An Incomplete Potter Collection ch Collection 3
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A Magical Nation Reborn / The Laws of the New Generation
Harry Zombie Slayer
Defeat of Gellert Grindelwald
Insanity
This Means War
A Short HHr Story
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Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
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Story: [A Magical Nation Reborn / The Laws of the New Generation]
Summary: Turns out, there are laws surrounding the Ministry failing to uphold itself, and so during Harry's desperate attempt to save his godfather in Fifth Year, he stumbles on the method to change his corrupt world.
Genre: Adventure?
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Harry Potter had just had his godfather die in front of his eyes and then been told by the Headmaster that he would be taking care of everything. But with Fudge beginning to go on about how they didn't have clearance for being there, Harry stopped listening.
"We just saved the goddamn Ministry, when it couldn't bother to save itself!" Harry shouted back at the man that he could honestly say never seemed to have made a single correct choice ever. "You imprisoned an innocent man to be seen doing something! You placed Dementors around a school! You refused to listen to my godfather's innocence, not even giving him a damn trial! You refused to listen when I told you that Voldemort was back! What else do you plan on failing to do?! You idiotic slab of House Elf excrement!"
Let it not be said that Harry didn't know how to curse. He'd after all spent several years sharing dorms with several other boys. Swearing came with the territory, even if he wasn't the type to insult people without good cause.
Interestingly enough, for once in Harry Potter's life, yelling at someone gave results.
It wasn't the result he'd been wanting, it wasn't the type of result anyone expected from his anger and frustration, but it was perhaps the result that they truly needed.
The Ministry shook underneath their feet, causing all gathered to stumble.
"The Right of the Protectors Has Been Invoked." A disembodied voice resonated through the dark halls.
Harry blinked. "What?"
Fudge squeaked, eyes darting around as if to spot the one responsible.
Dumbledore frowned as he tried to recall what could possibly have caused this.
Then, one Hermione Granger spoke up, proving that even as she really ought to be drugged and hospitalized for at least a week, she still knew more about everything than even the experts on whatever field she'd taken an interest in that day.
"'The Right of the Protectors', is a law put into place during the founding of the Ministry in case the Ministry proves incapable of even protecting itself from outside forces." She explained in a voice, slightly strained from spell-damage. "It was a safety precaution at the Ministry's founding that were put into place in the case that the Ministry proved that it would not be able to do what it was designed for. Namely, protecting Magical Britain. For how can it protect its citizens if it cannot even protect itself?"
Harry thought that this made a fair degree of sense, but he was a little bit confused. "Okay, great, but what does it do?"
Hermione paused, looking both annoyed and amused, but perhaps most obviously worried. "It gives the Power of the Ministry over to the ones actually doing the 'right thing'. The ones who protects the Ministry when it cannot protect itself." She took a deep breath, looking a little bit terrified. "Us."
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"This is absurd!" Fudge shouted. "I demand you restore the Power to the Ministry!"
Dumbledore frowned. "I can't do that Minister, even if I wanted to." He made a few motions with his wand. "It seems that the magic inherent in the law has not chosen me as its invoker."
"If not you, then who?" Fudge demanded as the crowd erupted into whispers.
"Well..." The former Headmaster mused. "Normally, this would've been given to the 'leader of the protectors'. So, considering that they're students at Hogwarts, it would be assumed that it would be the current Headmistress. However," He interrupted Fudge before he opened his mouth. "since their protection wasn't sanctioned by any authority within Hogwarts at the time, it would default to the leader of the 'initiative' as it were."
Everyone slowly turned to Harry, who was mostly ignoring the proceedings in order to listen to the healers describing the injuries his classmates had sustained.
"B-But, you came in to rescue him, right?" Fudge tried to reason. "That should make you the protector, shouldn't it?"
"Ah, but I came to the aid of 'young Mr Potter', not the 'Ministry'. Thus, I was seen as merely reinforcements to Mr Potter, rather than a 'Protector' in my own right."
Everyone slowly turned to Harry again, who was by now looking a mixture of worried, guilty, and relieved, but who still wasn't paying attention to anyone but the healer.
"It could've been worse." Tonks commented with a shrug. "At least he cares about his subordinates."
None of those gathered could truly argue with that, though both Fudge and Snape certainly tried.
