A/N: This is going to be a bit of a letdown after such a long wait, I'm sure, but I just can't help it. Either I'm losing my touch or this chapter is just unmockable. I suspect the latter. It's not even a bad chapter; it's just tedious as hell. The last time I was so catatonically bored, I was watching an American remake of a British television show.
On the bright side, I finally figured out a way to do the epilogue. YOU GUYS. It's going to be epic.
Chapter Fourteen: Harry Potter and the Commencement of the Camping Trip of Hell and Hormones. (Mainly Hormones.)
HARRY: *awakes on his back, flattened and dizzy, with no idea of where he was or what happened*
THIS SEEMS TO: *happen a lot in this series, no?*
HARRY: Yay, we're in the Forbidden Forest!
ROWLING: No, kid. I have no intention of making the chapter half as interesting as that.
HARRY: Aww… do you at least have any attractive older men for me to brood over?
ROWLING: I'll work on it.
Meanwhile, we have the Great Hero Debate:
HERMIONE: Harry, I'm so sorry, this disaster is all my fault.
HARRY: Girl, like don't even mess with my territory. The fault, it is all mine.
HERMIONE: It's because of me that Yaxley's been let in on the Fidelius Charm—
HARRY: What exactly could you have done to prevent that?
HERMIONE: —and now we can't use Grimmauld Place as a hideout—
HARRY: Still totally not your fault, honorary sister of mine.
HERMIONE: I didn't even pack food.
HARRY: That does suck. But, er *takes out Mad-Eye's eyes* they probably, uh, knew there was an intruder in the Ministry because I kinda took this from the Umbitch's door.
HERMIONE: … Yeah, you know what. This is completely your fault. Dumbass.
SHE: *walks away to go cast the copious protection spells that neither of the boys could possibly memorize, let alone perform*
HARRY: Whoa, 'Mione! Completely off-script!
HERMIONE: Salvio Hexia… Repello Muggletum… Barkinus bowwowsus… Butcherium Latina…
ROWLING'S EDITOR: *clearly isn't even trying anymore*
I just have to call a time-out to say that Our Intrepid Trio is now facing the Darkest Wizard, Like, Ever, without their enslaved immune-to-wizardry magical arsenal. This move makes sense on Rowling's part, because a Deathly Hallows with Kreacher to hand would go pretty much like: "POW. KA-BAM. SHATTER. ZOOP. AVADA-FREAKIN'-KEDAVRA, YOU NOSELESS BASTARD."
THIS STILL LEAVES THE QUESTION: *of why Kreacher wasn't more integral to retrieving the locket-Horcrux from the Ministry in the first place*
Accio Charm, meet Kreacher. Kreacher, meet Accio Charm. Feel free to start a club, or a support group, or something.
HARRY: So how'd we get Perkins's tent?
HERMIONE: Mr. Weasley let me have it while I was collecting stuff for our heroic runaway.
HARRY: That must have been an interesting conversation.
HERMIONE: Yeah. Not too bad, though, as he was too distracted by trying to help Ron with his spattergoit ghoul.
HARRY: Why hasn't your mum divorced your dad yet, Ron?
RON: That bonding marriage magic is really strong stuff. She'd have to, I dunno, AK that bitch, and you know how unlikely it is that my mum will do that.
Meanwhile, woe, for Ron is injured, very injured, despite getting dittanized by Hermione. Therefore we must cut him lots of slack:
HARRY: Let's get the hail out of here, Death Eaters tormented Muggles in this very forest three years ago.
RON: Negative. Can't be moved.
HERMIONE: Dinner! I've resourcefully cooked some mushrooms for us.
RON: Wow, woman. These suck.
HARRY: *tries to exchange a look with Hermione*
HERMIONE: *is still too soppy-lovestruck*
HARRY: *coughs* Anyway, what shall we do about Vol—
RON: I AM NOW THROWING A TIZZY FIT. WE ARE NOT GOING TO SAY THE NAME.
HARRY: In God's name, er, in Dumbledore's name, why?
RON: In case you hadn't noticed, mate, calling You-Know-Who by his name didn't do Dumbledore much good in the end. Just—just show You-Know-Who some respect?
