Harry barely touched his knuckle to the door before it was torn open and he was dragged inside Bones Manor.
He found himself staring directly into Amelia's electric blue eye and a brown leather eye patch. She held his arm quite firmly, growling as she enunciated her words.
"The last two days have been the longest of my life, and I say this as someone who lost an eye the week before. I'm at risk of snapping any moment. Something that would be terrible not just for me, but for all of Britain, given the delicate nature of the responsibilities I shoulder. It's imperative that I let off steam. Can I count on your cooperation?"
"...lead the way." Harry said.
O-O-O
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!
"Yes! Yes! Yes! Fucking yes!" Amelia howled.
Her whole body was moving as she drove her pussy down repeatedly, impaling herself on Harry's cock. Her knees were on either side of his hips on her living room couch. Amelia's weight was tilted forward, her hands on the wall behind Harry's head as she rode him using all her might.
The couch scooted slightly, its legs thumping the hardwood floor. The springs inside squealed for dear life. Amelia thrust her huge tits directly into Harry's face, demanding he bite in.
Harry, of course, didn't refuse.
He sank his teeth in, feeling how they just kept sinking. He held onto Amelia's jiggling ass while she tested the structural integrity of his pelvis. Her pussy was showering his cock in moisture, cumming rapidly as Amelia worked through all the stress that had built up over such a short amount of time.
"Urrrah!" Amelia bottomed out, slamming down so hard it sent waves through her breasts. "Yes!"
She came harder than Harry had felt before, bringing him to do the same. His cum shot into Amelia's pussy. She purred, leaving her nipple in his mouth for almost thirty seconds before rolling off.
Naked, slightly sweaty, the two of them sat side by side, both slouching against the cushions of her sofa.
"Fudge is done," Amelia said.
Harry glanced over. Even for him, the transition from pleasure to business was a bit abrupt.
"They're raising a vote of no-confidence against him as we speak. I doubt if a single representative will vote in his favor," Amelia carried on.
"Well, he did bring it on himself," Harry said. It felt a hollow consolation after what it cost.
"Undoubedly. After a year painting Dumbledore as a madman chasing power, Britain just lost its greatest defender, to the villain he was trying to warn us of. I wouldn't be surprised if Fudge ends up with an Azkaban stint. That is, if he doesn't flee the country first."
"He's always been a coward."
"To the core," Amelia said.
She drummed her hands on her thighs. In other circumstances, watching the way they shook would have riled Harry up again, but it did nothing for him in this mood.
"Who will be the next Minister?" he asked.
"Me, if I have anything to say about it," Amelia said. She rolled her head back, sinking it into the sofa, looking at the ceiling. "It seems mad to say that. I never wanted the position. I always said it would mean wasting my time mired in politics, and I already get as much of those as I can take in the DMLE. But war makes people out of us that we never expected to be."
"For what it's worth, I think you'll be a great Minister," Harry said.
"From most people, it would mean very little," Amelia said bluntly. She managed to make a small smile, looking at him. "I admit, it does feel nice to hear it from you. It often feels as if you possess an unfair amount of answers compared to the rest of us."
"Not enough," Harry muttered.
Amelia touched his hand.
"You cannot be expected to protect the most powerful wizard in Britain. You saved your students. You saved the Boy-Who-Lived. You saved my niece. The only ones to blame for Dumbledore's death are the ones who killed him, and the Ministry who failed to uphold our duty and stop them."
Harry gave a thin smile, laying his hand on top of hers.
He appreciated the sentiment, but she didn't know. She had no way of knowing. He really did have too many answers, yet things still turned out like this. Because of his mistake.
Voldemort had learned about the future and about him. The Dark Lord knew that he needed to strike a decisive blow, before Harry and Dumbledore combined their might against him. To equal the playing field, he'd gone all out, using ghosts from Dumbledore's past to strike him down. His return was revealed to all of Wizarding Britain, plunging the country into war, but the trade-off was worth it. He eliminated Britain's beacon of hope, all because Harry was too damn soft to snap a few necks when he had the chance.
His judgement kept failing him. When he killed, he killed the wrong ones. When he chose mercy, it came back to kill those he loved.
For better or for worse, this time, Harry didn't think there was even a choice being offered.
"I'm going to have to do it," he said.
"Do what?" Amelia asked.
He squeezed her hand.
"Something I never wanted to do again."
O-O-O
Dumbledore's funeral was held on the lawn of Hogwarts beside the Great Lake's lapping waters. Students, teachers, Ministry officials, and a multitude of other faces filled temporary chairs facing an erected stage, before which Dumbledore's coffin was placed, lid closed. Walking through the crowd, Harry saw more people crying than were dry-eyed.
The snide part of his brain asked how many of those were crocodile tears. There were people in attendance who, fueled by the Prophet, spent the last year calling the headmaster all sorts of foul things. They ignored his warnings, then came and made a show of grief when he was gone. Of course they were upset— they lost the man who made them feel safe for decades.
