Early Morning.

Friday, Sept. 20

“Professor,” Harry said halfway through Astronomy, when Prof. Sinistra asked if there were any questions, “has any witch or wizard ever been to space? I’m curious about it, and I figured you were the best person to ask.”

Prof. Sinistra looked fondly exasperated at the question, as though it was one that she was used to receiving from students.

It was an interesting question though, Hermione had to admit, even if it didn’t really have anything to do with the lesson.

“To my knowledge,” the professor said, “no one has. Every now and again, some wizard says they’ve done it, but it’s never anyone credible.”

“Really?” A Hufflepuff boy, whose name Hermione thought was Justin, said. “None at all? But muggles go up to space all the time; the Americans even sent people up to the moon.”

“Liar,” Draco called from where he sat in “the Slytherin corner”. “Muggles have never gone to the moon, those monkeys wouldn’t even know how to get there.”

“And how would you get there, oh wise and noble pureblood?” Harry asked. “Fly a broomstick, would you?”

Some students snickered, and Prof. Sinistra quickly stepped in before Draco could reply. “That’s quite enough, both of you. And yes, Mr. Malfoy, muggles have been to the moon; a rather amazing feat of ingenuity that should serve as a reminder that lacking magic doesn’t make them helpless.”

“But it is a disadvantage though,” Harry said. “Not having magic; it may not make them helpless, but it’s still a disadvantage.

“Muggle rockets blow up all the time; astronauts endanger themselves just by sitting in them. But a magical rocket wouldn’t blow up, because a magical rocket wouldn’t need fossil fuel. It wouldn’t even need combustion at all.

“The laws of physics that muggle scientists struggle under everyday can be handwaved away by any of us in this classroom. Literally.

“We have the power to stop hunger, stop disease, reverse global warming. We could control the weather, if we wanted.”

Prof. Sinistra, as well as every student in the class, Hermione included, stared at Harry after his little diatribe.

The boy, noticing the stares, ducked his head a little bashfully.

“What?” he asked a little defensively. “It’s true.”

“Be that as it may,” Prof. Sinistra said, “let’s return to the lesson.”

The lecture resumed, but even as everyone else went back to listening, Harry included, Hermione continued to think about what Harry had said; about wizards having the power to do so much more.

Months ago, long before she’d even received her Hogwarts Letter, Hermione had seen a documentary about an African village that had suffered a drought.

It had been awful to watch at the time; seeing people stick thin, starving and dying and sick, but it was even worse to think about now. Because now Hermione knew about magic. She knew about witches and wizards and she knew that they were all over the world.

Hermione understood now that, somewhere not too far from that village, maybe even somewhere close by, there was a community or family or lone witch or wizard who was sitting in their home, safe and unbothered from the drought, simply letting everyone else die.

Aguamenti! That’s all it would take, that and an hour of work, and Hermione could, even as she was right now, singlehandedly save that village.

She could give them an infinite water supply, and it would never matter to those people again whether it rained.

Aguamenti!

One word. And the only thing stopping her from doing this was The Statute of Secrecy, and the understanding that, if she did this, then The Ministry would ensure that she could never perform magic again.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked quietly, staring at her.

Hermione looked at her friend and shook her head; this was neither the time nor place to discuss this.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said.

Harry stared at her for a moment, then he nodded, accepting it.

They focused back on the lecture then, Hermione’s mind still swirling with images of stick thin people with their ribs showing through their skin.

—❈—

Noon.

Friday, Sept. 20

Prof. Slughorn was a good teacher. And it didn’t even have anything to do with the fact that his predecessor had been objectively awful at his job.

... Well, maybe it had a little to do with that, especially considering that the first thing that Hermione noticed when she walked into Potions class on Friday was the complete lack of the dreary, foreboding atmosphere that she’d come to expect.

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Instead, the room was brightly lit, well-ventilated, and, to Hermione’s jaw-dropping amazement, tastefully decorated with rich, purple curtains and artful wallpapers.

Harry’s eyes widened where he stood beside her. “Bloody hell,” the boy said. “This place can look like this? Snape must be rolling in his grave right now.”

“Harry!” Hermione chastised, jutting an elbow into the boy’s side.

“What? It’s true; there’s no way Snape would be happy to see his Bat-fortress of Broody Solitude being turned into a proper classroom, that goes against everything he stood for.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, refusing to give the boy any sort of victory by agreeing with him.

The lesson began soon after, and that too, Hermione found to be leagues beyond the one ‘lesson’ she’d gotten from Prof. Snape.

For one thing, there was no hovering, no looming, no skulking, no insulting, and certainly no ignoring.

Prof. Slughorn engaged with the students, as many of them as he could. Gently and affably, the portly wizard went around the class, engaging with students one on one, passing tips, sharing suggestions, and always reminding everyone to be safe and careful.

By the end of the class, Prof. Slughorn had easily won over most of the students, Hermione (and though, he would probably never admit it, Harry) included.

Honestly, it seemed like the only ones who had a problem with the professor were the Slytherins, and, for the life of her, Hermione could not understand why.

Snape had been a terrible teacher. Worse, he had been a bad person, to everyone. And yes, it made Hermione feel a little guilty to think that of the man who’d saved her and Harry’s lives, but she knew that it was the truth.

Snape hadn’t saved them because he’d cared... he probably hadn’t even been trying to save them. He’d simply wanted to kill Voldemort.

Regardless of the late professor’s intentions or motivations though, the fact was that Prof. Slughorn was a clear improvement over him, not to mention that he was the new head of Slytherin house, Hermione would have thought that the Slytherins would take pride in that.

