Author's Note (May 2021)
Summary: Harry Potter seems to have it all – riches, fame, professional success, and love. So, then, why does he feel as if his life is missing something? Searching for answers, he visits his parents' gravesite, which sparks an investigation into a mystery. An investigation that takes him on a journey he never could have expected and forces him into the toughest decisions he'll ever have to face.
Warnings: First off, this story contains very heavy existential and religious themes. If that's not your bag, then I highly recommend that you skip this one. In addition, this tale is not Epilogue-compliant. Also, it should be known that I don't know the lore of the Harry Potter universe forwards and backwards. I've never seen the movies, and I've only read the books once – and that was almost fifteen years ago. So, while I'll do my best to remain true to canon (by researching the Wiki pages), I know that I'm not going to get all the details correct. Lastly, I'm from the U.S.A. so I have no doubt that I'm going to make some errors regarding British culture and language. Thank you, in advance, for your patience.
Disclaimer: This story is based upon the universe and characters created and owned by JK Rowling. I'm writing it strictly for my enjoyment.
oOo
The Man Who Lived
Chapter 1
Harry grunted as an elbow was slammed into his chest, and he immediately lurched his body to his right, trying to knock his opponent off-balance and gain an advantage - but to no avail. Their battle continued.
"Potter and Zaghloul are neck-and-neck!" The announcer's voice echoed upward from the packed stadium below. "It's all come down to this!"
But Harry – high above the fray of beaters and chasers and the roaring crowd - heard none of it. Despite the chaos surrounding him, Harry, as usual, had tuned it all out. He didn't even notice the wind whistling in his ears as he pushed his Hawker Hurricane broomstick to its limits. He had a solitary focus – the little, golden ball that was zig-zagging in front of him.
Just as the two seekers were almost within its reach, the snitch suddenly veered course and dove straight down. An instant later, Harry turned his broomstick completely vertical, continuing his pursuit. Three hundred feet above the earth, he hugged his Hurricane tight to his body, doing his best the reduce the air-resistance. Faster and faster he flew, maxing out the broomstick's top speed. He could feel the edge of his goggles digging into the flesh of his face and his thin, leather helmet wanting to be torn from his head. Only the chin-strap was keeping it in place. Despite the incredible speed in which he was flying, however, Harry could still see Zaghloul out of the corner of his eye, which wasn't surprising. The Egyptian was the British and Irish Quidditch League's reigning Most Valuable Player and one of the best seekers in the world. Harry knew that it would be next-to-impossible to gain an inch on the woman.
Suddenly, Harry's eyes went wide as he noticed a dark object in his peripheral vision. He and Zaghloul instantly corkscrewed their broomsticks, just narrowly avoiding an incoming bludger. Their evasive maneuvers had cost them some speed and allowed the snitch to gain some distance, but they were both quickly back on its tail and closing fast. What was also approaching fast was the surface of the earth – only a hundred feet away.
Harry knew that this was the moment of truth. Most likely, the snitch would fly close to the ground and then veer off in a random horizontal direction. But which direction? With Zaghloul on his right shoulder, if the snitch flew to their right, then the Montrose seeker would have the advantage. But the bigger question was – with the ground quickly approaching – would either seeker let up? With every second, the risk of not being to pull out of their dive increased. Was he willing to risk everything – a broken broom and body, even death – for a chance at glory? In answer, Harry clenched his jaws and urged the last bit of speed from his Hurricane, and a moment later, he could no longer see the black and white, Magpie uniform in the corner of his eye. He couldn't believe it. Zaghloul was slowing up.
Twenty feet from the ground, the snitch suddenly darted right, and Harry – gritting his teeth and calling on his magic - jerked the front end of his broom in that direction with all of his might. Instantly, the snitch was there – right in front of him, and his heart leapt as he reached out his hand. But then his eyes went wide as he realized that his excessive speed was pushing him off his intended path and away from the golden ball. Knowing this was his only chance, he took his other hand off his broomstick and leapt out of the stirrups. Just as his fingertips touched the snitch, Zaghloul's body crashed into his, and he felt himself free-falling towards the earth. His years of training forced him to cross his arms on his chest and tighten all of his muscles, and a moment later, he heard a loud crack - followed by intense pain - when he impacted the ground with a thud. As his body bounced and tumbled along the grassy pitch, he yelled out in agony every time he landed on his right side.
