by Harry Potter
George lurched a bit at Hermione’s description, whereas Fred put up a brave face, even though he wanted to run as far away as possible. Harry had dropped all pretences and had started to dry heave once more.
“After that, Harry and Ginny will snog while still finger-banging her, right there at the table in front of you,” Hermione continued, not quite suppressing the quiver of disgust in her voice. “Harry might just pull her robe down so he can...” Hermione paused and swallowed, as she steeled herself for the forthcoming image, “... s-s-s-suckle her tit in public.”
Fred balked and George clutched his stomach. Harry weakly pawed at Hermione’s leg, silently begging her not to continue. He didn’t care about the stupid Horcruxes anymore; Voldemort could take over the world as far as he was concerned. He just wanted Hermione to stop talking about him fondling a girl that looked like his mum.
“Do you think Ginny will wank him off under the table? Or perhaps she’ll go down on him?” Hermione questioned as the disturbing images made her start to go light-headed. “Oh, no; I don’t think you’ll get off that easily. Harry’ll bend her over the table and make her a woman. Right there, in front of you and the rest of your family.
“I figure she’ll squeal a bit when he breaks her hymen,” Hermione’s face had turned a nice shade of green due to the mental image she gave herself, when Fred suddenly interrupted.
“Hold one, wait a minute,” Fred interjected, hoping to derail Hermione’s conversation. “Do you honestly think our little sister still has her hymen intact?”
“Yeah, how else do you think she got so popular so quickly?” added George.
“Fine then,” Hermione countered. She decided to go full bore and take the fight out of the twins. “She’ll just start grinding her hips into his, driving his manhood deeper and deeper into her pulsing box. Do you think he’ll smack her arse? Can you imagine the red, hand-shaped welt forming on her milky white flesh? The same milky white flesh that Harry’s mother had!”
Hermione’s vivid description became too much. Tears of fear and displeasure rolled down Fred’s face as George fell to his knees, begging in a sad, muted tone for Hermione to stop.
“They’ll call out each other’s name in ecstasy,” Hermione added as Harry crumpled to the ground, sobbing. “She’ll scream, ‘HARRY, I’M CUMMING!’ and he’ll grunt as he cums inside her. Then he’ll lean in close to her ear and say: ‘You’re the best... mum!’”
The twins fell to the grassy ground with a thud and Harry mercifully began to black out. Hermione stood over Fred and George and concluded her threat.
“If you don’t let us leave, and without alerting the rest of the Order, I’ll make sure you get to witness first-hand how much Harry loves his mother!”
Some time later, a throbbing pressure in his jeans woke Harry up. Apparently, ‘Harry, Jr.’ was still mad that he wasn’t allowed to finish playing earlier, and he was still taking his anger and frustration out on his luggage, which Harry assumed, had turned from the earlier blue into a nice puce color by now. The young man groaned as he sat up in his chair. To his surprise, Harry was on the Knight Bus, but he had no recollection as to how he got there. He just remembered blacking out while Hermione was spinning a disturbing tale of blackmail and sex, disgusting sex at that. Obviously, Hermione had convinced the twins that it was in their best interest to let her and Harry leave # 4. He figured she had convinced them to help her to get him on the Bus as well.
Harry looked to his right and saw Hermione sitting next to him. The young woman had no color to her face except for a touch of sickly green around her eyes.
“I hope you appreciate what I did for you, Harry,” she said. “All those horrible images have burrowed into my brain. I’m going to have nightmares for weeks now!”
The witch threw herself into Harry’s arms and wept into his chest.
“It was so horrible, Harry” she cried in-between tears. “I kept seeing you... and Ginny... doing... bad... terrible things!”
“Shh; it’s okay, shh,” Harry cooed while gently rubbing her back. “It’s never going to happen.” Harry felt a tinge of guilt as his hands run across Hermione’s back because he kept remembering how nice and warm her bare skin felt a few hours previously.
