Harry Potter and the Year of Living Stupidly

~ Epilogue ~

All's Well That Ends

Everything worked out all right in the end. Lupin, to his mingled surprise and delight, did not entirely lose his position as headmaster. Oh, Dumbledore was still called headmaster, but the old man had developed a not inexplicable fondness for hanging himself on the wall for several hours at a stretch, which left him unfit for duty. Everyone (except Snape, who had his own problems) agreed that Lupin was just the person to pick up the slack. Lupin spent most of his new salary bribing people to keep silent about Harry's true parentage. He sicced Gilderoy Lockhart on those who wouldn't be bribed. Lockhart only knew one spell - Obliviate - but he knew it good. Beside, the mere sight of Lockhart mincing towards them dressed in lilac frills that clashed horribly with his bright yellow skin, quacking merrily as he came, was enough to change the minds of most of the hold-outs. Lupin continued to blow the rest of his money on chocolate and whiskey, which he needed more than ever to cope with his newly discovered offspring. His robes remained patched and frayed and his hair was forever in need of a cutting - but since these were the secrets of his success in the bedroom, he really didn't mind it a bit.

For a while he worried that the bribes and memory charms wouldn't be enough. Rita Skeeter, quite naturally, had all the details of Dumbledore's canceled funeral and Voldemort's demise printed in the Daily Prophet, including the story about Harry's paternity. For the first time in her life, Rita Skeeter wrote the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And for the first time, her story was too ludicrous for a single reader to believe. Her credulity shot, she was castigated, lost her job, and was thrown out onto the street. Things got so bad for her that she stooped to testing new substances for the Weasley twins' joke shop. One bit of trick candy caused rainbow-colored noodles to grow out of her head - but since she had been bald before that anyway, it was rather an improvement.

Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy took the bribe Lupin offered. Well, Narcissa took it and told Lucius if he behaved himself he might get a new feather duster out of the bargain. Actually, most of the money went towards buying spoiled little Draco a new supply of hair grease so he could go back to slicking it down. The lad was so delighted with his good fortune that he uncharacteristically shared the lot among his peers. Eventually they had to turn down the lights in the Great Hall because the reflection off the Slytherins' heads was so bright it was beginning to blind people.

Lucius found he didn't really care. His job as a janitor forgotten, Lucius slouched around for days without shaving, practically living in his ratty old dressing gown and slippers that smelled so bad they could set off the fire alarm. Magical Morton procured a copy of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory for him, and he spent most of his time alternating between that and The Wizard of Oz and dreaming wistful dreams about owning an Oompa-Loompa.

Phremphie was usually by his side, of course. The Munchkin quickly learned it was the safest place to be after Narcissa attempted to poison him with a drugged eclair, drown him in the birdbath, and dice him up in the cuisinart. Eventually he accepted these daily assassination attempts philosophically. The only question was whether Narcissa would manage to kill him before he successfully wooed Bellatrix. Thus far, he wasn't having much luck. Bellatrix seemed to prefer his lollipop to him.

Bellatrix dwelled in a little hut in the backyard. She spent most of her days dancing around on the tips of her toes and her nights plotting how to get hold of a pair of sparkly red shoes. Narcissa really worried about her when she wasn't planning bake sales for the Death Eaters. She still enjoyed 'Survivor,' however.

Arthur and Molly Weasley didn't require bribing or charming because they quickly and easily forgot that events of that faithful Saturday -- or even that Dumbledore had been dead in the first place. They had bigger affairs to concern themselves with anyway - Percy was engaged to marry Firenze in June. They were planning a lovely reception out in the meadow next to the pigsty. They only hoped Arthur recovered from his unfortunate entanglement with a combine harvester before then.

One thing was certain. Bill wouldn't be bringing Fleur Delacour to the wedding. Neither would Ron. Oh, their relationship had gone along swimmingly for a while. As long as Ron had the cell phone attached to the side of his head, he was every girl's dream hunk - a fact that several dozen girls at Hogwarts did not neglect to overlook. Ron and Fleur's romance went sour the day she came over for a date and caught him in bed with Lavender Brown, Parvati and Padma Patil, Pansy Parkinson, Luna Lovegood, Cho Chang, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, and Professor Trelawney - although that last one may have just sneaked in there. Whatever the case, Fleur let out a screech, tore the cell phone from Ron's head, and managed the supposedly impossible feat of Apparating out of Hogwarts. Apparently Hogwarts' wards were no match for the French girl's jealous rage. The last anyone heard of Fleur, she had moved to Finland and was dating Elke Skiellenbollenschullencluf, who was still missing a wooden clog. Ron was inconsolable over the loss of both his cell phone and his love life.

Speaking of wooden clogs, Dolores Umbridge remained a house elf for the rest of her days. However, she became a close confidant of Bippy the Magnificent and worked eagerly among the rest to achieve house elf world domination. . . in a few decades or so. Cornelius Fudge remained stupid, and it was a great relief to him.

