#also if you haven't seen drop dead fred go watch it

[neuronary]

idk if this is gonna make sense to anyone else but beetlejuice (1988) and drop dead fred (1991) are like. the same story by two very different storytellers. like. drop dead fred is what beetlejuice would have been if it was good.

[accioromione]

Harry Potter's point of view (canon compliant) about Ron and Hermione's relationship just after the war. Or Harry's point of view about their relationship during the books is also fine. [ we have read the books through his eyes and no one really has covered this or I haven't seen one like this so would love to read something written by you cuz I love your writing ] Thanksss! :))

The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts, and the Great Hall blazed with life and light. Harry was an indispensable part of the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration. They wanted him there with them, their leader and symbol, their savior and their guide, and that he had not slept, that he craved the company of only a few of them, seemed to occur to no one. He must speak to the bereaved, clasp their hands, witness their tears, receive their thanks, hear the news now creeping in from every quarter as the morning drew on; that the Imperiused up and down the country had come back to themselves, that Death Eaters were fleeing or else being captured, that the innocent of Azkaban were being released at that very moment, and that Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of Magic. 

They moved Voldemort’s body and laid it in a chamber off the Hall, away from the bodies of Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin Creevey, and fifty others who had died fighting him. McGonagall had re­placed the House tables, but nobody was sitting “according to House anymore: All were jumbled together, teachers and pupils, ghosts and parents, centaurs and house-elves, and Firenze lay recovering in a corner, and Grawp peered in through a smashed window, and people were throwing food into his laughing mouth. After a while, exhausted and drained, Harry found himself sitting on a bench beside Luna. “I’d want some peace and quiet, if it were me,” she said. “I’d love some,” he replied. “I’ll distract them all,” she said. “Use your Cloak.” And before he could say a word she had cried, “Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!” and pointed out of the window. Everyone who heard looked around, and Harry slid the Cloak up over him­self, and got to his feet. Now he could move through the Hall without interference. He spotted Ginny two tables away; she was sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder: There would be time to talk later, hours and days and maybe years in which to talk. He saw Neville, the sword of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he ate, surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers. Along the aisle between the tables he walked, and he spotted the three Malfoys, huddled together as though unsure whether or not they were supposed to be there, but nobody was paying them any attention. Everywhere he looked he saw families reunited, and finally, he saw the two whose company he craved most. “It’s me,” he muttered, crouching down between them. “Will you come with me?” They stood up at once, and together he, Ron, and Hermione left the Great Hall. Great chunks were missing from the marble staircase, part of the balustrade gone, and rubble and bloodstains occurred every few steps as they climbed. Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song of his own composition: 

We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter’s the one, And Voldy’s gone moldy, so now let’s have fun!

“Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the thing, doesn’t it?” said Ron, pushing open a door to let Harry and Hermi­one through. Happiness would come, Harry thought, but at the moment it was muffled by exhaustion, and the pain of losing Fred and Lupin and Tonks pierced him like a physical wound every few steps. Most of all he felt the most stupendous relief, and a longing to sleep. But first he owed an explanation to Ron and Hermione, who had stuck with him for so long, and who deserved the truth. Painstakingly he recounted what he had seen in the Pensieve and what had happened in the forest, and they had not even begun to express all their shock and amazement when at last they arrived at the place to which they had been walking, though none of them had mentioned their destination. Since he had last seen it, the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster’s study had been knocked aside; it stood lopsided, looking a little punch-drunk, and Harry wondered whether it would be able to distinguish passwords anymore. “Can we go up?” he asked the gargoyle. “Feel free,” groaned the statue.

They clambered over him and onto the spiral stone staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator. Harry pushed open the door at the top. He had one, brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve on the desk where he had left it, and then an earsplitting noise made him cry out, thinking of curses and returning Death Eaters and the rebirth of Voldemort — But it was applause. All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving him a standing ovation; they waved their hats and in some cases their wigs, they reached through their frames to grip each other’s hands; they danced up and down on the chairs in which they had been painted; Dilys Derwent sobbed unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; and Phineas Nigellus called, in his high, reedy voice, “And let it be noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our contribution not be forgotten!”

