Harry is turned away from Madam Pomfrey when he asks her to get rid of the scar for the umpteenth time. "Headmaster Dumbledore wants you to have it!" as she pushes him out onto the corridor.
Fine, he'll do it himself. Placing the tip of his wand on the middle of his scar, "Reparo!" A malevolent spirit is pulled from the forest in Albania towards its homeland, cursing Dumbledore all the while. All over Britain. Horcruxes are pulled inexorably towards a castle in Scotland. One erupts from a wall on the seventh floor of the same castle, right in front of the squib caretaker, giving him such a fright his heart stops and he collapses. Sadly, nobody is near to help him, and Hogwarts doesn't teach CPR anyways. A black ichor sprouts from Harry's forehead, een as a black mist is sucked into a tarnished silver tiara at his feet. He shrugs and goes back to the Griffindor common room, giving the tiara a wide berth.
The Power He Knows Not:
"Today, class, we'll be leaning the reparo charm."
Tom rolls his eyes. He's had enough of darned hand-me-downs at the orphanage for a lifetime. Until he learned enough "accidental" magic to just take what he wants or the money to buy it, that is. He sneers, and mutters to Avery:
"What are we, Weasleys? If something breaks, I just buy a brand new replacement." Never one pass up an opportunity to cultivate the pureblood persona he projects.
Avery snorts and nods in agreement. Tom takes out the latest addition to his dark arts book collection, bespelled to look like the charms textbook. When it comes his turn to demonstrate, he silently uses a wandless switching spell, that had proven so useful in his pilfering, to subtitute the broken quill with a whole one from his bag. Back to his evil book. What's this about Horcruxes?
Hermione is on her death bed. She has lived a long, long life, and overall a happy one. A potions regime and her inborn magic have slowed down her aging, but not quite enough. She was never able to make a philospher's stone, and to be honest she believes the Flamels were using using a fake to cover up some sort of dark magic use, not unlike Voldemort's.
The idea that after centuries of being quite able to manage to protect it on their own, they would have it destroyed on account of Voldemort, when he was but a shadow of Grindewald's terror, is ridiculus. Even if they were tired of living, surely they would gift it to a magical hospital to keep it in custody and use the elixir and gold in extraordinary circumstances, like otherwise hopeless children. Something to be remembered by. If you ask her, they just assumed new identities and live quietly.
Their gold was more likely the result of long term investments and thievery. She had done quite well for herself and hers, while staying legal. Well, mostly legal. A few pureblood vaults may have been robbed that did not make it to the printed story when they went for the cup. Bottomless undetectable space expansiom charmed bead bags are quite useful things, specially if you combine them with a sumpning charm with the wand tip held on the lid of the bag. You can sor out the cursed items later, at your leisure.
It seems her own magic has resisted the potions some, recognising them as something foreign. Oh, her joints don't bother her whatsoever, never have. She looks and feels every bit as good at 300 as she did at 30. It's mostly her brain that's going out, and with it the control processes thatt govern her body functions. Still, she's not that happy to go on her next great adventure. There's so many books left to read! So many changes she still has to drag magical society kicking and screaming into. So many places for her and her husband to... She nods off.
"Reparo!"
She wakes up, and feels... smaller. Her skin is smooth. The fog in her head is gone. And... where are the bumps where her boobs should be?
She looks over at her husband, who has the goofiest smile plastered on his goofy face, and looks oddly big, as if he was Hagrid's long lost brother.
"Dear, WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BOOBS?"
Her voice is strangely high pitched.
He nods his head down sheepisly, and rubs the nape of his neck.
"Ah, sorry, I think I overdid it a bit. I'll get you an aging potion, sharpish!"
A bit... Snort. That wonderful man...
"Here, dear."
"You know, we spend too little time with the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren. And I do not trust those news professors. What do you say to going back to Hogwarts?"
"Isn't that a bit creepy?"
"Only if you make it creepy."
"Fair enough, I'm game. Who's children are we going to be? John's? He lives in Australia with his wife, and they are both recluses."
"I was thinking muggleborn."
"Yeah, there's been an uptick of those ever since the magic monitoring office was reestructured."
"You mean since we purged the pureblood supremacist quiet supporters from the ministry. That fool Hopkirk thought she was helping, helping! when she gave their addresses to Malfoy. And that was the best of the lot."
"Yes, but when you say it your way it makes the rest of the inbred morons nervous."
"They should be. Keeps them sharp. Shall I do you?"
"Alright. The intent I used was to have you as healthy and whole as when I first met you."
"Yeah, that'd do it. Reparo!"