Hello everybody, I have been present in this fandom for many a year, and have finally decided to write a story of my own.

This story is my slightly different take on the ending of the series, beginning about the time of Slughorn's Christmas party. There will be no bashing in this story. The main focus of the story is the friendship between Harry and Hermione and eventually romance, and as such the story revolves almost entirely around them. At this point in the book Harry and Hermione are still enamoured with their respective Weasleys, so the road to a romance between them is very long.

Albus Dumbledore had lived for more than a century, he had been present at some of the most important events in history, and he had seen and done more things than most people could even comprehend. Were there things he regretted along the way? Most certainly. His brief friendship with Gellert Grindelwald and the events that transpired from that being some of the most glaring mistakes he'd made.

But as he winced in pain that was emanating from his blackened hand for the umpteenth time that day, he couldn't help but think this was the stupidest mistake of them all. He had been so overwrought with emotions after finding that ring, after seeing the visions of Ariana, that he foolishly threw caution to the wind, and it had cost him greatly. Had it not been for Professor Snape's quick actions, he would have died that day.

The potion master may have been able to prevent him from dying in the most embarrassing of ways that day by containing the curse to his hand, but he knew it was only a matter of time before the curse spread further. Alas, he was living on borrowed time. The most important thing though was that he did still have time, albeit not nearly as much as he needed to finish what he'd started all those years ago.

He was brought from his thoughts by a particularly loud laugh from the Gryffindor table, and he couldn't help but smile at the sight of eight-year Patrick Thompson turning a bright shade of pink, the Weasley twins laughing uproariously from the other side of the table. Minerva, who was sitting on his right, didn't seem impressed by their antics, but Dumbledore couldn't find it in himself to be mad at them for having a bit of fun in these dark times. Yes, he would admit openly that the two Weasley pranksters had grown under his skin.

Almost by instinct, his gaze shifted from the laughing red-heads, to a boy sitting a bit further down the Gryffindor bench, his black hair and round spectacles immediately identifying him as Harry Potter. The boy seemed to be in a hushed conversation with Miss Granger, their gazes directed at the third member of the golden trio, one Mister Weasley, who was attached at the hip to Miss Brown, the pair engaged in a passionate kiss heedless of their audience.

Albus had never tried particularly hard to hide the fact that Harry Potter was his favourite student of them all. He would also freely admit that he had probably shown a bit too much favouritism in the past, making Gryffindor win the house cup a bit unfairly a few times in the past years. Suppose he looked a bit deeper into himself, he would probably also agree that the reason for his favouritism might have had something to do with how he'd failed the boy in the past, his decision to leave him with the Dursleys the worst of many mistakes he'd made regarding the Boy-Who-Lived.

And yet despite all the terrible things that had happened to him, despite the nearly six years of what was most decidedly not stress-free schooling, Harry never stopped being that small boy who entered his school all those years ago. His kindness remained, and his compassion and conviction to help others burned like the first sunrays after a particularly dreadful storm.

Albus always knew Harry Potter was going to be special, not least because he was born to two of the best people he'd known. But ever since that faithful Halloween night when the prophecy struck true for the first time, Albus knew the boy was destined for greatness. And yet, even he was astounded by the person Harry became, a beacon of light on an increasingly dark horizon. To say he was proud would be an understatement of the century.

But this growing fondness for the boy was making his decisions increasingly tougher to make, his carefully constructed plan feeling more wrong by the day. Harry was a Horcrux, and as such he would eventually have to die, that was the cruel reality of it. Placing one life above those of thousands, millions even, went against everything Dumbledore stood for. And yet, he found himself increasingly doubting himself.

He blinked away a sudden wetness in the corner of his eye, his eyes focused on the boy in question as he tried cheering up a pensive-looking Miss Granger, her eyes glancing at the pair sitting across from them every so often. Dumbledore sighed, before checking the time and standing up, wishing Minerva a 'good night' as he did so.

By the time he'd made it back to his office, it was already eight in the evening, more than half of the paintings around him soundly asleep. His hand throbbed painfully, and he wished he could just go to bed, but there was one more meeting he had scheduled that took precedence over him getting some rest. A few minutes later his floo surged, and a finely dressed man stepped out of the fire, his gaze going around his office before their eyes connected.