Eventually, his body finally stopped its slide. Harry lay still, flat on his back with incredible pain shooting though his right shoulder. It was so fierce that he thought he might vomit. He gritted his teeth and tried to control his breathing in order to reduce the searing pain. 'This is nothing compared to the Cruciatus," he reminded himself. A few moments later, the agony lessened just enough that he finally became aware of his other senses. He blinked his eyes to see a cloudless, twilight sky above him; he felt his sweat-soaked uniform stuck to his skin; and he tasted several blades of grass in his mouth before proceeding to spit them out. But he could hear very little – mostly just the sound of his own breathing and his heart pounding in his chest - for the entire stadium had gone silent. And that's when he felt it – a small, hard object in his hand. At first, he was too afraid to look. Afraid that, somehow, his mind was playing tricks on him. For he had sacrificed so much for this moment that it didn't seem real. So, he swallowed hard and then tentatively lifted his head to gaze at his clenched fist resting on his chest.
He exhaled deeply and shook his head slightly at what he saw, the smallest of smiles coming to his lips. A moment later, he slowly lifted his left arm into the air, presenting his prey to the world, and the stadium suddenly exploded in noise. He watched as orange-colored confetti filled the sky above him, and he could hear the announcer's booming voice:
"Do you believe in miracles!? Because the Cannons won the Cup! The Cannons won the Cup! By Merlin's bushy beard, the Cannons just won the Cup!"
Harry brought his arm back to his chest, rested his head down on the pitch, closed his eyes, and let out a joyous yell. He'd caught the snitch, and the Chudley Cannons had just broken their 110-year championship drought.
oOo
An hour later – long after the championship trophy had been presented and the post-match interviews conducted - the stadium was still filled with thousands of orange-clad Cannons fans. They were up in the stands, singing the team song over and over at the top of their voices and shooting off fireworks and confetti from their wands. None of them wanted to go home, and who could blame them? After more than a century of ineptitude, it was likely that they'd be celebrating this victory all summer. On the field, under the stadium's bright lights, hundreds of other people were still milling about – Cannons players and front-office personnel, league officials, reporters, agents, and friends and family of the athletes. Magical tents had been set up at one end of the pitch where food and beverages could be found, but very few were actually inside of the tents, preferring instead the festive atmosphere beneath the stars. Photographs were being taken, laughter was in the air, and it seemed as if every other person had a bottle of champagne in hand. Harry had been in the middle of the celebration but was now sitting on the team bench, smiling and taking in the scene. His helmet, goggles, and playoff-MVP trophy rested to one side of him and his godson, Teddy, on the other. Despite the noise and excitement, the four-year-old had nodded off and was sleeping with his head in Harry's lap.
Constance Goodbottie, the Chudley team's athletic trainer, stood next to Harry and carefully rolled the sleeve of his uniform up before casting several diagnostic scans on his shoulder.
"How's it feel?" she asked.
"A little sore but much better than an hour ago. That's for certain."
Immediately after the match, she'd rushed to his side on the pitch, cast several spells over his body, and then given him two potions – one for healing and one for the pain. She'd also planted a kiss right on his lips.
"That's good," she said nodding her head. "You'll probably be sore for a day or so. You had a severe sprain of the acromioclavicular joint – also known as a separated shoulder. In the Muggle world, you'd probably have needed surgery."
"Man, I love magic," he replied.
"It is useful. If it's still hurting on Monday, come and see me, okay?"
"Will do."
She rolled his sleeve back down and tenderly smoothed out the fabric. The two of them stared into each other's eyes for a moment.
"Have I ever told you you've got a gentle touch?" he asked with a grin.