With a “BANG”, the Knight Bus screeched to a halt directly in front of the gates to Hogwarts. Hermione leaned on Harry heavily, since her knees where still weak from her earlier ordeal, as they exited the Bus and walked up to the gates.
“The gates will be locked,” stated Hermione as the Knight Bus rocketed into the distance. “We’ll have to go through the Shrieking Shack.”
As the two teens marched to the Shack in a roundabout way in order to avoid the villagers of Hogsmeade, Harry was taken back at how low the sun had gotten in the sky. When he had lost consciousness, it had still been late morning to early afternoon. By the position of the sun in the sky, Harry guessed that it was now nearly time for supper.
“How long was I out?” Harry asked.
“A while,” replied Hermione. “I had the twins help me put you on the Knight Bus right after you blacked out. But the driver is new, and he got lost for a few hours. I swear to God I think we somehow ended up in Dijon, France for about an hour. I think we ran over a baguette seller’s cart.”
They remained silent as they ventured through the tunnel that led from the Shrieking Shack to the grounds of Hogwarts. Each step for Harry was nearly excruciating, ‘Harry Jr.’s’ luggage cried out in pain at every footfall. When the teens finally emerged from the tunnel, the sun was about to say ‘good-night’ and leave them in the dark. By the time they had entered the castle, the only remains of the sun was an orange hue on the horizon.
Harry led the way to the Headmaster’s office. The castle was eerily empty and quiet; Peeves didn’t even seem to be around. After a few minutes, they reached the stone gargoyle that guarded the door to the Headmaster’s office.
“Oh, bugger,” cursed Harry. “I don’t know the password!”
Hermione chewed her lip for a moment before saying: “McGonagall is the new Headmistress, but what password would she have used?”
“Dumbledore liked to use sweets,” added Harry. “They were always along the lines of ‘lemon drops,’ ‘acid pops,’ ‘cockroach clusters’...”
“So we just have to figure out what she likes...?” Hermione said to herself.
“’Ice mice’...” continued Harry, because he honestly didn’t know what the Head of Gryffindor liked. But, he felt compelled to say something.
“What does McGonagall like?”
“’Fizzing Whizbees’...” again, Harry continued to list the code-words Dumbledore might have used.
“I don’t think she likes sweets, Harry,” stated Hermione.
“’Blood pops’...”
“Blast it Harry!” Hermione ordered. “Please either be quiet or...”
Hermione was about to continue her philippic toward Harry, but was interrupted when the gargoyle sprung to life and stepped to the side.
“The password is ‘Blast’?” Hermione asked incredulously.
“That isn’t very smart,” stated Harry. “What if someone wanted to break in? They could just walk up and say ‘Let’s use a Blast-ing Hex to blow the gargoyle up.’ And the silly thing would just open up for them like that,” he continued, snapping his fingers to highlight his point.
“Actually,” the stone gargoyle grumbled, his voice sounded like two stones grinding together, “the Headmistress hasn’t made up a password yet. I’m allowed to open up for anyone. I just wanted to play with you for a bit.”
“You cheeky little bugger!” Harry chastised the stone figure.
“Let’s just go, Harry,” groaned Hermione as she stomped up the stairs. Harry followed, shooting a dirty look at the gargoyle.
As they entered the office, they were greeted with a hundred different snoring sounds. But one voice did greet them.
“Hello Harry, Hermione, I was wondering when would you
show up,” Dumbledore’s painting said with a genuine smile.
“Hello, Professor,” Harry returned the greeting.
Hermione, however, was too amazed at the sights and sounds of hundreds of former Headmasters and mistresses sleeping in their frames. “Is that Armando Dippet?” she questioned to no one in particular. “And that’s Dilys Derwent!”
“Harry, there are two occasions on which you can stop calling me ‘Professor’ and use my given name,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. “One of which is if you graduate. The other is if one of us dies. And seeing that I am ‘living impaired,’ you may call me Albus.”
“Okay, hello, Albus,” Harry felt odd referring to his mentor in such an informal way. “How are you, sir?”