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Dumbledore wasn't entirely happy with how things had turned out, in no small part because Harry didn't know anything about Wizarding traditions – something that was technically Albus' own fault, even if he really hadn't been expecting this – but perhaps it wasn't a horrible idea.
The Ministry was... infected, by Voldemort's followers and sympathizers, and if there was one thing he could be sure of it was that Harry wouldn't hire any Death Eaters into their new government.
More worryingly however, was the fact that Harry already had followers of his own, meaning that Dumbledore couldn't 'advice' him into giving Order members the jobs. It was... a bit frustrating that all of his careful plans had been so effectively been rendered obsolete by a stubborn boy who'd asked him a single sensible question.
"You're in charge of Hogwarts, right? Where were you when Umbridge was torturing the students with a blood-quill?"
Albus obviously hadn't thought the spiteful woman would go that far in her disciplinary actions, but that didn't really change what his inaction had caused.
Harry needed to make a Ministry capable of actually doing something about the corruption, create laws that would make certain that nobody could undermine Hogwarts' education in the future, and motivate the public into changing their attitude. He didn't have time to listen to an old man's excuses, because whilst he might love him like a grandfather, Dumbledore didn't know how to build the government best.
He did make an interesting sounding board in regards to how the more traditional views of their society would react to different changes, so he was allowed into a sort of 'transition advisor'-role, until the new government was firmly established in the minds of the public.
As for Voldemort? Albus wasn't sure, but the man could no longer count on letting his followers bribe themselves out of Azkaban, cutting him off from Lucius Malfoy and several other Death Eaters who'd been captured in the Department of Mysteries, unless he staged another jailbreak. This time against a prison that Dumbledore was suspecting would be reinforced in anticipation for such an event.
Yes, it wasn't going according to his plans at all, but such was life, and sometimes the surprises were what made it worth living.
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Story: [Harry Zombie Slayer]
Summary: Something goes wrong during Sirius' rescue in Third Year. Time doesn't allow paradoxes to go unpunished.
Genre: Adventure
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It'd been three weeks. Three weeks since Harry Potter disappeared completely and utterly. Three weeks since he'd dropped off the grid. Three weeks since the devices set to monitor him had shattered. Three weeks since Dumbledore found himself without a Chosen One.
Three weeks, only three weeks since Time had retaliated against the closed paradox that had been himself keeping his past self alive. Three weeks since the Time Turner warped itself beyond recognition, and Time itself wriggled and twisted.
Had it really only been three weeks since he'd been torn from Hogwarts and landed in hell? It seemed like a lifetime ago.
His godfather was safe, Hermione was safe, the only one to be thrown across Time and through the fabric of space had been him. For it was only he that had violated Time.
Three weeks he'd spent in hell. Rotting corpses walking amongst the precious few still amongst the living. It'd taken him nine days to find another living soul. Nine days spent in the company of nightmares. Nine days of endlessly fearing for his life.
He'd clung to life through his magic, barely able to kill the undead before they killed him. He'd casted spells until his throat was raw, then he'd learned to cast them silently through mindless desperation. He'd learned to make every spell count, his aim never wavering despite his exhaustion. He'd even begun to pick up on how to cast wandlessly, though he'd gone no further than calling his wand back into his hand, or sudden infernos that were just as likely to burn himself as that which he aimed them at.
Three weeks he'd spent in hell. He'd learned to kill, he'd learned to be cautious, he'd learned to be quiet, he'd learned to hate the smell of gunpowder, and he'd learned to react instinctively and with extreme prejudice to any attacks.
After nine days of wandering from place to place, of barely sleeping more than a few hours, of using magic to kill, he'd found them. Living people, people that like him managed to cling to life through sheer determination. Determination and guns, lots and lots of guns.
Harry hadn't used a gun, by then, he hadn't needed one. The others took him in, unsettled by how a child had been forced to endure what could easily break an adult, but they were happy to have him. He saved their lives, they saved his life. There was food, there was sleep, there was shelter. And finally, after three weeks in hell, they'd been rescued.
It was only once they'd already landed safely within the military that Time called to him once more, warping space and dragging him away. Dragging him back to the place he'd called home a lifetime ago. Back to Hogwarts.
Dumbledore was ecstatic when the wards informed him that Harry Potter had returned, and he rushed out to the castle grounds to meet him.
What he found was not something he'd expected.