Constance, despite being a few years older than Harry, had shared her bed with him his first year in the league. Their relationship had been short but also incredibly light-hearted and fun with few expectations – just what he'd needed at the time. It had only ended when an old flame of his had come back into his life. Miss Goodbottie possessed sparkling blue eyes, an easy smile, and chestnut-colored hair that cascaded in loose curls down to her shoulders. After hitting puberty back at Hogwarts, she'd acquired a couple of nicknames from her peers. One had been created as a compliment, the other out of jealousy. And many still called her those nicknames today, though rarely to her face.
"Only when you wanted something," answered 'Hottie' with a smirk.
Her eyes dropped to the sleeping Teddy in his lap, and when she looked back at Harry, he saw that her smile had disappeared.
"I thought we'd agreed to stop flirting with one another…ever since…" she said in a low voice.
"Who's flirting?" he said, his smile still on his face. "I was just commenting on your impeccable healing skills. Besides, who kissed whom out on the pitch a while ago?"
He noticed her cheeks flush a bit.
"Careful, Potter, or I may decide to not be so gentle next time."
She wore a scowl, but Harry knew she was playing. Still, he lifted his hands in mock-surrender.
"And give me a break. I was just caught up in the moment," she continued. "That's all. You weren't dead and, more importantly, we'd just won."
Harry laughed.
"Glad you got your priorities straight."
"Harry!" came a familiar voice from near mid-field.
The two of them looked to see Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Andromeda walking their way. Ron, fully decked out in orange Chudley gear, had a bottle of champagne in each hand and was performing some kind of jig – which was quite the change from when Harry had seen him earlier. After the match, Ron – with tears flowing down his cheeks - had simply grasped Harry in fierce bear-hug and mumbled something unintelligible. He'd been too overcome with emotions to make any sense, but Harry hadn't needed to hear his friend's words. He knew what Ron was feeling and was trying to say.
Harry saw Hermione roll her eyes at her husband's atrocious dancing skills, but she also had a smile on her face. Ginny, on the other hand, was glaring daggers in Hottie's direction.
"Think I'd better go," she said, turning back towards Harry.
"Probably so."
"Congratulations, Harry. I know how much this means to you. You deserve it."
"Thanks, Constance. And thanks for patching me up. You're the best."
"Yeah. See you around," she said before heading into the crowd of merry-makers.
Harry carefully picked up Teddy – the little boy instinctively putting his arms around his godfather's neck and resting his head against his shoulder – and began walking toward his approaching friends.
"I ahready tol' ya this, mate," Ron slightly slurred, "but I've never been more proud to be your friend. This is the greatest day of my life. Greatest day, I tell ya!"
"The greatest day?" asked Harry with a laugh.
"You bet!"
"You do realize that Hermione – you know, your wife - is standing right next to you, right?"
Ron swiveled his head, looked at his wife for a moment, and turned back to Harry with a quizzical look on his face.
"Of course, mate. She's been with me all night."
"Don't worry about it, Harry," interjected Hermione. "I'm fully aware of where I stand on the 'Ron Weasley Hierarchy of Love.' There's the Cannons at the top, food, then, maybe, chess, and then me. I knew what I was signing up for when I said, 'I do.'"
"No, no, luv. That's not right at all," argued Ron. "You're definitely above chess."
While the two of them bickered over Ron's 'hierarchy,' Andromeda took Teddy from Harry.
"I still can't believe he can sleep through all this noise," said Harry.
"He's just like his mother. She could have slept through a train barreling through our house."
Once Harry's hands were free, he reached forward and grasped Ginny's hand. He stared her in the eyes, smiled, and then tugged her close to him.
"Say goodnight to Harry, Teddy," said Andromeda. "It's way past your bedtime."
"Noooo," whined the little boy, coming out of his sleep. "Wanna stay with Harry."
Harry stepped close and kissed his godson on the head.
"Hey, Teddy, remember what I said about arguing with your grandmother. Besides, tomorrow's Sunday. You know what that means, right?"
"The Weasley's?"
"That's right. So, I'll see you tomorrow, okay, buddy?"