"Headmaster Dumbledore." The man said in a level voice, walking forth and shaking his uninjured hand.

"Minister." Dumbledore replied cordially, before adding, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Rufus Scrimgeour seemed to freeze for the briefest of moments, before seemingly recomposing himself, sitting down unprompted in the chair facing Dumbledore's desk, his fingers drumming on the wood nervously.

"Lemon drop?"

"Ah, no, thank you." Scrimgeour looked incredibly uncomfortable, his gaze everywhere but on the man facing him. After a few tense moments of silence, the Minister opened his mouth, only to be forestalled by Dumbledore.

"If you're here to demand to speak with Mister Potter for the fifth time this month, then I'm afraid I must disappoint you. Alas, my answer has not changed." He said in a light-hearted way, his interest peaking as Scrimgeour shook his head.

"That is not why I'm here."

"Ah." Was all Dumbledore said, nudging his finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet sitting on his table, the front-page article displaying the Minister in front of a speaking podium, his face resolute as he gave his speech. Scrimgeour seemed to have followed Dumbledore's gaze to the paper, his shoulders hunching somewhat and his fingers quickening their tempo on the wood.

"I suppose you could say I have come to get your opinion." Dumbledore hummed at that, feeling genuinely surprised by this reasoning. It wasn't like the two hated each other or anything, but after each time he'd denied Scrimgeour's request to speak with Harry, the Minister seemed to be more annoyed with him. He was therefore completely caught by surprise at the reason for this visit, something that didn't happen very often to him.

"You've had the captured death eaters kissed." He said levelly, before glancing at the article again, "And have allowed aurors to use lethal force in their duties." Scrimgeour nodded sombrely at that, exhaling deeply before leaning forward in his chair; "We were losing this war Dumbledore. Again. And I am not going to be the Minister that lets that bastard win. I'll do whatever it takes to stop him." Scrimgeour said banging his fist on the table, his earlier nervousness seemingly completely forgotten. Dumbledore merely hummed thoughtfully.

"I can't say I fault your reasoning Rufus, but you've really set a dangerous precedent here. Giving Aurors the power to execute anybody they think is a threat seems like toeing a very thin line between bringing security or terror." Dumbledore said severely, knowing just how quickly such a thin line could disappear.

"If I didn't act, we would have lost. What purpose is there in locking the death eaters in Azkaban when they escape a month later. With my new emergency laws, we've already permanently eliminated 25 of his followers, 5 of whom were in his inner circle." Scrimgeour explained, continuing at Dumbledore's frown, "This is a battle of attrition Albus, and if we play the good guys we'll lose. There is no other way."

"There is always a different way."

"Like believing that The Chosen One will come and save us?" Scrimgeour lifted an inquiring eyebrow, the disbelief in his words evident.

"I thought you didn't buy that story, Rufus." Dumbledore asked with a twinkle in his eyes, causing Scrimgeour to clench his teeth in apparent anger.

"I don't, but the public very much does. If we could just get Potter to publicly support the Ministry's cause, maybe say a few short lines, we would-"

"Enough. I thought you weren't here with the purpose of trying to recruit Mister Potter." He said in annoyance, cutting Scrimgeour off mid-sentence. The Minister glared at him for a brief moment, before shaking his head.

"I wasn't. I apologize. Still, the matter of the fact is that the public is frightened. They don't support the Ministry, and they seem to put more trust and hope into a 16-year-old boy than they do in us." Scrimgeour ended on a frustrated note, causing Dumbledore to lift an eyebrow.

"And who's fault is that again?" The effect this had on Scrimgeour was immediate, the Minister jumping up from his chair and jabbing a pointed finger towards a nonplussed Dumbledore.

"It is not my fault that Fudge was incompetent! He left me practically nothing to work with! The DMLE is understaffed and badly trained, and the few Aurors we have left are not enough to cover the size of magical Britain." The fight left him as he concluded his rant, and he dropped back into his chair, holding his head in his hands.

"If we had a few more years to rebuild everything Fudge has destroyed, then we might stand a chance, but now… it will be a miracle if we last a year."

