A/N: Behold... The end approaches
News of the bizarre series of events spread like wildfire, and for weeks it seemed like it was all people would, or could, talk about. Ron would receive high-fives and jinxes in equal measure, to such an extent that he had grown equally weary of both.
Finally, after a solid two weeks of holding it in, Harry had to ask.
"How?"
Ron looked up from the homework assignment he had been scribbling away at, making things up for one of Trelawney's patented bogus dream journals. "How what?"
"YOU KNOW HOW WHAT!"
"Who's How What?"
"Who's-? I will curse you."
"You've been hanging out too much with Tracey, mate."
Harry went bright red. "That's besides the point!"
"Sure, sure it is."
"Ron, please-"
"Fine," Ron laughed, "I'll tell you. Fleur Delacour is a tsundere."
"What?"
"A tsundere."
"What's that?"
"She's like… mean, but secretly she's all soft and squishy."
"And you know this… how?"
"My dad's really into this thing called anime. It's like those muggle telly shows you told me about but it's all drawings."
"Like a cartoon?"
"I have not the slightest idea what you're talking about."
Harry cursed him, and Ron ducked, grabbing a pillow from beside him as he rotated and throwing it at Harry's face.
The pillow fell, only to reveal Ron in an overly dramatic, dashing pose, hand over his face and knees bent forward to an impossible angle. "Omae wa," said Ron, "mou shindeiru."
"Nani?" Screamed Harry, as his head fell off his neck and he frickin DIED.
Or, well, at least that's what happened in Ron's mind. In reality, his knees gave out from the pose, and he fell on his face, his nose making a crunching sound, and he promptly passed out ("Concussion," Harry later said. "Overdose of awesomeness," replied Ron).
—-
When Ron woke up, it was to a slap and the shout of "BAKA" from an angry-faced Fleur Delacour, before they began to make out again. Exactly two minutes later they were passionately arguing about power scaling and comic cons.
Harry rubbed at his eyes. "I have deep concerns about the age gap, and that's the least of my concerns. What cruel, horrible creator would make a world such as this? What is going on!?"
For no other reason than because the author so chose, that exact moment there was a phase in time and space, and Harry found himself in front of the Slytherin dungeon doors, in his dress robes and carrying a flower. His shock at the shift in his very existence and the clear evidence of powers beyond the scope of the human mind was overwritten by the plot point that his psychopathic dance-partner-to-be had just come out of the dorms, and reality be darned, psychopathy or not she looked good.
"You look gorgeous," he said, and the possible existence of a deity controlling his every existence mattered not a bit, because at that moment he really meant it.
She grinned at him. "Thanks! I mean, you helped me pick the dress out last week, so it's not like it's anything new-"
"Tracey," said Harry, completely honestly, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Awwww." Tracey said, placing her head onto Harry's shoulder. "Eighteen dates and you're still such a sweetie. This is why I forced you to go out with me."
Harry spluttered, "EIGHTEEN!? What happened in this time skip?"
"Who knows? But fanfiction authors really like to do this sort of thing when the novelty of a couple has worn off but they're desperate to advance the story and relationship, and since they're all sad single losers who aren't in relationships, they have no idea how a relationship might realistically advance."
"That's pretty crazy."
"Yeah, well, there's only so many levels of walls we can break before we become obnoxiously meta."
"You know, you even saying that kind of feels like a paradox."
"Crap."
Draco stuck his pinched face into the frame of their vision — but before he could get a single word out, Tracey had drawn her wand and blasted him into the wall.
"You know," said Harry, "having someone with me who's more than happy to commit felonies makes life so much easier."
"Ridiculous, that doesn't make any sense, I would never commit felonies-" Tracey said, as she sent another blasting curse at Pansy Parkinson, who had been stalking toward them with a scowl on her face. "-for you."
Harry motioned at Pansy. "Seems like a felony to me."
"Yeah but that's just because I don't like her."
They arrived, hand-in-hand, to the doors leading to the dance floor. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know how to dance, would you?" Asked Harry.
"Not in the slightest," she replied cheerily. "Let's go stomp on people's toes."
"You're sure we didn't have a training montage in which I struggle for a long time as you teach me, until at one point I finally kind of get it and we slow dance romantically gazing into each other's eyes?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Now, let's run people over."
"You're awesome."
"I know."
And then, hand in hand, they stepped into the ballroom.
-/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\-
Sixteen years from that night, and yet another time-and-space jump ahead, Headmaster McGonagall was having a peaceful sorting ceremony, listing the names of the children. She had already listed a good amount, and was settling into a comfortable pattern.
"Dobbs, Anna!"
"Denzel, Elliot!"
McGonagall's eyes widened as the words on the parchment before her lept out, demanding her attention, old nightmares coming back to haunt her, memories flashing before her eyes. With quavering voice, she read out the name:
"Davis-Potter, Expelliarmous!" Her wand, pointed at her parchment as she read, caused the parchment to be flung from her hands. With a hasting summoning charm, she watched as a tiny, wide-eyed and black-haired boy made his way up to the Sorting Hat.
'Please," begged McGonagall, 'Please let this one actually be normal. He looks normal, please let him be normal-'
No sooner had the hat been placed on the child's head, it began screaming a wordless, high-pitched shriek of terror. McGonagall quickly removed it, but it kept screaming even after it had been taken off.
The child was placed in Slytherin. The hat in therapy. And the very next year, McGonagall found herself placing a pretty little child "Davis-Potter, Bombarda" (A quick reparo to the floor) also in Slytherin after the Sorting Hat collapsed once again. Two years after, her worst fears came true: Triplets.
She placed her wand down before saying their names — say what one might about Minerva McGonagall, but she was no fool. She learned her lessons.
"Davis-Potter, Imperio!"
"Davis-Potter, Crucio!"
"Davis-Potter, Avada-Kedavra!"
In his home, sitting down with his beautiful wife, Harry Potter sighed contentedly. Nothing about his life made sense. But really, it didn't matter. Why? Because the author needed him to be content in order for the plot to wrap up, and Harry was more than happy to let that happen, as long as it didn't end with him dead at twenty (a marker which he had already past, although it's not like he had a choice, when a strange force commanded his every action and mood).
A bitterly fighting, but wonderfully happy Ron and Fleur sat right next to them. She called him a safety-vest-color-headed fool, he called her a straw-haired crow, and they were both wonderfully and desperately in love.
Harry looked over at Tracey as the two fighting idiots began to make out. "My love?"
"Yes, my dearest?"
"Shall we leave before we find ourselves tempted to blow these two idiots up?"
"I suppose we will. Sigh, we're so mature now."
Ron and Fleur flipped them the bird (pun intended) in unison, and Harry and Tracey laughed. They opened the door, and walked out — and from this moment on, their lives were their own to live... for the author relinquished control, and knew no more.
A/N: Leave a review if you enjoyed!