"Okay," said Teddy, holding out his arms toward Harry.
The two of them hugged again before Andromeda grabbed him and disapparated away. As soon as they were gone, Ginny pulled Harry a few feet away from Ron and Hermione.
"So, I saw 'Naughty' over here, rubbing her hands all over you."
Harry laughed.
"Babe, it was just my shoulder. She was not all over me. Besides, that's her job."
"Yeah? Is it her job to kiss you on the lips in front of the entire stadium?"
Suddenly, Harry grimaced.
"Oh, you saw that?"
"Everybody saw it. I was so embarrassed. And furious."
"Yeah, well…I scolded her for that."
"You did?"
"Of course. And she was quite apologetic. Said that she was just caught up in the moment. Promised it'll never happen again."
"It better not, buster. Or I'll get caught up in the next moment myself, and it won't be pretty. The only reason I didn't tonight is because I didn't want to ruin the celebration."
Harry smiled widely.
"Well, look at you – learning to control your temper. I'm so proud of you."
She smiled back and playfully slapped him on the arm.
"I still don't like her touching you. She clearly still has feelings for you."
Harry pulled her close so that their noses were just inches apart.
"It doesn't matter."
"No?"
"It doesn't matter if all the women in England swoon when they think of me," he said, the smile still on his face. Ginny just rolled her eyes. "Because you're the only one for me."
"Is that right?" she asked, biting her lower lip.
"Of course,"
He slightly lifted her left hand so that he could see it in his peripheral vision.
"Otherwise, I wouldn't have given you this giant rock."
A bright smile came to Ginny's lips, and she tenderly kissed her fiancé.
"Oi, mate," shouted Ron. "I don't wanna see you snoggin' my sister."
"Then look away, Ron," answered Ginny sternly, after breaking their kiss.
The sibling's row was interrupted by the arrival of Tracey Davis. After saying hellos all around, the former Slytherin turned to Harry.
"Do you ever get down on your knees and thank Merlin that you've got an agent like me and have access to my genius?" she asked. Her smile was ear-to-ear.
"Only every day," he answered with a laugh.
When Harry had decided to try his hand at professional Quidditch, countless sports agents and attorneys had come out of the woodwork, all wanting a chance to represent 'The Boy Who Lived.' Which made complete sense. Even if Harry had been a bust at playing seeker, any company would have still loved to have the man who defeated Voldemort endorsing their goods and services. Out of the dozen or more applicants wanting to represent him, Harry had picked the tall, darkhaired woman, despite the fact that she was one of the least experienced with only a small stable of clients to her name. He'd chosen her – in spite of Ron's vehement protestations of associating with anyone from House Slytherin – because he'd seen a deep hunger within her. Out of all the applicants, it was clear that she thought she had the most to prove and had a strong desire to do so. Ultimately, he'd hired her for he'd seen a kindred spirit. Since he'd always viewed himself as one, then he'd always had a heart for the underdog. For someone who had to fight to overcome the less-than-ideal circumstances in which they'd been placed. And what could be less ideal than for a half-blood witch to have to navigate her way through seven years of Slytherin, pureblood politics. Especially, seven years with a doofus like Draco Malfoy as her year's de-facto leader.
"As you should," Tracey replied. "I'm about to make you rich."
"I'm already rich."
"Well, you're about to be richer. Which is great for me since I'll get a cut."
"You seem particularly pleased with yourself. What did you do now?"
"Just remembering how, when you first hired me on, I recommended that you not sign that long-term deal with Hawker. What did I tell you then?"
Harry smiled at the memory.
"I was quite happy with it, but I believe you compared their offer to guano or some such."
"It was hippogriff dung. So, I convinced you to sign just a two-year deal instead. A deal that just ended."
"Yeah, and?" he asked, though he already knew where this was going.
"Well, I just got finished talking with Mr. Hawker in his suite. He indicated that he's highly desirous of continuing his business relationship with you and hopes that we can meet with him over lunch at his estate on Wednesday."
"Sounds good, Tracey. Tell him I'll be there."