Eyes endlessly sweeping for danger, hands never straying far from his wand, a calculated lack of effort in every movement, dark rings under his eyes, covered in dirt and grime, and wearing muggle clothes splattered with blood and gore.
Harry Potter didn't look the image of a savior so much as he looked the image of a survivor. This was obviously not the Hero of Light that Dumbledore had been hoping to groom, yet there was no tainted Dark magic lingering with his own.
The boy reacted to his presence with a wand aimed between his eyes, his own eyes dazed, confused, and yet filled with an inexplicable loathing.
"Three weeks." His hoarse voice croaked. "Three weeks, because you couldn't do it yourself. Three weeks without peace. Three weeks in hell." His eyes were glaring. "Three weeks." He spat. "Because you wanted children to do your duty for you."
Admittedly, Harry wasn't all that coherent or forgiving about the guilty parties to his three weeks of hell. They'd been part of his angering of Time, therefore he could blame them for it.
Dumbledore paused, not sure how to react to such blatant hostility, and not quite willing to brush it all under the carpet with a 'Harry my boy'.
"Mr Potter," He started instead. "Perhaps you should see Madame Pomfrey." He glanced meaningfully at his bloodstained clothing.
Harry didn't object, which could either mean that he thought it a good idea, or he was too tired to argue. Either way, the boy would hopefully not be quite so upset with him after he'd gotten a night of sleep.
The idea of sending him back to the Dursleys... it gave him chills of foreboding for some unknown reason. Maybe it was the way he moved, maybe it was his eyes, maybe it was the always-alert magic humming ominously just beneath the boy's skin, but Dumbledore decided that it would most likely be a bad idea to involve the Dursleys at the moment.
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Story: [Defeat of Gellert Grindelwald]
Summary: Not all kings wish to fight until their last breaths. Not all conquerors believe themselves justified.
Genre: Drama
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Gellert Grindelwald stood by the ostentatiously sized window, his gaze sweeping endlessly across the scene playing out beneath him.
So many years to fully form the plan, so many years to put it into action, so many years of war... He shook his head. And yet, it all came to naught.
Albus was coming.
He knew that the man he'd once loved was already moving against him, Gellert wasn't surprised. Whatever had been growing between them back then had ended so quickly. An argument, an accident, a death.
There had been many deaths since then, but he couldn't imagine one of greater importance.
The man he'd raised to power had been driven mad by it. Understandable, from someone he'd chosen to be nothing but a puppet, when the puppet proved itself rather movable even without his strings to pull him along.
No, it'd all been for naught.
His 'greater good' had been corrupted into a mockery of the original thought. The thoughts that he'd spun together with the man he'd once loved, distorted beyond recognition.
Gellert couldn't imagine loving Albus, not anymore. Not for being on opposing sides in the upcoming conflict, but because he still remembered that face. The face of Albus Dumbledore as he realized that his sister lay dead before their feet.
He couldn't love Albus. Not after seeing that expression. Not after seeing that pain and guilt be brought to life on such a kind face.
He would never love anyone else again. But he didn't love Albus Dumbledore.
Perhaps it was because he'd shut away his hurt from then that he'd allowed the plan to so spiral out of control. Perhaps it was because he was alone. Perhaps it was because he should've died back then. Shouldn't have watched Albus stand between himself and his only remaining sibling.
Aberforth should've killed him. He would've killed him, if not for Albus.
The man that he had once loved.
His great empire was crumbling underneath him, the twisted mockery of his 'greater good' was finally being torn down as the muggles advanced. And Albus would be there soon.
Gellert had the Wand now, but he wouldn't win. There was no way that he could win. He wasn't planning on fighting.
He just wanted to weep in silence. For all the mistakes, for all the ideals, for all the foolishness, for the expression on the face of the man he had once loved. He couldn't find the Cloak, he didn't know where to start looking for the Stone, but maybe Albus would fare better with the Wand in his grasp.
Maybe Albus would still love enough. Enough that the 'greater good' could bring light, happiness, a better tomorrow.
In the end, it mattered not.
He turned from the window, from the sight of the final struggle of a thankfully dying empire.
"Hello, Albus." He watched the man he'd once loved stare at him from across the hall.
"Hello, Gellert." There was pain in his voice, and his kind face still wore that expression.
Guilt and pain.
"I must fight you." Gellert finally admitted into the lonely silence of retrospection. "The Wand allows nothing else."