HARRY: Uh-huh … Yeah, you may run off and abandon us whenever you want, mate.
RON: Need rest and recuperation first. Someone change my bandages.
HARRY: *reflects on Kreacher, the fact that he might be undergoing torture then and then. further resolves to put it out of his mind because there's nothing they can do. it's a sign of how mature he's getting these days. Or how tired.*
RON: I am full of concern for the family whose lives we have spent all morning ruining. Blimey, I hope they escaped and didn't wind up in Azkaban because of us.
HERMIONE: Oh, Ron. Your compassion is so hot.
HARRY: What's that now?
HERMIONE: Er—warm. It's a warm compassion. Sorry, long day.
RON: Not so sure they did escape, though. I didn't get the feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, the way everyone was talking to me when I was him.
READERS: Yeah, Ron. That had nothing to do with how clueless you were about the Ministry, basic maintenance spells, and your own name. It was all Cattermole.
HARRY: HELLO HERMIONE I AM HERE YOU TWO WILL HAVE TO GO GET A TENT. So, let's pull out the locket-Horcrux.
RON "CATTERMOLE" WEASLEY: We have the locket-Horcrux? Blimey, no one tells me anything!
HERMIONE: Sorry, Reg, we were on our lives from Death Eaters. Don't you think I would have stopped to tell you and make out with you if I could?
HARRY: Point.
THE NEAREST BIT OF VOLDEMORT'S SOUL TO HAND: *is as large as a chicken's egg*
TWO PAGES LATER: *Harry 'tucks it under his robes,' where it rests 'out of sight'*
Q.E.D.: *Wizarding robes are the baggiest, least sexy clothing known to humankind*
NARRATIVE: "Harry's insides, already uncomfortable due to their inadequate helping of rubbery mushrooms, tingled with unease."
NARRATIVE: … bloody hell. I can never show my face at the pub again.
ROWLING: *voice-over* See, Stephanie Meyer! You're not the only bestselling fantasy YAL writer who can write godawful prose!
MEYER: *voice-over* BRING IT WOMAN.
RON OF WHINEYNESS: Haaaaaaaarry, why are you falling asleep? I'm trying to get some action going on this chapter.
HERMIONE: *blush blush*
HARRY: Ron, I'm trying to make things more interesting.
RON: By falling asleep?
HARRY: By seeing into You-Know-Who's psychopathic mind!
RON: Oh. Carry on.
READERS: And hurry up. We're getting old.
VOL—SORRY, YOU-KNOW-WHO: Do not lie to Gregorovitch. He knows… He always knows.
GREGOROVITCH: Oh? So what about when Narcissa Malfoy lies to your face in a direct chain of causation to your timely death?
YOU-KNOW-WHO: *mutters in embarrassment* I was distracted by the pretty.
GREGOROVITCH: And Snape, lying to you again and again for years?
YOU-KNOW-WHO: … Also distracted by the pretty.
GREGOROVITCH: You are one messed-up—
YOU-KNOW-WHO: Avada Kedavra!
HARRY: *wakes up* You guys! You guys! Something has almost happened this chapter! Voldemort just offed that wandmaker Ollivander's so prissy about—
HERMIONE: *shuts Harry's storytime down with a brutality that Minerva McGonagall would find cold*
HERMIONE: OMG YOU'RE DREAMING YOU-KNOW-WHO'S THOUGHTS AGAIN?
HARRY: Cut me a break, Hermione. It was a dream! Can you control what you dream about, Hermione?
READERS: Oooooooooooooo.
R/Hr SHIPPERS: *await expectantly*
HARRY: *lies awake in the darkness, trying to make sense of things with Ron, brooding over the fact that You-Know-Who does not seem to be following any linear, logical line of reasoning known to humankind*
IN OTHER WORDS: *nothing new going on here*
EXCEPT: *Harry falls asleep to mental visions of the merry-faced thief. Certain merry-faced thieves, he reflects drowsily, are in need of a hero… are clearly holding out for a hero… fresh from the fight, or at least a catfight with Ron… a hero with a saving-people-thing*