A courtroom arc that makes sense-78

"Hermione Granger. You are under arrest for the murder of Lucian Bole."

The aurors took Hermione away.

"No!" Harry shouted. "Hermione, you've been FALSE MEMORY CHARMED!"

Quirrell burped loudly.

"Oh golly, oh gee, Professor Quirrell, how could this have happened?" Harry said. "I know Hermione didn't kill Bole because…"

"Oh no. How terrible," Quirrell said. "You have something you want to tell the aurors about who really killed Bole, Harry?"

Harry didn't respond, because he was entering a long internal monologue about how his killing of Bole had been rational.

"Harry. Harry," Quirrell said, crouching down and rubbing Harry's shoulders. "You gotta learn the consequences of your actions, Harry. Sometimes, if you run away from what you've done, all you can do is keep running. Screw everyone else. Let them deal with the problems. That's what I've always done."

"But it's not her fault," Harry said. "She didn't do it for real. I know that."

"I knooooow, right?" Quirrell said. "Soooooo unfair. So come on. Let's go save your girlfriend and make a—burp—mockery of Britain's legal system while we're at it."


A whole bunch of fantasy courtroom drama happens. Hermione gets away with murder, but then she gets killed by a troll, rendering the whole arc pointless. Harry steals Hermione's corpse and puts her under a cooling charm, which is supposed to be cryogenics.

Harry came to Professor Quirrell, crying. "Oh golly, oh gee, Professor. Hermione's dead, and I just gave half the Potter fortune to Lucius Malfoy too!"

"Oh no, how terrible," Quirrell said. "It's almost as if someone wanted her out of the way and also to make you poor. Who could've possibly known. How terrible."

"Wait, why would you say that? What are you not telling me? Huh, Professor? I thought you liked me more than that!"

"It's basic Slytherin logic, Harry, try to keep up, it's not my fault you don't have a functional—burp—ability to judge people."


The long-awaited finale.

"Harry. Harry! You gotta come with me, Harry!"

"But I wanna watch Quidditch, Professor."

"There's no time, Harry, and you hate Quidditch. If you don't come with me everyone—burp—everyone in the Quidditch stadium's gonna die. Come on, hurry."

"Aw, alright," Harry said, as he went with Professor Quirrell. "But if this is some trick I'm gonna cut a bitch."

Professor Quirrell led Harry through a series of unfamiliar corridors and bizarre traps. Then he pulled out a magic hand mirror and spoke into it. "He took the bait. No need to—burp—kill everyone."

"Hey, wait a second, you fucking lied to me again!"

"I didn't lie, Harry, I told a half-truth. Everyone was gonna die if you didn't come with me, but since you did, now I won't kill them."

In that moment Harry realized that his mentor was a bad person. Then he realized something else.

"Holy shit, Professor, you're Voldemort, oh God oh gee."

"Well—burp—so are you."

"Wait, what?"

"I—burp—copied my brainwaves and put them into a baby," Voldemort said.

"Wait, why would you do that?"

"Because the outside world was my enemy, Harry! I'm the only friend I've got, Harry! It's just Tom Riddle and Tom! Tom and Tom and my plots, Tom! Tom and Tom forever and forever, 100 years, Tom and Tom's things! Tom and Tom running around and uh… Tom and Tom time! All day long, forever… all- a hundred days! Tom and Tom forever a hundred times! Over and over, . . /r/rational. All 100 years. Every minute, . Donate to MIRI for faster updates."

Harry didn't say anything because Professor Quirrell had silenced him during the rant.

Voldemort led Harry to the Mirror of Noitilov, which was a magic mirror that was the Mirror of Erised but better because it followed some scientific principles the author of this fanfic made up discovered. (Please cite me if yuo are a genuine researcher otherwise my most famous publication will be a fanfic and some blog posts)

"What do you want, Lord Voldemort?"

"I want the Philosopher's Stone, Harry, it—burp—makes transfigurations permanent. And then I want to die."

"Wait, what? I thought you wanted to live forever, and I'm you, and I want to live forever."

"You're me from—burp—before I was shoved into the Pioneer Probe for ten years. Space isn't as cool if you don't have a murder every few days to break up the monotony."

"Oh god oh fuck then why are you here, Tom?"

"Oh, no reason. Here. Put on your invisibility cloak."