Albus' eyes narrowed. "You found it?"
"Only the Wand." He shook his head. "I scoured an empire, and I found not a trace of the rest." He sighed, meeting the eyes of the man he'd once loved. "It matters not. Let us begin."
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Story: [Insanity]
Summary: A very different Harry, accidentally gets sent back in time after his experiments goes wrong. Merlin knows what happens next.
Genre: Humor
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Mad laughter echoed through the chambers.
Hundreds of attempts, hundreds of failures. One success.
Well, it was almost a success, there were still a few things that clearly wasn't working properly, but now the concept had been proven sound.
How many people stared at the moon? How many asked themselves what it would be like on its surface? How many truly dreamed of it?
Giggling madly, he pushed himself up from the floor, casually brushing off the soot that he'd been blasted with.
His hair was a mess, his clothes were torn and blackened, he was splattered with his own blood, and he had a vague memory of attempting to eat something that tasted of cardboard several hours ago. Oh yeah, he still needed food, didn't he? Bummer about that, he'd run out of the stuff two days ago, which probably meant that it was closing in on the time when he would start to hallucinate.
But food wasn't important, and hallucinations were easily ignored. No, the important thing here was the experiment. His successful experiment.
His giggling returning to its earlier cackling, he choked on the dust in the air and started coughing wildly.
Damn. Should definitely install some kind of air-cleaning thing.
Wheezing pathetically for air, he crawled across the floor. The air was heavier than the smoke and dust, so he'd be better able to avoid it if he stayed close to the floor.
His rear wiggling delightedly at the oddity that was crawling, he found himself distracted as he finally located that marble that he'd accidentally launched in one of the previous experiments. He'd thought that it had disintegrated from the air-friction after it started bouncing along the walls at supersonic speeds, but apparently it'd simply landed underneath this cupboard.
Giggling a little at the realization that this mere pebble had somehow survived the extremes of what he'd put it through with seemingly no harm done, he reached under the furniture to grab the perfect little sphere.
And had his molecules reversed on an instantaneous level as the marble ate his soul.
It hurt a lot more than he would've guessed. He hadn't even been sure if he actually possessed a soul before that particular moment.
Of course, no mad scientist worth their salt would give up their soul without a fight, that would just be silly. No, he struggled greatly against the Soul-Eating Marble of Doom.
And as his legs flailed uselessly in agony and frustration, he knocked out one of the legs to the table. The table on which his first success was placed. The success that promptly landed on top of him.
Turns out, having your soul eaten actually made the feeling of boiling metal forcing itself through your very pores seem rather bland by comparison. In fact, if it hadn't been because he was worried about swallowing some of the extremely dangerous material, he might've started laughing at the almost tickling sensation that accompanied it.
Then the world was turned inside out and he met himself in a halfway point between a river and a rainbow, unfortunately it made little sense as he was so very busy with remodeling his ship of fingernails, but that was alright since he could tell that the crab was important to time's waffling-iron.
Every molecule of his being shouting out in agony, he opened his eyes to the face of the world and stared into the abyss. The abyss met his gaze and smiled, too many teeth showing on too many mouths.
None of it mattered and existence dissolved into flashing colors.
He fell, vertigo seeming almost kind in comparison to everything else, and the colors multiplied into a time of lies. A time without truths to hold onto.
So he laughed. He laughed the deranged laughter of a man who'd seen too much to ever find the sanity he'd once left behind.
The look on his previously-dead uncle's face as he tried to grab onto the madly cackling six-year old just made him laugh harder. Oh, but maybe he'd be able to see dear uncle Vernon spew butterflies all over the carpet? He'd really been looking forward to seeing that.
His laughter took on a decidedly unhinged pitch, and as a hand grabbed onto his collar, he showed them just why they called him Mad.
He ripped out their entire skeleton through their noses, before shoving it in backwards through their ears, one half of it through each.
Of course, they only thought that he was doing that, when in reality he picked up their vacuum-cleaner and told it to eat their breaths until they breathed no more.
It listened to him of course, it was part snake and he was very good with science. So with a roar of its engines, it happily wrapped itself around three people whose graves he'd only visited to point fingers at and laugh, strangling them slowly but surely in what would most certainly be the most bizarre murder-accident of the century.
Ah, but it was good to be home.
