the crowd heard one last whispering plea. Please.
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Sixteen years ago, the world created a hero. In the space of less than twenty minutes, one girl rewrote that hero's history. In the space of less than twenty minutes, the world began to change.