The strange transformation wrought on Ron's personality by the possession of a cell phone did not escape Hermione's attention, and she vowed to make it the subject of her thesis for her Phd. - as soon as wizards got around to inventing universities, that it. In the meantime, she went on with her peaceful life of letting her fellow students know that she was smarter than everyone around her. Before she'd been back a month, the other Gryffindors began saving up to buy her a muzzle for an Easter present.

The Vrasta Vultures were much taken aback by Viktor's transformation. Their manager spent a fruitless week going over Viktor's contract, but there was nothing in the fine print that stated he could be fired if he turned into a cat. He continued to play Quidditch quite successfully - those hind claws came in useful for gripping the broom - and remained as popular with the fans as ever, even when he scratched them for rubbing his fur the wrong way. Rumor had it he might give up the sport, however, and take the role of Puss-in-Boots in a musical adaptation of Shrek that was scheduled to open on the West End.

Much to Lupin's chagrin, Dumbledore allowed Fred and George Weasley to come back to Hogwarts. Neither Umbridge nor Fudge was in a fit state to protest, of course, and when Lupin went looking for the paper for the paper they'd signed it had mysteriously vanished. Perhaps Sirius hadn't entirely forgiven him after all, although Sirius had been in a terrific mood ever since Snape's marriage to Professor Sprout. Snape had tried everything within his power to get out of the wedding, but apparently there was some kind of curse on the ring Sprout had jammed onto his finger. They day he told Sprout the wedding was off, his skin had turned orange. The next day he began shrinking and Lucius Malfoy had started hanging around like a vulture that had caught a whiff of potential carrion. Snape pondered his options and concluded that life as Sprout's spouse couldn't be quite as bad as life as Lucius's pet. So the marriage went through, although Snape spent his wedding night locked in the dungeon with his ukulele. He didn't appreciate Sirius's gift of lingerie and massage oils one bit, although he liked Lupin's gift certificate for a tattoo parlor. His favorite gift came from Professor McGonagall, however. It was a Rodent of Unusual Size, complete with a booklet of spells to try out on it.

McGonagall was often seen sneaking off to the Hog's Head these days. Whenever she did, the barman would mysteriously disappear and loud thumping noises and the cries of livestock would resound from the backroom. Aberforth was probably never going to get over his brother's resurrection, but at least he could derive solace elsewhere.

Tonks still slept with Lupin, although she gave up trying to reform him or her cousin. She enjoyed teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts and didn't break too many valuable items. Every once in a while, she'd drive Snape into a panic by assuming Sprout's form and bursting into his classroom during lessons. Needless to say, she was a very popular professor.

Peter Pettigrew turned up for sale at the Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley. He is still awaiting a purchaser.

Kingsley Shacklebolt discovered yoga and became a pacifist. Then he discovered blowtorches and became an arsonist. The Order eventually tracked him down and he is now sequestered at number twelve Grimmauld Place. Phineas Nigellus comes by every day to talk with him gently.

And Harry? The Boy Who Lived? What did he learn from his great adventures? What sort of knowledge and deep understanding did he take away from his defeat of the Dark Lord? Was he a wiser, better person for giving over his ambition to become a god? Did discovering his true father bring comfort and enlightenment to his soul? How exactly did he grow and mature over the course of the past year?

He didn't. Come on; this is Harry we're talking about.

* * * * *

One fine spring morning when Harry was mooching around before classes (all right, he was hanging around the kitchen hoping for a bit of bacon) he heard a rattling around the back door, and, intrigued, went out to investigate. To his complete surprise, the person making the noise was none other than Magical Morton, dressed in a natty white uniform with a cap on his head and carrying a wire container with six bottles of milk.

"Why, bah!" Harry exclaimed, remembered fondly the wild praise Morton had heaped upon him at their last meeting. "Nice to see you, Mr. Morton sir!"

Magical Morton looked up and his pale blue eyes twinkled. "Why, Harry!" he said warmly. "Harry Potter! How wonderful to see you. And you did it, didn't you? You defeated the Dark Lord!"

"Yep, I guess I did," returned Harry proudly, completely overlooking the fact that Voldemort had been done in more through his own stupidity than through any action of Harry's.

"Well done! Well done!" crowed Morton, setting down the milk and removing a couple of the bottles. "I always knew you'd emerge the victor."

But for once, Harry wasn't paying any attention to compliments. His brow furrowed as Morton removed more milk bottles. "Did something happen to your store?" he asked, conveniently forgetting about the damages inflicted by Kingsley and his wee little self. (As Hermione had predicted, Harry had never noticed the Galleons lifted from his vault.)

"Oh, no, everything's fine," Magical Morton assured him. "In fact, business is better than ever! Word got out that merchandise from Magical Morton's All-Purpose Mayhem Emporium was instrumental in bringing down the Dark Lord!"

"But it wasn't," said Harry, hugely confused.

"Ah, but the customers don't need to know that, eh?" Morton winked conspiratorially and this time Harry got it.

"Oh! Bah! Of course not! Tee-hee!" He tapped the side of his nose and winked. "But why are you delivering milk, sir?"

"Just helping out my cousin Angus," replied Morton as a huge form lumbered into sight. Harry took a step back - inadvertently, if you want to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Say hello to Harry Potter, Angus."