Harry laughed happily, then set out for the crazy cat-lady's house, it wouldn't do to have his fun interrupted by old men and glasses-wearing beards. No, this was all far too entertaining.
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Story: [This Means War]
Summary: Fourth Year, Harry isn't pleased with the Goblet of Fire.
Genre: Angry rant? Is that a genre?
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"Of course, you know..." Harry commented somewhat blandly in the silence of the Flaming Goblet's fourth nomination. "This means war."
Understandably, nobody thought his response was especially witty, and Dumbledore hurriedly waved him over towards the door the other Champions had passed through.
Unfortunately for all those present however, Harry had declared war. He might've done it with words and tone eerily reminiscent of a certain lisping rabbit, but that didn't make it any less of a declaration.
Thus, it really shouldn't have surprised anyone that instead of obediently following the Headmaster's direction, the Boy-Who-Lived instead walked up towards the Flaming Goblet who'd put him in this situation.
"I don't know who did it." He started over Dumbledore's protests that he really should be leaving the room. "I don't know how they did it." He continued. "And I don't really care." He swept his eyes over the gathered crowd, whatever indignant anger and fear he might be feeling for the tournament overshadowed by the strange calm that usually only showed itself when someone pointed a wand at him. "The die has been cast. War has been declared." His eyes took on a very unsettling glow. "To whomever it may concern. I give you your final warning. Run. Flee. I will find you. I will hunt you. And I will show no mercy."
With a final nod, Harry turned his attention towards the Goblet in front of which he'd spoken.
"I'm not sure if you can understand me." He began clinically. "But if you can. Know that I have experience with discovering and destroying ancient things, and let that be your first and only warning." He finished, then he turned towards the Headmaster, who was now looking remarkably pale. "And, Headmaster, if I ever find out that any of my yearly brushes with death are your fault, I'd advice that you write out your last will."
His final words said, Harry turned on his heel and walked back towards the door into which the other Champions had disappeared. The silence he left behind was the stuff of legends.
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Story: [A Short HHr Story]
Summary: Harry watches the rain, musing on his future. He gets interrupted.
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Romance
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Harry looked out over the castle grounds. Raindrops moved quietly down the windowpane, turning the darkened view into a distorted blur of dampened colors.
It was strange, he mused to himself as he sat in the window. Rain was supposed to be depressing, a darkness away from the cheery sun, and yet it felt more comfortable than any day of blue sky and puffy white clouds.
Perhaps it was merely another quirk of his personality, though he was unsure of where he might've acquired such a thing. It was after all no more pleasant to work the Dursleys' garden in the cold pouring rain than it was under the blazing sun. Perhaps it was merely the lack of invasive brightness that helped him find comfort in the dark clouds outside.
How he longed for the world to leave him alone. How he longed for the world to turn their eyes on someone else.
Of course, he knew it was not to be. He was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Magical World would never leave him alone. Even his death would be turned into a spectacle... unless of course, the Minister decided that it was important that it not be known for his reelection campaign, then he would most likely have his name dragged through the mud before they came up with some idiotic story of how he left the country.
He sighed. He didn't like politics, or those practicing it, but raving about it would get him nowhere. Humans would be humans, and the sheep would never hesitate to turn their back on whoever they thought they should. It was cynical, but after growing up at the Dursleys he found optimism to be something of a long shot.
Good things didn't happen to Harry Potter. It was a bit sad, but nonetheless true. It was easiest to merely accept it and move along. His childhood was awful, bad luck. His school-years fraught with lethal dangers, bummer.
He didn't really want to be an auror, despite what those around him might think. An auror would be forever bound to the Ministry, which meant that they were bound to even the most idiotic of Ministers. Harry was independent enough to realize that he would be driven mad within the first week.
No, Harry didn't want to become an auror. But he most likely would be. Who else would hire Harry Potter? What else could the Boy-Who-Lived work with, other than the future protection of their society?
So he would become an auror. After he snapped? He wasn't sure where he'd go or what he would do after that. Maybe he could try to write a book. A book that explained what it meant to be Harry. That would be nice.
It wouldn't sell, of course. Someone would try to use it to drag his name through the mud, and with a snap of their fingers they would ban him from writing any more books about his life. Maybe because he thought the politicians were idiots, maybe because he revealed some kind of sensitive information that could be called proof of their stupidity. He didn't know, but the book wouldn't sell.
The gentle pitter-patter of rain continued, and he wondered what else he might do with his life.
