It was a very large but dark and scary room. A lot of
menacing people were around him. He didn’t know what he was saying but he was
saying in with menace and vitriol. Raising his hands in the air in celebration
he seemed to make everyone chant at him.
He awoke from the vision clutching his head and
screaming.
“Harry! What is it? Is it your scar?” enquired Hermione.
Harry Potter nodded. It felt like he couldn’t talk. His
throat was dry. Pointing at it prompted Ron to thrust some butterbeer to him
which he gulped down in a few seconds. It was obvious that Harry had been
practicing his pint drinking skills in preparation for wizard university.
“Trump!” he gasped. “They were chanting it at me… at him…
Trump! Trump! Trump”
“They were chanting at you to fart?” Ron asked surprised.
“It sounds like they need to visit Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”
“Ronald Weasley!” sighed Hermione. “Sometimes I wonder if
you ever pay attention in Muggle Studies. It must have been Donald Trump.”
“What?” said Ron. “The idiot who went bankrupt four times
and keeps forgetting where he lives and where he parked his plane, so he writes
his name in big letters on his things. Why would anyone be chanting his name?
That’s just ridiculous.”
“If you’d been paying any
attention recently, you would have realised that he’s running for the
presidency of America which is a very dangerous thing because quite frankly,
he’s a complete idiot,” explained Hermione. “Holy cricket! It all makes sense
now! His wig must be a horcrux. That explains a lot. Only dark magic could
trick almost half of the population that it would be a good idea to vote for
him! Once he’s become president, he’d basically be in charge of the world!”
“But we destroyed all the horcruxes. The last one was me!”
said Harry. If there was one thing he wanted to avoid, it was fighting Voldemort
again. It seems like he would be fighting him eternally in a magical version of
Groundhog Day.
“You were an accidental horcrux, though, Harry. Voldemort
never intended to create you. He made seven horcruxes. You were the eighth.
That means there’s one left.”
“And he’s put one in a muggle’s wig. That’s bloody clever
isn’t in, really. We’d never have thought to look there!” said Ron who was
almost impressed by how smart the dark lord actually is.
“Right. I’m going to sort this out right now. I’m sick of
this!” said Harry, getting to his feet. “You guys stay here. It’s not safe for
you. Hermione, you’d be in danger of sexual assault and Ron, I’m not sure what
his feelings are on gingers but he’s clearly a racist so it wouldn’t be too
much of a jump to assume he might also discriminate based on hair colour.”
“Harry, we’re coming with you, obviously.”
“Yeah mate, you can’t leave us behind. You tried that
before.”
“Fine. It didn’t work last time and it won’t work this
time either, will it? Come on then. Accio broomstick!” he shouted, and his
Nimbus 2000 came flying into his hand.
“Accio broomstick!” said Ron and Hermione simultaneously.
They flew across the Atlantic as fast as their
broomsticks could take them. They easily found the Horcrux. The human that
Voldemort had been controlling had a voice so loud that they could hear it as
soon as they’d got 20 miles west of Ireland. The stupid ignorant words that
were coming out of its mouth only served to motivate the three friends to
finally put an end to Tom Riddle once and for all.
They found him at an election rally the night before the
election. He was so into his blustering nonsense that he didn’t sense Harry’s presence
through their intimate connection.
“Accio wig” cast Ron hopefully.
Amazingly Trump’s wig flew straight into Ron’s hand.
“Wow! I wasn’t expecting that one to work.”
“Quick, Harry, the basilisk fang!”
Harry quickly got the fang from under his cloak and
stabbed it through the wig which was struggling in Ron’s hand. It instantly withered
and died. Harry’s felt pain greater than any pain that he had ever felt before.
“That’s it,” he said. “My scar doesn’t hurt. And I know
it won’t hurt any more. I felt him die. For good this time.”
The crowd seeing that Donald Trump had been lying about
having a wig for many years, realised that everything that he had been telling
them for the last year was a whole load of poppycock. They also realised that
his name meant fart, although they weren’t sure why. (It was a spell that
Hermione has secretly done under her breath to prove to Ron that she wasn’t as
stuffy and boring as he thought she was.) All the crowd immediately vowed to
vote for someone else.
The Election Day came and went. Ron, Hermione and Harry
stuck around in America to watch the results there. Partly because it was more
interesting to do so but partly because the frozen butterbeer you get in the
States is pretty amazing and they couldn’t go back without celebrating finally
killing the dark lord with a butterbeer bender.
“Potter! Grainger! Weasley!” screamed Professor
McGonagall as they flew back into Hogwarts the following, rather pleased with
themselves but hanging off the back of the broomsticks – metaphorically, not
literally.
Ron gulped.
“Yes, Professor?” said Potter.
“You know what the rules are on doing magic outside of
Hogwarts. You are forbidden to do so!”
Hermione started to look worried. She couldn’t have a
blotch on her record which might damage her chances of getting a job at the
Ministry of Magic.
“However, based on the circumstances and the fact that
you’ve averted unprecedented disaster and possibly the destruction of the
world, I feel I must award you a million points to Gryffindor! Do you fancy a
butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks?”
“Hair of the dog?” said Ron.
“We’re in!” all three of them said in union.
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