Harry put on the Cloak. Quirrell did a thing and got the Philosopher's Stone. Then someone appeared in the mirror.

IT WAS… DUMBLEDORE.

"Hello, Tom," he said. Then, "Wait, what the fuck? Quirinus?"

"Ha! I tricked you, Dumbledork!" Quirrell said.

Dumbledore shook his head. "It isn't that. I simply cannot reconcile Lord Voldemort with the man who stands before me."

"Ha! Tricked you. May—burp—maybe I'm just a good actor."

"Quirinus, I have you on suicide watch. Lord Voldemort was many things, but he was not on suicide watch."

"Oh boy. Trust me, this is all a big misunderstanding, Albus."

"Curious. Anyone who could do the evil that Voldemort did is Voldemort himself. Therefore, by facts and logic, you are Voldemort."

"Yes—no—I'm Tom Riddle, but I want to die now. I'm just here to clean up a few loose ends."

"What loose ends?"

"Well—burp—you know how Harry's a little sociopath and a little shit who's the real murderer of Lucian Bole? I was hoping to have crushed his will to live by the end of this year, so he offs himself once I do. Clean up after myself, for once."

"What do you mean, clean up after myself?"

"Harry's a copy of my brainwaves. Real genius I was, back then. I put a copy of my brainwaves in a baby, Albus! He's Harry Riddle! Oof, sorry. Albus, I made quite the—burp—mess."

"I too am sorry," said Dumbledore. "In a few short moments this mirror will throw whoever is caught in it out of space and time. Goodbye, Tom."

"Oh, perfect, that's one loose end down—burp," said Voldemort. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak off of Harry and put it on himself. "Harry's right here. Swear on David Munroe's defiled corpse that I'll off myself once he's gone. Wubba lubba dub dub."

"No! No!" shouted Dumbledore. Then his spell activated, and he was ejaculated from space and time.

"What the fuck, Albus, you were supposed to get rid of him for me, not yourself! Oh well. Plan B," Quirrell said.

Voldemort took Harry to the graveyard. He resurrected himself in a shiny new body.

"Hey. Hey, Harry," Quirrell said. "You've been carrying your girlfriend's corpse around like some sort of depraved sex doll, right?"

"No! God, no! Why the fuck are you like this?"

"Because I'm you but older and smarter, you sicko, I know exactly what you'd think. I'm going to—burp—give her regenerating skin and a purity aura or some shit," Quirrell said. "So—burp—she'll never die again and you'll never have to fear losing anyone or anything ever again. You'll—you'll never come to terms with your mortality. There's a big universe out there, Harry, and none of it cares about you."

Harry started to cry.

"Well, go on, put your naked man patronus inside of her to restore her brain functions," Quirrell said. "You sick, sick fuck."

Hermione was biologically alive again. Then Quirrell summoned the Death Eaters. Harry decapitated them all.

"Oh no," Quirrell said sardonically. "All the wizard racists in England are dead. I bet you feel like a hero now, don't you, you little shit? I bet you liked killing them. I bet it felt as good as smashing Bole's face into the floor over and over again."

"I didn't have any choice. You made me do this, Professor," Harry said between sobs.

"No, Harry, you could've just learned to lose," Quirrell said. "And now I'm going to make the rest of your life a living hell! I don't give a shit about my own life anymore, since I have nothing. And I know you're too much of a little coward to kill anyone that you think you care about. So what'll it be, Harry? Kill me and do a good thing for once in your miserable life, or live and probably get sent to wizard jail for letting me go once I tell the press who really killed every elite member of wizard society? Huh? You little shit? Can you give me up? No! You don't have the balls to kill me, Harry. You've never had the balls."

"Stuporfy."

Harry stunned Quirrell, and then he started to cry some more as he gazed at his teacher's collapsed body.

It was true. He didn't have the balls to kill Quirrell, but he couldn't let him go free either. This was so sad. He had just killed a bunch of base wizard-racist murderers, but he couldn't bring himself to kill a smart, polite wizard-racist murderer that he loved.

There was only one answer:

Crying, farding, and shitting himself, Harry transfigured his mentor into a pickle.

FIN


I've made a number of science errors over the course of my life, and had them pointed out to me - but I don't think ever even once by the people of the /

-"LessWrong"