Harry could almost hear Dumbledore scolding him. Everyone deserves a chance to recant their mistakes. Maybe that was true, but Harry had never been quite as forgiving as Albus. His hands were balled into fists by the time he reached his seat in the front row.
The chairs were arranged in two large rectangles, separated by a carpet aisle. On the left side of the aisle the front row was taken by ministry officials and foreign diplomats; those who hadn't been too nervous to attend. Harry spotted Amelia, but also Fudge, leaving him with a confusing mix of feelings in his gut.
The front row on the right side was reserved for Hogwarts staff. Harry sat down and almost immediately put his arm around Septima, who was bawling in the seat beside his. It was a warm day with a breeze. Perfectly pleasant, in a sick twist of fate.
McGonagall stood up, walking onto the stage with wet cheeks and a determined expression.
"I'll keep this brief." Her Scottish accent had been thickened by grief. "I'm in no mood t'talk. But I shall. Albus deserved that much… and more! He gave his life for the things he loved. Teaching. Magic. Us."
McGonagall swallowed.
"Pay yer respects," she said. "Big or small. If ye've got anything to share, take the stage."
She abdicated the podium. The crowd processed the offer and a line began to form. It started with Ministry officials, Hogwarts staff, and old friends of Dumbledore's. There was Elphias Doge, Horace Slughorn, Professor Babbling, Tiberius Ogden, and more. Though the speeches varied, they tended to run longer than ten minutes, telling tales of Dumbledore's character and anecdotes of his friendship.
Harry was distracted from Griselda Marchbanks' tale about Dumbledore's Transfiguration N.E.W.T. by something near the back of the line. Though she was looking around like a frightened rabbit, worried she would be pulled aside and told this was no place for her, young Romilda Vane had joined the queue.
She was only a third year. On either side of her were grown wizards with prominent positions inside the ministry. But Romilda showed that the Sorting Hat knew best, upholding her Gryffindor bravery and refusing to return to her seat. She followed the line, eventually climbed the steps, and found herself as the one on the stage. The podium was too tall to see her behind, so she stepped to the side.
"H-Hello," she said.
The pulpit had been enchanted to magnify the voice of anyone who spoke behind it. Without its help, Romilda's voice words barely reached the front row. She blushed, fearing she'd just made a tremendous fool of herself. But when she tried again, her voice boomed across the crowd. "Hello!"
Harry slid his wand back into his pocket.
"I'm Romilda. Romilda Vane," she said. "I'm a third year. You… won't know me. I'm not very important. Professor Dumbledore didn't know me either, back when I was a first year. I was a half-blood who didn't have many friends, so I would go to high places and look out of the castle. It made me feel important."
There were those in the crowd who were beginning to whisper. A girl with nothing special about her, who admitted she wasn't important, was taking up time? They whispered words like nuisance.
It was very odd, then, that everyone who had been talking suddenly found their voices to be on vacation. This time, Harry didn't bother returning his wand to his pocket. He was listening to Romilda.
"One night, I met the Headmaster while sitting in my favorite spot. He said that he liked to sit there himself. When I offered to leave, he laughed, and he sat next to me. We looked at the lake… The one that's right here. He asked about where I was from and listened to me for as long as I could talk. He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to do any of it. But if he hadn't, I don't know how long it would have taken me to settle in. He helped this school feel like my home. So I just hope… wherever he is now… that it feels like home for him! Just like this place does to me!"
Romilda stood still for a second, finally realizing how many eyes were on her. She nodded a few times, crying slightly, and left the stage.
Like that, the floodgates opened.
A hundred students, then more, joined the line. When it came time for them to speak, most of them spoke for only a minute, sharing the things that stuck with them.
For one Ravenclaw, the headmaster found her struggling with homework, and sat for thirty minutes explaining Transfiguration in a novel way.
A Hufflepuff girl met him while crying from a breakup. He'd shared one of his chocolate frogs, despite admitting they were his favorite.
A boy from Gryffindor had been hiding after his friend botched a haircutting charm. When Dumbledore discovered him by chance, the headmaster tied his own hair into a ridiculous front-facing ponytail. He kept it that way the whole night, even through dinner, merely smiling at the laughter it caused, showing there were more important things than pride.
Even the adults started telling small stories. Instead of talking about Wizengamot, Grindlewald, or his skill with a wand, they shared words he'd said when they called Hogwarts home. Small things he'd done. Ways he changed lives with a moment from his own.
Plenty of stories were shared from three of the houses, which made the absence of one stand out. It wasn't that Dumbledore hated Slytherins. It was that those whose lives he touched were weighing the risks of admitting such. One wrong word in a setting like this could get their house raided now that the Dark Lord was back. It could cost them the lives of family members.
So none stepped up, until Blaise Zabini stomped onto the stage wearing a scowl. His otherwise handsome face featured a slightly skewed nose, still in the process of healing from a bad break at the hands of Bellatrix's spells.
He touched the pulpit and leaned forward, speaking clearly.
"Albus Dumbledore was an incredible wizard. To those that killed him, attacking my classmates and I on the same day, you'd best hold your wand tight if you come near me. You aren't the only ones who know curses."