"Hi," grunted Angus. His skin held a greenish-gray tinge, his joints seemed to bend the wrong way, and his hands were big enough to pop off Harry's head like a grape, but his manner was perfectly friendly. Harry relaxed a fraction.

"Hi, Angus."

"You kill Dark Lord?"

"Er. . . bah. . . yeah."

"Good. Didn't like him. He was lactose intolerant." Angus began to heap up more bottles of milk. The house elves came scurrying out of the kitchen to carry it inside.

"Angus takes his milk job very seriously," whispered Morton. "Voldemort used to have milk delivered to his mansion, but he'd never drink so much as half a pint. Before he moved in with the Malfoys, there were bottles heaped up all around, just going sour." Morton shook his head sadly. "Angus used to come home and weep. Just weep."

"Uh. . . okay," replied Harry. Maybe now would be a good time to go to class. . .

"Here, take a bottle," said Angus abruptly, pressing one into Harry's hand with his huge clawed paw.

"Uh, thanks," said Harry, accepting it gingerly and wondering what on earth he was supposed to do with it. He didn't particularly fancy drinking it -- it wasn't pork gravy, after all. Might play havoc with his digestive system.

"You can give it to the house elves later," whispered Morton. "Just smile and look pleased. You'll make Angus so happy."

Harry did as he was told.

"Harry Potter like milk. Angus so happy." The huge milkman turned back to his duties. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

"So, are you going to be all right, Harry?" inquired Morton. "I mean, now that the Dark Lord is dead, your life is going to be rather quiet, isn't it? Think you'll be able to adjust?" Then, before Harry could answer: "Of course you will! What am I saying? You're Harry Potter! Of course you'll be fine!" He patted Harry on the back.

"Of course! Bah. . . hah. . . hahah. . . hah." Harry laughed without his usual enthusiasm. Now that he thought about it, what was he going to do for his seventh year?

"Harry!" Lupin'v hoarse voice came floating over. Harry swiveled his head around to see his father standing at the door, an expression of mild impatience on his face. "Harry, you're going to be late for class. Again. And I believe Professor Sprout-Snape has a special plant to show you today."

"Oh, Okay." Harry flapped his hand around by way of a wave. "Bye, Mr. Morton, sir! See you again some time!"

"I hope so, Harry," replied Morton. "Oh, but by the way, my surname isn't Morton. It's -- "

"Come along, Harry!"

"Coming!" Harry skipped off. Lupin gave Morton a searching look and opened his mouth. He of course he didn't recognize the plump little man, not having been present in his shop that fateful day. But before he could speak --

"Professor Lupin?" Dumbledore called from an upstairs window.

"Yes?"

"Er. . . could you come help me off this hook? I have to wee-wee."

"Of course, Headmaster." Lupin nodded politely to Morton and went back inside. Left alone, Morton smiled and shook his head fondly. "That is one nutty school," he murmured to himself, setting down the final bin of milk with a cheerful rattle. He yawned and stretched, admiring the bright blue sky and the birds singing sweetly in the trees. It hadn't always been so crazy around Hogwarts, Morton knew. But that's what you got when you hired Dumbledore as your headmaster.

Morton had gone to Hogwarts many years ago, you see. His last name was MacClaggan. He was the Heir of Gryffindor, the Half-Blood Prince, the great-great-great grandson of Nicholas Flamel, and the man who had carved the Goblet of Fire.

Plus, he'd invented Fizzing Whizbees.

This story would have been a lot more interesting and much less stupid if it had been about him instead of Harry.

Oh, well.

* * * * *

Harry was thinking as he strolled towards greenhouse number nine. This was something that didn't happen too often and should be given special notice. And for once he wasn't contemplating how wonderful he was or dreaming about his next bit of pig meat. Instead, his mind led him down dark and somber paths.

Voldemort was dead.

That meant Harry's career as the Only One Who Could Kill Voldemort was at an end too.

Damn, thought Harry. I defeated Voldemort before my schooling was complete. What a stupid little berk I am. Now how am I supposed to be special?

Oh, well. He was sure he could figure out something to amuse himself for his final year at school.

He'd tried his hand at being a hero. Maybe it was time to see what the other side was like. After all, Voldemort had enjoyed himself immensely before he blew up.

That's the ticket, decided Harry. I'll get together a group and we'll start, er. . . doing things. To terrorize the wizarding world and stuff. Can't have people getting complacent, after all. Satisfied, Harry continued down the path, itching pleasantly at his bum. Spring was in the air: birds sang, bees buzzed, and the grass was a carpet of green.

What the heck was he doing going to class on a day like this?

Chuckling at his own stupidity, Harry sprinted for the castle to nick a school broom. Perhaps he'd take a jaunt by Diagon Alley, or perhaps even Knockturn Alley. Maybe he'd drop in on the Dursleys and lay a fart in their kitchen. An entire kaleidoscope of possibilities was open before him. School could wait, the future could wait - heck, the whole world could bloody well wait if he told it to! After all he was the Boy Who Lived!

It was good being Harry Potter.

And bah-ing lightheartedly, Harry exited this story to make mischief someplace else.