Harry entered his dark apartment, loosening his bow tie with one hand, flicking the lights on with the other. The first anniversary ball to celebrate the defeat of Voldemort had been as awful as he'd expected. He didn't understand why the Ministry chose to commemorate the worst battle in history with a black-tie gala in an opulent ballroom, complete with champagne and a speech from the Boy Who Lived.
That wasn't the worse of it, though. The worst part was seeing everyone he knew, getting on with their lives.
Hermione had announced she'd been offered a coveted position in the Department of Mysteries, fresh out of Hogwarts where she'd graduated with honours. Ron was about to start his second year of Auror training. Ginny and Luna had just finished repeating sixth year and was about to enter seventh. Neville had been accepted into a top Wizarding University in London, where he would study to become a Herbology Professor. Seamus and Dean had opened a pub together in Hogsmeade.
All his friends had grown up and moved on, and where was Harry? After the war, he'd helped re-build Hogwarts, which had taken a good three months. He'd then opted not to return for his seventh year, much to Hermione's disappointment. Of course, the offers had come pouring in- Auror Academy, Healer School, Wizarding Universities, all willing to give the great Harry Potter full scholarships, no NEWT certificate necessary. He'd declined them all.
Harry had no idea what he wanted to be, or do. Everyone had expected him to enter Auror School, graduate and become Head Auror by the time he was 25, ridding the world of all evil. But he'd decided he'd had enough chasing after dark wizards for one lifetime. He didn't want to be a Healer, or a Professor, or the next Minister of Magic either.
Even his back-up plan had failed him. Harry had always assumed if the Auror thing didn't work out, he could play Quidditch professionally. Flying had been one of his favourite things in the whole world, plus he was actually good at it. However, Harry had developed a phobia of flying since the Fiendfyre incident, and had discovered it at the most inopportune timing...
It was a beautiful fall day, and a charity Quidditch match had been organised to raise funds for the re-building of Hogwarts. Two teams had been arranged, and Harry was the seeker on one of them. He hadn't flown since the day of the battle and was looking forward to testing out his new Firebolt.
"We're on in fifteen minutes, mate," Ron said, grinning as he tossed the Quaffle up and down. "Been awhile since we played Quidditch, eh?"
"Yeah, definitely. Should we warm up a bit?" Harry answered.
"Sure, why not? Race you round the pitch?" Ron asked, swinging up onto his broom.
Harry nodded and grinned, swinging a leg over the handle of his shiny new broom. He was about to push off when suddenly, the grass below him disappeared, to be replaced by giant, flaming dragons, their jaws snapping open and close millimetres away from his feet. Harry gasped and looked up. The Quidditch stands blurred together to become an enormous flaming red Chimaera, which let out a deafening roar, and swooped closer...so close Harry swore he was about to be burned alive, and he was sweating...someone was gripping him tightly around his waist and screaming in his ear...he couldn't breathe...the flames were closing in around him...it was so hot...
"Harry! Harry!"
Someone was shaking him hard. Harry opened his eyes and saw Ron peering over him, looking pale and scared.
"He's awake. Let him get some air." It was Hermione's voice, sounding very far away.
"Harry, mate! Are you alright?" Ron asked.
"What...what happened?" Harry whispered. He struggled to sit up straight, Ron helping him up. "Why am I on the ground?"
"Harry, are you alright?" Hermione had appeared next to Ron, and was now kneeling on the grass. She passed him a glass. "Here, have some water."
He took a drink and looked at Ron.
"You passed out, mate. When you got on the broom, you just...sort of fell off it and collapsed...and it looked like you were having a nightmare or something," Ron explained.
"You kept grabbing your throat like you couldn't breathe. Are you feeling unwell?" Hermione asked worriedly. She turned to Ron. "Do you think the broom is cursed?"
Ron shrugged. "Kingsley and Flitwick are checking it now," he said, looking over his shoulder.
"No. It's not cursed," Harry said hoarsely.
Ron and Hermione turned back to him questioningly. Harry placed a hand on his forehead and stared at the grass.
"It was the Fiendfyre."
Harry sighed heavily and sat down on the couch, reaching for the bottle of Firewhiskey on his coffee table. He poured himself a generous amount and took a long gulp. He needed to do something. He needed to get off his couch and stop watching Muggle television all day long while everyone he knew was out there doing something meaningful. He needed...a holiday.