“Is that Roderic Hillsworth?” Hermione asked aloud once more as she continued to study the different paintings. “And that’s Hamilton the III!”
“I’m dead,” replied the magical painting, “and you?”
“I’m... ah... alive,” was the best response that Harry could come up with.
“Wonderful, I take you’re here because of the visitor you’ve received?”
“You know about him?”
“And that’s... that’s...” Hermione stammered somewhere in the back of the office. “That’s James Doohan!?!”
“Of course I know about Godric visiting you,” Dumbledore said with a wink. “I was the one who sent him.
“Why the hell is there a magical painting of James Doohan here?” Hermione asked from the dark corner where she was standing.
“So you sent him to tell me about the sword?” Harry asked.
“Yes, it is over there on the shelf behind you,” stated Dumbledore.
“Did you know he’s a perverted old coot?” Harry asked as he walked over to the shelf.
“Yes, I am terribly sorry about that, however he was the only ghost I could find,” replied Dumbledore solemnly. “I discovered how perverted he was, first hand, during my sixth year as a student. The future Mrs. Dumbledore and I stole away to a broom-closet when he suddenly appeared over my shoulder making inappropriate suggestions to me. To this day, I still don’t believe a mop should be used in such a manner.”
Harry looked at the gleaming sword that lay before him. It had been over four years since he had last held it. His hand hovered over the bejeweled handle momentarily. He felt power coming from the sword; power that he had not detected when he first wielded the sword in his second year.
“Excuse me, Professor,” Hermione asked as she walked up to Dumbledore’s painting. “Why is there a painting of James Doohan in here?”
“I’ll only answer if you call me Albus,” the painting demanded in a cheery tone.
As Harry’s hand wrapped around the hilt, a wave of power ran through his body. Harry hoisted the sword up and held it triumphantly over his head.
“Fine. Albus, why is there a painting of James Doohan in here?” repeated Hermione.
“I was playing a little joke on my predecessors,” Albus chuckled. “You see, Hogwarts is in Scotland, and Mr. Doohan played a character called ‘Scotty.’ Do you understand my sense of humor?
“No,” Hermione said honestly.
The sword felt completely natural to Harry, as if it was an extension of his body. He was about the share this revelation with Hermione, when the office door swung open and a very perturbed Minerva McGonagall stomped in followed by an equally agitated Remus Lupin. Both Harry and Hermione froze like statues in their respective places.
“Damn those Weasley twins,” McGonagall said rapidly through clenched teeth. She obviously had not yet seen Harry or Hermione as she continued her stomping and ranting. “How they could possibly have let Potter slip by is beyond me.”
“I’ve already checked #12 and he isn’t there,” said Remus as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Tonks is checking the parks and shops around Little Whinging.”
“And Molly told me he isn’t at the Burrow!” supplied McGonagall.
It was at this point that Remus finally stopped rubbing the bridge of his nose and took notice of the office and its occupants. He saw Hermione standing in front of Dumbledore’s painting sheepishly and saw Harry off to the side standing like some sort of action hero with a sword held high. Harry waved weakly at the old werewolf.
“Where can he be?” McGonagall cried out in frustration.
“He could be standing over there,” stated Remus as he pointed at the raven-haired youth.
McGonagall spent the next better part of an hour yelling at Harry and Hermione. She was considering ‘tar and feather’-ing them when Albus finally spoke up.
“Don’t be too harsh on them, Minerva,” the painting pleaded.
“Why not?” Minerva cleverly retorted.
“It is my fault that Harry and Hermione are here,” said Albus.
“What?” Minerva screeched. “You left us explicit orders that Potter wasn’t to leave that house until he turned seventeen!”
“It is quite funny, actually,” chuckled Albus. “You see, I forgot about the sword.”
The deceased Headmaster explained to the new Headmistress about the Sword of Gryffindor, but left out any reference to the Horcruxes.
“Well, how did Harry know to come and get the sword?” Minerva asked. “You certainly couldn’t have written to him.”
“I sent a ghost to him.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“Godric Gryffindor.”