He didn't particularly enjoy Quidditch. He loved the flying, but he cared little for the game. He would never be a professional Quidditch player, and he was pleased with this. It would mean more fame, more attention, more endlessly invasive people telling him who he was and what he was doing.
No, Harry was really quite peaceful with sitting on the sideline, watching the world change around him in that calm yet hurried way that old people never manged to keep up with. Perhaps he was too old for his age, too experienced in pain and sorrow and disappointment to want to get back up.
It was hard to tell, sometimes.
"-ry? Harry? You in there?"
He blinked, startled out of his thoughts by the voice.
"What is it?" He answered her softly, still comfortable with watching the rain.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Hermione asked with a curious smile as she watched him stare out the window.
"I want to write a book." Harry mused a bit sleepily, it was getting late.
"A book?" Of course, Hermione immediately latched onto the idea. "About what?"
"Me. My life." He shrugged. "I don't want to be an auror."
Hermione looked at him funnily for a moment. "Why would you want to be an auror? Did you hit your head on something?"
"I'm the Boy-Who-Lived. It's expected." He explained a bit sadly, still not looking away from the rainy outdoors.
"You're Harry." She frowned. "And you'd be a horrible auror. You'd have to follow all those rules you insist on breaking whenever you save us all."
"I know that. But they don't." He sighed.
Hermione paused, inspecting his face for a moment, before huffing. "I guess, but why should 'what they think' matter?"
"Who'd hire the Boy-Who-Lived?" He asked in return.
"That's-..." She sighed. "That's probably a very good point." She took a deep breath. "So that's why you want to write a book?"
Harry shrugged. "I've had enough adventure. I'd rather just fly, but I don't want to go professional."
Hermione followed his gaze through the window, falling away into silent thought for a few moments.
"How big is your vault?" She finally asked.
"Big." He admitted.
"Big enough to live comfortably on it for the rest of your life without working?" She specified.
"Maybe. Hard to tell." He sighed. "I don't really think I'll have to worry about it though... I'll most likely be forced to fight and die for some stupid cause before I even graduate from Hogwarts."
Hermione opened her mouth to repute that, but closed it again, realizing that there did seem to be a pattern in his school-life that was pointing in that direction.
"You can't leave." She noted absently, a certain sympathetic sadness creeping into her voice. "They won't let the Boy-Who-Lived leave the 'Greatest Wizarding School of Britain'."
"I know." He nodded quietly, understanding and accepting it.
"We could fake your death?" She suggested after a brief moment of silence.
"I think there's a way to make sure if someone is dead or not. And I think Dumbledore would know." He pointed out calmly.
"I could research it, and then counteract them?" She tried again.
"And you're great at it." He said with a sad smile. "But it wouldn't be enough."
Hermione made a soft sound of restrained frustration. "I don't want to be on your funeral Harry."
"And I don't want to be on yours." He nodded, his eyes meeting hers briefly to convey his sympathetic sincerity, before again drifting back towards the rain.
"We'll have to fake both of our deaths then." Hermione tried to smile.
Harry snorted. "We'd have to make it convincing, and we'd have to counteract whatever way that's supposed to confirm our survival, and we'd probably still be forced to flee the country." He said with an amused smile.
She grinned at him, a happy sparkle entering her eyes. "Oh, fleeing the country now, are we? How very romantic of you Mr Potter." She drawled, still not losing her grin.
Harry blinked, snapping his head around to face her, his face heating up. "That's-..." He tried to force down the blush. "That's not what I meant." He finally got out.
Hermione gently bumped her shoulder into his own. "I know." She admitted, still looking out the window.
Harry stared at her for a moment, wondering at the slight blush that was spreading itself across her own cheeks.
Swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, Harry opened his mouth again. "You'd be the first one I asked."
Hermione jumped, her eyes suddenly locking onto his. "W-Wha-..."
Her face was turning redder, Harry noted with a fond warmth.
Suppressing the smile, lest she think he was making fun of her, Harry turned back towards the window. "You'd always be my first choice."
Hermione stared at him for a moment, apparently still shocked, and possibly enjoying his squirming pretense of nonchalance as he blushed as red as a Weasley.
"And I'll always be there." She answered, because she couldn't imagine anything else.
"I know." His lips twitched into a warm smile.
There were no more words between them, for no more words were truly needed.
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