It was only after the class, when they were talking with their friends, that Parvati then mentioned that her twin sister in Ravenclaw, Padma, told her that a Hufflepuff girl had told her that the Slytherins didn’t like Prof. Slughorn because apparently, he was known to not be bigoted against muggles and muggleborns.

That he had even supported many over the years.

This hadn’t made sense to Hermione at first, after all, everyone in Slytherin couldn’t possibly be like Draco. Right?

Right. But like Harry then pointed out when she said so, it didn’t matter.

Every Slytherin didn’t need to be a bigot, just the important ones. Everyone else will fall in line, or, at the very least, stand aside.

—❈—

They got a note from Dumbledore that night. It wasn’t a long one, just a short note to inform them that Dumbledore had acquired and destroyed one of the horcruxes Harry had told them about.

It was the ring, and according to Dumbledore, there had been no complications; everything had turned out how Harry had said it would.

Harry had also warned them about what the stone in the ring was, and every member of what Harry had taken to calling The Order of Horcrux Hunters (i.e. Madam Amelia Bones, Headmaster Dumbledore, and Prof. Moody, and her and Harry, she supposed) had agreed that it would be best for it to also be destroyed.

Of course, both Hermione and Harry fully understood that, it was one thing for people to decide to do something, and it was another thing entirely for them to actually go through with it.

Hermione really hoped that they would go through with this, because, in her opinion, that stone wasn’t something that anyone should have.

Especially considering that the one story about it ended with it’s owner being driven to suicide.

—❈—

Interlude:: The Order of Horcrux Hunters (OoHH)

Night.

Friday, Sept. 20

The Headmaster’s Office

The witch and two wizards stared at the small, seemingly innocuous object on the huge mahogany table.

The Resurrection Stone; an object of untold magical power that would let you be with your lost loved ones once more, even if only temporarily.

They all wanted it. There was no use in denying it; they all knew they did. They all also knew that none of them would it. Not even for the chance to say goodbye. Or to apologize. Or simply to... see them again.

No, none of them would use it. Not even for that.

The ring that had held it had been destroyed, a hole punched through its cursed metal by a basilisk fang, unwillingly donated by the corpse of Slytherin’s monster now rotting away in the more securely sealed Chamber of Secrets.

The matter of the horcrux was done. The matter of that horcrux anyway. Now was time for the matter of the Stone.

“So, we are all in agreement, then?” Albus Dumbledore asked from his seat.

Amelia Bones nodded, while Alastor Moody, perched with his back against a wall as always, despite having a magical eye that literally let him see behind him, said; “Nice to have proof that the boy is who he says he is.”

Albus and Amelia stared at the scarred Auror-turned-professor.

“You had your doubts?” Albus asked.

“Course I had my doubts,” Alastor groused. “Lad admitted to merging souls with You-Know-Who, mean to tell me that neither of you even considered that that might be the slimy bastard himself trying to pull a fast one on us?”

Amelia hadn’t, but it seemed to her now that Albus may have; it would certainly explain all the extra precaution that he’d taken at the Gaunt house.

“So, the fact that he’s best friends with a muggleborn, killed Slytherin’s basilisk, and asked to be put in Gryffindor was not enough proof for you?” Amelia asked, staring at the renownedly paranoid wizard.

Alastor shrugged, and Amelia had to resist the urge to shake her head.

Regardless of the wizard’s paranoia though, he was right; whatever had happened to the Potter boy, and whatever he was now, he was not You-Know-Who.

You-Know-Who would never sacrifice a horcrux or a hallow for anything. Not even a plan to potentially eliminate Albus Dumbledore.

The legend of the hallows was that possessing them all made one the Master of Death. Someone truly immortal.

You-Know-Who would never risk the only one in his possession for anything. Certainly not when it was also a horcrux.

“All the same,” Albus said, drawing the attention of the room back to himself. “Nilrem, if you would?”

The Sorting Hat, sitting quietly on Albus’ huge desk the entire time, sighed then nodded.

Albus picked up the hat, then he placed it over the stone.

“That’s it then,” the grey-bearded wizard said, and a hitherto unnoticed weight seemed to rise from the shoulders of the three aging and powerful mages present. “Thank you, old friend.”

“Well, if we’re done here,” Alastor said, already leaving, “I’ve got papers to grade.”

Amelia and Albus watched him leave, the signature gimp he so often walked with absent here among friends.

“Those were without doubt the strangest collection of words I’ve ever heard leave his mouth,” Amelia said.

Albus chuckled. “The blessing and curse of age, I fear; to watch the world change around you.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Don’t get sappy on me, Albus.”

“Yet another curse of age, I fear,” The Headmaster said.

“Bah,” Amelia scoffed, rising, “you’ve always been sappy.”

Albus grinned, blue eyes bright.

“Good night, Albus,” Amelia said.

“And to you too, Amelia,” Albus replied.

Amelia walked to the fireplace. She poured some Floo powder in, and called out her address.

The witch watched the green flames for sometime, not stepping in.

Finally, she turned back to Albus. “We’ve done something good today,” she said.

“Like few ever get the privilege to do,” Albus agreed.

Amelia nodded, then she stepped into the flames and was gone.

Albus Dumbledore sat in his empty office for a while, then finally, he rose, returned the hat to its proper place, then retired for the night.

On the table, where The Resurrection Stone had been had been before The Sorting Hat had been placed over it, there was nothing.