“Oh, Albus, you didn’t. Not Gryffindor,” stated Minerva sternly.
“I couldn’t convince any of the others to do it for me.” Albus defended.
“Professor, you know about Gryffindor’s... er tendencies?” Hermione asked.
“Yes, I’ve had the pleasure...” Minerva said the word like it was some contemptuous thing, “... to meet him whilst I was showering four years ago. The scoundrel had offered to towel me off, but his offer specifically excluded using a towel!
“Did he say something to trouble you, my dear?” Minerva asked Hermione upon noticing the young witch’s embarrassment.
“No ma’am!” Hermione replied a little too vehemently.
“I suppose you want me to return to my Aunt’s house now,” Harry said in a defeated tone.
“It is now an impossibility, Potter. Your relatives have kicked you out,” McGonagall informed him. “We found out you weren’t in the house when your uncle started to chuck your things out your now-former bedroom window.”
Remus walked up to Harry and handed him his school trunk which had been shrunk to the size of a matchbox. “Don’t worry, I picked up your things,” the former Marauder said.
“And seeing the late hour, you two can spend the night in your old dormitories,” McGonagall said, dismissing the two teens.
Harry and Hermione stopped by the kitchen for some supper. Harry was famished; he ate almost as fast as the House-Elves were able to put food in front of him. He was stuffing his face with meat pies, kippers, white beans and toast, and other disgusting examples of English cuisine.
“Harry, something’s been bothering me,” said Hermione after she finished her meal. Harry turned his attention to his pretty friend while sampling some Plowman’s Lunch. “Even if we do destroy the Horcruxes, you’ll still have to face Voldemort.”
Harry suddenly no longer felt hungry.
“I mean he is the most powerful wizard alive,” Hermione continued. “We’re just kids! We have to find a way to learn useful skills quickly.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Harry.
“It’s time for a good old fashion Library visit,” Hermione finished with a happy smile.
After spending four hours reading various books on various subjects, Harry groaned as he threw another book down.
“I can’t read another word,” Harry declared irritably. “I think my eyes are going to melt out of my head!”
Not only were his eyes sore, but his ‘bits’ were still sore as well. He had tried several times to find an excu
se to go off to the loo and relieve himself, but couldn’t come up with a reasonable excuse to be absent for several minutes, leaving Hermione alone researching a way to keep him alive.
“Alright, let’s take a break from reading,” Hermione said and closed the overly large tome in front of her. “Did you find anything useful?”
“I did come across something,” said Harry as he sat down and tried to inconspicuously rearrange ‘Harry, Jr.’ and his luggage. “What about using a Time Turner to arrange some extra training time?”
“Actually, I read up on some case studies of that when I used the Time Turner in our third year,” Hermione explained. “It seems a number of wizards have tried this, but for some reason, after they have used the Time Turner for a period of time, they simply cease to exist!”
“They cease to exist?” That little nugget caught Harry’s attention.
“Yes, it’s as if the ‘powers that be’ lose interest and move on to different things,” Hermione added, “completely abandoning the wizard who used the Time Turner.”
“Well, I don’t want to cease to exist!” Harry exclaimed. “How about you? Did you come up with any ideas?
“I did come across something interesting in this book,” Hermione stated as she reopened the large book in front of her. “There is a way for us to travel to another dimension. Time moves differently there so for every day that passes here, a year will have occurred in the other dimension, so we could literally study seven years while only a week has passed here.”
“Great! How do we get there?” Harry asked as he tried to surreptitiously adjust himself once more in vain attempt for comfort.
“Let me see...” Hermione paused as she skimmed over the pages in the book. “Oh, wait, they’re a few complications.”
“Like what?”
“It seems that the people in the other dimension have a bizarre quirk regarding names; we’d have to call you ‘Hank’ for some outlandish reason. We also have to dye you hair blonde as well as getting rid of your glasses,” Hermione paused again and her face fell. “And the other MAJOR complication is that when the people return to their normal dimension, they tend to have some kind of nervous breakdown.”