It was a powerful statement, though it was closer to a declaration of war than a eulogy. Perhaps to Blaise, those things were one and the same.
Surprisingly, James Potter was near the back of the line, speaking after more than a hundred stories had been shared. He was the last one from the line to climb the stage, leaning on the podium and looking across the crowd. The funeral had gone long enough for the sky to turn orange and a fierce chill to creep into the air. No one left.
"If I shared everything I owe Albus, I'd keep you here in the dark," James said. "I've worked with him for more than fifteen years. I will tell you this now— he made mistakes. He was only human. What made him better than many, myself included, was that he never forgot a mistake he made. Not one. He memorized every misstep and tried to do better tomorrow. I am not Albus Dumbledore. I won't pretend or try to be. He helped me turn from an immature boy into a man with a lot to learn. I'm still learning, and I wish he could be here to guide me in the right direction… But I won't stop because he's gone." James slapped his chest. "I'll carry the mark he left right here, using it to bring a better tomorrow. I hope all of you will be right there beside me to help. Thank you."
James had been the last in line, but as he descended the stairs, Harry finally stood up. Some of his colleagues looked at him. Across the aisle, Amelia leaned forward in anticipation. Harry wished he could share her enthusiasm. In fact, his feet felt like lead as he climbed onto the stage.
Harry laid his hands on the podium. It settled in, looking from this angle, just how many people were truly here. The faces stretched over such a distance that those in the back were a mere blur from the stage. It was enough to inspire a moment of nerves, even in him. But he quickly remembered Romilda standing where he stood now, saying what needed to be said, nerves and repercussions be damned. He could hardly let her show him up.
"Four days ago, I cut off the head of Bellatrix Lestrange."
No magic was needed to keep the crowd silent this time. Harry leaned forward, fixing his eyes on the crowd.
"Some of you will know me. My name is Harry James Potter. I teach Muggle Studies. What you've had no way of knowing is that over the past five months, I've undertaken a series of missions known only to the headmaster myself. I am the one who killed Fenrir Greyback— slaughtered along with his pack under a full moon. When Voldemort courted the giant clans, I traveled to Eastern Europe and put an end to it. Both the Death Eaters he sent, and the foolish Gurg that agreed to join them. I have already killed half of his Inner Circle, and I am nowhere near done yet. So, I suppose, the message I have for you is a simple one."
Harry surveyed the crowd.
"For as long as I'm here, Hogwarts will remain safe. If any Death Eater would like to try their luck, I ask them, please do. The only one dying will be the fool who raises his wand at children. And that goes for Tom Riddle as well."
Murmurs erupted. From among them, a few rows behind the teachers, a single voice bellowed loud enough to be heard.
"Who's that?" Ron shouted, putting his great lungs to use setting Harry up. Harry smiled— both because of the gesture, and to complete the delivery of this news.
"It's Voldemort. His true name. The name of a half-blood born to inbred Gaunts and the Muggle father who gave him a hand-me-down name. Before his death, Dumbledore sniffed out his true history, and now, I can confirm it for you. Voldemort is a farce ruling through fear. I invite you, say his real name! Say it as much as you please! He can create another taboo, try to make his true name feared the same way as the fake… But will he? After all, Tom hates to be Tom. But I know him. I know him as well as he knows himself."
Harry tweaked the enchantment magnifying his voice. Suddenly, his words doubled in volume, so loud that some were forced to cover their ears.
"Tom has not won! This war has just begun! Until I fall, I promise you, Britain will never bend its knee to that incestuous tyrant!" Harry lowered his voice, the enchantments still carrying it effortlessly to those at the very back. "And I will not fall."
As Harry climbed off the stage, some cheered. Notable among these were Blaise and Ron, both of whom stood up in order to be better heard. Most of the crowd, however, were stunned. It was too much for them to process. That was fine with Harry, who had more pressing matters to attend to. He stopped in front of Dumbledore's casket.
The lid was shut except for a small window beginning at the neck, leaving Dumbledore's face exposed, ringed with roses and other flowers. Harry conjured another one, catching it by the stem, and reached inside to place it in Dumbledore's hands where his wand should've gone.
"A placeholder," Harry said. "I'll deliver the real thing, Albus. I just need a bit of time."
He held his phoenix feather wand above his head. Taking a deep breath, Harry's wand spewed a firework from the tip. The crowd tracked the red ball with their eyes as it flew up, then eventually hung in the air, and then—
Crack!
A glittering, fiery flower formed. As if it was a queue, centaurs could be heard stamping their feet on the far side of the Great Lake, paying their respects. Singing rose out of the Great Lake as the Merpeople sang their farewell. Overhead, a bird flew through the fiery remnants of Harry's firework. Fawkes trilled notes that could break even the most stoic attendee. The phoenix flew overhead, disappearing into the sunset. Harry wagered they'd seen the bird for the last time.
He rested his hand on the back of Dumbledore's coffin, shutting the window that showed the late-Headmaster's face.
"My turn, Albus," Harry said softly. "Keep a place warm for Tom for me."
He turned around, setting his shoulders to bear the weight of this path.