X
"Well, I personally think it's great you're taking a holiday," Hermione said the next day when they met for their weekly coffee get-together at a Muggle café.
"How long will be you gone for?" Ron asked.
"Indefinitely, I guess," Harry replied, fiddling with the handle on his coffee mug. "Until I figure out what I want to do."
"Do you know where you'll go?" asked Hermione.
Harry shook his head. "No idea."
"I hear Australia is great," Ron said.
"It's winter there right now," Hermione added helpfully.
"No, I want somewhere warm. Definitely near the sea," Harry mused. He'd always been especially envious when the Dursleys jetted off to exotic locations when he was stuck in boring old Surrey.
"I'll look around and find something for you," Hermione said, looking excited at the prospect of research.
Half an hour later, Harry was ambling through the streets of London, having decided to take a walk before heading home. He'd spotted a supermarket, remembered he needed milk, and was now heading in that direction. Walking past some shops, a bright blue splash of colour caught his eye, and he turned to look...and stopped.
In the window of a travel agency was a large poster depicting a seascape—there were a row of tall buildings in a rainbow of bright and pastel shades lined up next to each other by a beach. Behind that stretched a grassy cliff, dotted with more buildings and villas. But Harry couldn't take his eyes off the sea- it was the most gorgeous shade of deep cerulean blue, stretching on seemingly forever to the horizon where it met with the cloudless sky, just few shades of blue lighter. He could imagine the colourful rowboats bobbing cheerfully in the water, the taste of the sea in the air and the sun beating down, making him feel warm and happy.
The words beneath the picture read 'Portovenere, Italy', and Harry grinned.
"Perfect."
He pushed open the door of the agency and entered.
X
Two weeks later, Harry was seated in the first class cabin of the plane bound for Italy. He'd decided he deserved some pampering after all he'd been through, and had treated himself to a first-class ticket, complete with champagne, leather-trimmed fully reclining seats and a personal TV screen. No international Portkeys or Floo for him, however much time he would have saved. After all, he could decide he wanted to be a pilot on the plane trip over.
Hermione and Ron had seen him off at the airport that morning. He'd said goodbye to the Weasley family and most of his friends the previous night at the Burrow, where Mrs Weasley had organised a going-away party.
Hermione had hugged him for the millionth time before he entered the departure lounge.
"Promise me you'll owl at least once a week," she had said.
"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione," Ron said, and rolled his eyes at Harry.
"Fine, once a fortnight," she conceded.
"I promise," Harry replied.
"Good luck, mate," Ron had said, giving him a warm hug. "Have fun; don't get into too much trouble."
Harry had picked up his bag, about to head inside, when Hermione handed him a wrapped parcel, sniffing loudly.
"Here, I got this for you. Open it on the plane. It's just something you could do if you get bored. Or whatever."
Harry took the parcel, hugging her one last time and left.
Now, on the plane, he took the parcel out and unwrapped it. Out fell two books.
Of course, he thought.
One was a glossy Muggle book, titled Job Guide: Finding your Perfect Profession. The other was bright purple and emblazoned with flashing gold stars, with the silver title From Auror to magiZoologist: An A-Z Guide to Careers in the Wizarding World. Inside was a note from Hermione saying she'd charmed the cover to appear blank to Muggles.
Harry smiled. She really did think of everything.
Putting the books away, he leaned back in his automatic reclining chair and closed his eyes, envisioning the perfect blue sea and summer weather he'd soon be experiencing.
X
Draco Malfoy narrowed his eyes and peered out towards the blue sea that was stretched in front of him. He was seated on the beach, a sketchbook perched on his knees and a pencil in his hand. After several more minutes of staring at the sea without a single flash of inspiration, Draco threw his pencil down in frustration, brushed the sketchbook away and flopped back on the soft sand.
He gazed upwards at the cloudless sky, and then closed his eyes. He could hear the voices of the people walking on the boardwalk that ran along the beach, the laughs of the children playing nearby and the screech of the birds overhead.
After a while, he sat up again and snapped shut his sketchbook. Then he packed away his things and stood, deciding to head to his favourite gelateria. Perhaps he would be inspired while indulging in an espresso and a scoop of limone gelato.
TBC.