It was a very large but dark and scary room. A lot of menacing people were around him. He didn’t know what he was saying but he was saying in with menace and vitriol. Raising his hands in the air in celebration he seemed to make everyone chant at him.
He awoke from the vision clutching his head and screaming.
“Harry! What is it? Is it your scar?” enquired Hermione.
Harry Potter nodded. It felt like he couldn’t talk. His throat was dry. Pointing at it prompted Ron to thrust some butterbeer to him which he gulped down in a few seconds. It was obvious that Harry had been practicing his pint drinking skills in preparation for wizard university.
“Trump!” he gasped. “They were chanting it at me… at him… Trump! Trump! Trump”
“They were chanting at you to fart?” Ron asked surprised. “It sounds like they need to visit Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.”
“Ronald Weasley!” sighed Hermione. “Sometimes I wonder if you ever pay attention in Muggle Studies. It must have been Donald Trump.”
“What?” said Ron. “The idiot who went bankrupt four times and keeps forgetting where he lives and where he parked his plane, so he writes his name in big letters on his things. Why would anyone be chanting his name? That’s just ridiculous.”
“If you’d been paying any attention recently, you would have realised that he’s running for the presidency of America which is a very dangerous thing because quite frankly, he’s a complete idiot,” explained Hermione. “Holy cricket! It all makes sense now! His wig must be a horcrux. That explains a lot. Only dark magic could trick almost half of the population that it would be a good idea to vote for him! Once he’s become president, he’d basically be in charge of the world!”
“But we destroyed all the horcruxes. The last one was me!” said Harry. If there was one thing he wanted to avoid, it was fighting Voldemort again. It seems like he would be fighting him eternally in a magical version of Groundhog Day.
“You were an accidental horcrux, though, Harry. Voldemort never intended to create you. He made seven horcruxes. You were the eighth. That means there’s one left.”
“And he’s put one in a muggle’s wig. That’s bloody clever isn’t in, really. We’d never have thought to look there!” said Ron who was almost impressed by how smart the dark lord actually is.
“Right. I’m going to sort this out right now. I’m sick of this!” said Harry, getting to his feet. “You guys stay here. It’s not safe for you. Hermione, you’d be in danger of sexual assault and Ron, I’m not sure what his feelings are on gingers but he’s clearly a racist so it wouldn’t be too much of a jump to assume he might also discriminate based on hair colour.”“Harry, we’re coming with you, obviously.”
“Yeah mate, you can’t leave us behind. You tried that before.”
“Fine. It didn’t work last time and it won’t work this time either, will it? Come on then. Accio broomstick!” he shouted, and his Nimbus 2000 came flying into his hand.
“Accio broomstick!” said Ron and Hermione simultaneously.
They flew across the Atlantic as fast as their broomsticks could take them. They easily found the Horcrux. The human that Voldemort had been controlling had a voice so loud that they could hear it as soon as they’d got 20 miles west of Ireland. The stupid ignorant words that were coming out of its mouth only served to motivate the three friends to finally put an end to Tom Riddle once and for all.
They found him at an election rally the night before the election. He was so into his blustering nonsense that he didn’t sense Harry’s presence through their intimate connection.
“Accio wig” cast Ron hopefully.
Amazingly Trump’s wig flew straight into Ron’s hand.
“Wow! I wasn’t expecting that one to work.”
“Quick, Harry, the basilisk fang!”
Harry quickly got the fang from under his cloak and stabbed it through the wig which was struggling in Ron’s hand. It instantly withered and died. Harry’s felt pain greater than any pain that he had ever felt before.
“That’s it,” he said. “My scar doesn’t hurt. And I know it won’t hurt any more. I felt him die. For good this time.”
The crowd seeing that Donald Trump had been lying about having a wig for many years, realised that everything that he had been telling them for the last year was a whole load of poppycock. They also realised that his name meant fart, although they weren’t sure why. (It was a spell that Hermione has secretly done under her breath to prove to Ron that she wasn’t as stuffy and boring as he thought she was.) All the crowd immediately vowed to vote for someone else.
The Election Day came and went. Ron, Hermione and Harry stuck around in America to watch the results there. Partly because it was more interesting to do so but partly because the frozen butterbeer you get in the States is pretty amazing and they couldn’t go back without celebrating finally killing the dark lord with a butterbeer bender.
“Potter! Grainger! Weasley!” screamed Professor McGonagall as they flew back into Hogwarts the following, rather pleased with themselves but hanging off the back of the broomsticks – metaphorically, not literally.
Ron gulped.
“Yes, Professor?” said Potter.
“You know what the rules are on doing magic outside of Hogwarts. You are forbidden to do so!”
Hermione started to look worried. She couldn’t have a blotch on her record which might damage her chances of getting a job at the Ministry of Magic.
“However, based on the circumstances and the fact that you’ve averted unprecedented disaster and possibly the destruction of the world, I feel I must award you a million points to Gryffindor! Do you fancy a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks?”
“Hair of the dog?” said Ron.
“We’re in!” all three of them said in union.