"Oh, this is just the start, Harry. I've got a list of companies as long as my arm that want to meet you asap."
"Yeah, I know. Just bring me their offers – like normal. I'll look them over and let you know if any of them interest me."
Since Harry didn't need the money, he was very selective in what products and services he endorsed – which was quite often an area of contention between himself and his agent. She was constantly harassing him to take more offers.
"How about I bring them over -" but she stopped midsentence, and her eyes went wide.
Suddenly, Harry felt himself being grabbed roughly from behind and lifted into the air. A moment later, he was hoisted onto a pair of incredibly broad, muscular shoulders. He looked down to see that he was resting on the shoulders of Burley Armstrong and Barnabas Bulwark. Burley and Barnabas – affectionally nicknamed the Killer Bees by the Cannons fans – were the Chudley beaters and Harry's two best friends on the team. As the two men carried him away, Harry turned around to look at his fiancée and childhood friends. He laughed and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, "What can I do?" The two beaters began chanting "Potter, Potter" while they paraded him toward the center of the pitch, and a moment later, all of the Chudley faithful still in the stands saw what was happening and chimed in.
As his name and shouts of "MVP" alternately echoed throughout the stadium, Harry looked around in awe, and goosebumps rose up on his arms. He couldn't believe it, but the moment was even better than he'd imagined. A small smile came to his lips, and when he acknowledged the crowd by raising his fist above his head, the cheers became deafening.
oOo
"Did you lose your glasses?" asked Eugenia Hartwell.
Harry shook his head.
"Just finally got my vision corrected."
The older woman nodded.
"Like you wanted. Now that you've done it, how do you feel?"
Harry gave a tiny smile. That was her favorite question.
Eugenia was a half-blood healer in her late forties with kind eyes and several strands of gray visible in her short, brown hair. She had seen first-hand the horrific aftermath of the First Wizarding War – concluding with Voldemort's apparent defeat in 1981 by 'The Boy Who Lived.' Hundreds – if not thousands – had been killed, tortured, and maimed, and many of the survivors of the war carried deep emotional and psychological scars. Injuries that, as a healer, she simply couldn't fix. Injuries that even magic couldn't cure. Because she was a half-blood and had spent much of her life in the Muggle world, she was aware of the fields of counseling and psychology. So, during the 80s, she earned advanced degrees in both, with a special focus in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. She was virtually the only healer in the magical world with that area of expertise.
A year after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry's life was a mess. He'd quit his job as an Auror, had broken up with Ginny, and was drinking almost every day. Hermione had pleaded with him for months to get some help. He'd finally relented, and that's how he'd come to be in Eugenia's office.
"It feels good," Harry answered. "Good to…finally do something that I wanted to do for once. Not because anyone was forcing me to…or because of anyone's expectations…" His face suddenly turned serious, and he clenched his jaws. "…or manipulations."
It had taken a while, but Eugenia had eventually gained Harry's trust. Enough that he'd finally opened up about his past, recounting both his experiences with the Dursley family and at Hogwarts. With her help, he'd come to realize that he'd had very little agency throughout his life. Sure, he'd made some decisions here and there – typically decisions based upon incomplete information or made with the heavy influence of others - but for almost all of his life, he'd been like a rudderless boat on the sea. Completely at the mercy of the wind and waves. Completely at the mercy of others' manipulations and machinations.
At the age of eleven, when he'd finally discovered that he was a wizard, he thought that he'd finally escaped from his aunt and uncle's authoritarian control. But he saw in hindsight that he'd simply exchanged one form of tyranny for another. The arbitrary rules – and perhaps more importantly, the expectations - of the magical world were just as oppressive as those at the Dursley's home. Not to mention the fact that, every year, his life was seemingly at risk through no fault of his own. In his first year at Hogwarts, he was directly involved with the death of another human being. In second year, he had to face down a giant basilisk. Year three was the dementors and Peter Pettigrew, and so on and so on. Even an emotionally healthy and well-adjusted boy would have struggled getting through all that death and chaos, and Harry had definitely been neither of those. Due to the decade of abuse and neglect from his guardians, he'd been a socially-inept and insecure kid who viewed himself as having very little worth. He saw now that it had been an absolute miracle that he'd made it through alive. So many coincidences and so much blind luck had come into play. In fact, if his life had been the plot of a movie or book, he knew that it would have been too absurd to believe.