As he looked at the man in front of him, his head in his hands, his posture screaming defeat, Dumbledore did feel a hint of sadness, but there wasn't much he could do. In his prime, he could have swung the battle back in their favour and could have probably even defeated Tom single-handedly, but he was far from his prime. His greatest opponent was no longer a formidable dark lord, but a simple concept of time.

Not everything was lost however, because Dumbledore did have a plan. Was it foolproof? Assuredly not, but as long as everybody did what he expected them to, he was confident in their eventual victory. And if there was one person Dumbledore felt he could rely on to do the right thing, to complete the task he would be given, then Harry Potter was that person. His faith in Harry was absolute.

The pair was suddenly interrupted by a sound of fluttering wings, followed a second later by the appearance of a pair of shabby-looking owls that flew in through the open window. The two men shared a curious glance as the two owls perched in front of their respective wizard, both holding up a leg with a letter attached to it. Dumbledore took the offered letter, unfolding the paper and skimming the words, his eyes widening almost immediately, while Scrimgeour choked on air.

"T-this is from You-Know-Who." The Minister said unsteadily, while Dumbledore hummed in agreeance, stroking his white beard. This was the second time he'd been thrown for a spin in the span of an hour, and he wondered whether he was getting too easily shaken in his old age.

"He wants to meet with us tonight. How curious." He said thoughtfully, trying to think of the possible reasons for this request.

"What are we going to do?" Scrimgeour asked, the Minister looking pale, but there was a hardness in his voice.

"I suppose we will meet him." Dumbledore said simply, causing Scrimgeour to nod in agreeance.

"It could be a trap though."

"Indeed. But I don't believe that to be the case." Dumbledore responded after a short pause; his mind having already come up with several reasons for why Tom wanted this meeting.

"Do you know what this means? We could end this war tonight." Scrimgeour said with growing confidence, his hand flexing around the wand peeking from his pocket. It was easy to forget the finely dressed Minister sitting in front of him had not too long ago been the head of the DMLE.

"I don't think that is wise. I believe we should merely listen to what he has to say." Dumbledore countered, knowing Tom wasn't foolish enough to be beaten in such a way. That was probably why he demanded a meeting on such short notice too, it made sense. And besides, Dumbledore knew he wasn't what he once was, and even with Rufus' help, they would likely lose that duel. And all that was without even mentioning that Tom was, for the moment, immortal.

"Well, this changes everything. I must contact my Aurors-" The Minister was cut off by Dumbledore's raised hand, his eyes skimming the letter one last time before placing it on the table.

"We go alone." He said simply, Scrimgeour's eyes widening at his declaration. But the experienced wizard sitting opposite him soon relaxed his features, a determined hardness crossing his worn face.

"Very well, let's see what the bastard wants."

Twin cracks rang out through the countryside as a pair of wizards materialized, both of their wands at the ready and their eyes swivelling around for any sign of danger. The small graveyard they'd arrived at was quiet under the stars, only the occasional hoot from a nearby owl breaking the silence. The two wizards shared a quick look, before starting their walk towards the middle of the cemetery.

Albus Dumbledore could scarcely even imagine what young Harry had felt when he had been transported here two years ago, with only Mister Diggory for company. He saw the Minister of Magic wave his wand in the air a few steps to his right, before turning to face him.

"We're not alone." Dumbledore was already aware of that fact, so he gave a minuscule nod in return, his eyes focusing on the tall grave in the middle of the cemetery. Tom Riddle senior's grave to be exact. The sound of a branch cracking brought their attention to the side, where a dark outline soon materialized into a person, or at least something resembling a person.

"Albus Dumbledore." The approaching Lord Voldemort drawled, his wand held loosely in his right hand, his eyes not so much as flickering towards Scrimgeour.

"Hello, Tom." He said casually in return, spotting the fire that flared in Voldemort's eyes at his words.

"Tom has been dead for a long time now. You will address me as Lord Voldemort." It was evident the dark lord was trying his hardest not to sound overly aggressive, which told Dumbledore he wanted something from them.

"Why did you tell us to meet you here?" Scrimgeour's deep baritone broke their stare-off, the Minister positioning himself to his right, his wand pointed directly towards Voldemort.