But Harry had eyes only for the man who stood in the largest portrait directly behind the headmaster’s chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled Harry with the same balm as phoenix song. At last, Harry held up his hands, and the portraits fell respectfully silent, beaming and mopping their eyes and waiting eagerly for him to speak. He directed his words at Dumbledore, however, and chose them with enormous care. Exhausted and bleary-eyed though he was, he must make one last effort, seeking one last piece of advice. “The thing that was hidden in the Snitch,” he began, “I dropped it in the forest. I don’t know exactly where, but I’m not going to go looking for it again. “ Do you agree?” “My dear boy, I do,” said Dumbledore, while his fellow pictures looked confused and curious. “A wise and courageous decision, but no less than I would have expected of you. Does anyone else know where it fell?” “No one,” said Harry, and Dumbledore nodded his satisfaction. “I’m going to keep Ignotus’s present, though,” said Harry, and Dumbledore beamed. “But of course, Harry, it is yours forever, until you pass it on!” “And then there’s this.” Harry held up the Elder Wand, and Ron and Hermione looked at it with a reverence that, even in his befuddled and sleep-deprived state, Harry did not like to see. “I don’t want it,” said Harry. “What?” said Ron loudly. “Are you mental?” “I know it’s powerful,” said Harry wearily. “But I was happier with mine. So …” He rummaged in the pouch hung around his neck, and pulled out the two halves of holly still just connected by the finest thread of phoenix feather. Hermione had said that they could not be re­paired, that the damage was too severe. All he knew was that if this did not work, nothing would. He laid the broken wand upon the headmaster’s desk, touched it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and said, “Reparo.”

As his wand resealed, red sparks flew out of its end. Harry knew that he had succeeded. He picked up the holly and phoenix wand and felt a sudden warmth in his fingers, as though wand and hand were rejoicing at their reunion. “I’m putting the Elder Wand,” he told Dumbledore, who was watching him with enormous affection and admiration, “back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won’t it? The previous master will never have never been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.” Dumbledore nodded. They smiled at each other. “Are you sure?” said Ron. There was the faintest trace of longing in his voice as he looked at the Elder Wand. “I think Harry’s right,” said Hermione quietly. “That wand’s more trouble than it’s worth,” said Harry. “And quite honestly,” he turned away from the painted portraits, think­ing now only of the four-poster bed lying waiting for him in Gryf­findor Tower, and wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a sandwich there, “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.” 

Ron and Hermione smiled at Harry tiredly. Harry looked at his best friends- scars and dirt covered them. “You two have as well I reckon,” added Harry. He noticed that they were holding hands, he smiled. 

“I-I couldn’t have done it without you two you know,” said Harry, and Ron and Hermione smiled at him shyly. “I’m happy about it you know,” Harry added, gesturing to the two of them holding hands. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves each-other more” he admitted. 

Hermione smiled tiredly, “you should get rest Harry-” Hermione said, “Merlin knows you’ve earned it.” Harry nodded, “I reckon we all do,” and with that they all tiredly walked to the Gryffindor dormitory, Harry closed his eyes the moment he felt a soft surface below him. He saw faces in his dreams, jets of light, dead bodies, laughing bodies, his parents, Dumbledore. He awoke after what seemed like ages- feeling the affect of rest on his body and how very much needed that sleep was. He opened his eyes, he had fallen asleep with his glasses on, thankfully he had managed not to crush them. He looked around to see two familiar bodies also asleep. A long lanky one and a shorter one with bushy hair. Ron and Hermione were embracing each-other- their eyes closed. Ron had his arms wrapped around Hermione, her head was buried into his chest. Their embrace was one of desperation, as if they were scared they would lose each-other. Harry saw tear stains down both of their faces, his heart sank as he thought of Fred. Ron, who had been there for him since the day one, had lost his brother, the way Harry’s heart sank for Fred pained him in such a way that he couldn’t begin to imagine what Ron was thinking in this moment. He looked at Hermione, she would be there for him, Ron had Hermione, and Hermione had Ron. He meant every word he said, they deserved each-other. They had been there through thick and thin- had supported Harry in the darkest hour, and now, now they could finally rest. Finally rest with each-other. 

Love. 

It had always been the most powerful magic. And that very magic was what Harry was seeing exhibited before his very eyes. There might have been a time where Harry was uncertain between them - in the fear of getting shot out, or the fear that they wouldn't last, but this was different now. 

They had gone through so much, had seen so much, and had aged years the last couple of months. They wouldn’t shoot him out, Harry saw, just how much he had meant to them. Their screams rung through his ears as he remembered how they had reacted when they had thought how he, Harry, had died. He was not uncertain about them, he knew they were made to last. He remembered Ron’s screams as Hermione had been tortured, and Hermione’s cries when Ron was not there with her. They were made for eachother, and they would help each-other deal with the tragedies they had faced. Harry smiled at his two best friends and got up slowly, he figured that for once he would let them finally be alone, just the two of them.