"Thank you for coming too, Minister." Voldemort replied in a terse manner, still not moving his eyes away from Dumbledore. "I have a proposition for you. One you could hardly deny, I think." The dark lord continued, his stance relaxed and his snake-like eyes finally jumping briefly to the Minister.

"And what might that be, if I may ask?" Dumbledore prompted, genuinely curious what the self-proclaimed dark lord wanted. Voldemort didn't answer immediately, instead staring at him for a good while before finally looking towards Scrimgeour.

"I propose a truce. A temporary break in fighting." Scrimgeour looked utterly shocked at this proposal, but Dumbledore had been expecting something similar to it from the moment he read the letter.

"Is this some kind of a joke?" Scrimgeour asked with clenched teeth, his fingers white where they gripped his wand.

"I assure you it isn't." Voldemort said pleasantly, "Let's face it, Minister. If we continue the war at the current tempo, both the Ministry and I will lose all of our fighters, without achieving anything. What use is me becoming the de-facto ruler of magical Britain if there is nobody to rule over." Voldemort explained, and Dumbledore was certain he knew what the dark lord was up to.

"You need time to regroup and bolster your forces after the losses you've suffered recently." He said confidently, knowing he had guessed correctly as Voldemort's mouth narrowed into a thin line.

"Correct as always Dumbledore."

"Why would we let you do this?" Scrimgeour asked right away, again taking Voldemort's attention away from him.

"Because you need this time to regroup and rebuild as well. Your aurors are in disarray, and the citizens you are supposed to be protecting have lost faith in you." Voldemort did make a few good points, but Dumbledore wasn't listening anymore, his mind racing at a million miles a minute.

Taken at face value, taking Voldemort's offer would be a simply moronic move to make. If the dark lord was that desperate for a truce, then he really was running desperately low on wizards loyal to him. And thus, they should absolutely not give him any time to regroup his forces. But there was one more element Dumbledore had to consider, and it was that element that gave him pause. The simple fact was that Voldemort was immortal.

And if the war came to a close in the next short while, even if they were victorious, Voldemort would survive, and return for a third time. And Dumbledore had no intention of making his third time lucky. But if they agreed to his truce, he, and later Harry and his friends, would be given ample time to find and destroy his Horcruxes.

Dumbledore was never too concerned about who won the wizarding war, it was inconsequential next to Voldemort's immortality. But with this proposal, Voldemort was inadvertently giving them time to destroy his greatest ace, and Dumbledore was already starting to plan his next moves. He realized Scrimgeour had been arguing with the dark lord while he thought, Voldemort appearing angrier by the second.

"We accept." Scrimgeour turned sharply to him at that, while Voldemort seemed speechless. Dumbledore shrugged casually. "We need time to regroup, as you said. How long of a truce did you have in mind?" Voldemort took a quick glance at his blackened hand at that, before answering; "5 years seems like a fair amount of time."

Dumbledore realized the cunning dark lord was also probably hoping he would just die in that time, a hope that would almost certainly come to fruition. But Dumbledore had never intended to be the one that would defeat Voldemort. No, that job would unfortunately fall on the shoulders of one Harry Potter, but Dumbledore had complete trust that the young man, with help from his friends, would make everybody proud.

"There is one last condition that I have." Lord Voldemort suddenly said, and Dumbledore could tell just from the tone that he wasn't going to like what would be said next.

"And what would that be?" Dumbledore asked, having an inkling but hoping he was wrong.

"I want Harry Potter. And in return, neither I nor my followers will harm any muggles in the time of this truce. If you don't accept, then the truce will only count between us and the Ministry, and we will continue with our terror on the muggle population." This time it was Dumbledore who visibly hesitated, while Scrimgeour didn't seem to have any queries about handing Harry to his death.

But as Dumbledore thought about what to do, he suddenly thought of a perfect plan. An idea so brilliant he had to try hard to school his face so as to not betray anything. Was it risky? Undoubtedly. But if he pulled it off, it would almost certainly win them the war and would save Harry in the process as well. He shared a quick glance with Scrimgeour, who titled his head to the side as if asking for his opinion. Dumbledore gave him a short nod.

"We agree. How do we know we can trust your word?" Scrimgeour asked, while Voldemort smirked one-sidedly.

"An unbreakable vow should suffice."