Eventually, Harry and Eugenia had gotten around to discussing Albus Dumbledore. Needless to say, his thoughts and feelings about the former Hogwarts headmaster were incredibly complicated. The last time that the two had spoken in Harry's vision or dream – he still wasn't sure what it was - at King's Cross Station, Dumbledore had confessed to Harry that he'd purposely withheld vital information from him with regards to Voldemort, the prophecy, horcruxes, and the Deathly Hallows. He'd admitted that he'd been wrong to do so and had asked for Harry's forgiveness. At the time, he'd easily given it. But as the months passed and he'd had the opportunity to think more about the entire situation, Harry's feelings for the old man had soured. He didn't believe that Dumbledore was an evil man, but he also no longer viewed him as some paragon of virtue, and if the headmaster were still alive, Harry knew that he'd probably never trust him again.
Eugenia had helped Harry uncover and, then, confront all of these repressed feelings about the Dursleys, Dumbledore, and the magical world in general. She'd helped him see that him quitting the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and splitting with Ginny was his way of rebelling against what he viewed as the oppressive expectations that were weighing him down. It was his way of finally gaining some autonomy and control over his own life. However, once he'd done that, he hadn't been sure what to do next.
"Well, that's good," said Eugenia. "That's a good step. Have you thought about the questions I posed to you in our last session?"
Harry nodded and pulled out a folded piece of notebook paper from his back pocket.
On it, he'd written three questions:
1. Who am I? (My Identity)
2. Why am I here? (My purpose)
3. Where am I going? (My Destiny)
"Have you got any answers?" she asked.
Harry sighed.
"I don't know. Not really. Maybe the second one…about my purpose."
"I'd love to hear what you've come up with."
"Well, you know that I'm the head of a house, right? Which means that I've got a seat on the Wizengamot. So, I was thinking maybe I could take a more active role in that. Read up on the Ministry and about all the outdated and archaic laws that are on the books. Perhaps, I can bring some positive change in the magical world by passing some better laws. Laws that are more egalitarian. That actually make sense."
Eugenia smiled.
"That sounds noble. It also sounds like you've been discussing things with Hermione."
Harry smiled and nodded.
"Maybe a bit."
"Though, you sound unsure."
"I am, but right now, I don't really know what else to do."
Harry sighed as he came out of the memory. He didn't know what time it was, but he knew for sure it was several hours past midnight. He was on his back, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom at 12 Grimmauld Place, the ancestral home of the Black family. His home ever since his godfather, Sirius, had died. He could hear Ginny breathing softly next to him, and he longed to fall asleep next to her. While his body was exhausted, his mind, though, simply wouldn't turn off. He sighed again, gently removed the covers, and slipped out of bed – being careful not to wake his fiancée.
Some light was shining through the windows, slightly illuminating his bedroom and allowing him to easily get dressed in the dark. After lacing up his trainers, he grabbed his wand from the bedside table, and then entered the adjoining bathroom. He quietly shut the door before turning on the light. Taped at eye-level on the mirror was a once-folded piece of paper containing three questions – and three answers. He looked at it every single morning, a daily reminder of the goals that he'd set for himself.
1. Who am I? (My Identity) – A professional Quidditch player
2. Why am I here? (My purpose) – To be the best seeker on the planet
3. Where am I going? (My Destiny) – To win a championship
Harry stared at the piece of paper for several long moments, slowly breathing in and out as his eyes scanned the words that he'd written down two-and-a-half years ago. Eventually, he reached up and carefully removed the paper from the mirror, folded it up, and put it in his back pocket. He then left his bedroom and headed downstairs for the kitchen.
Once there, he wrote a short note for Ginny and left it on the kitchen table before softly saying, "Kreacher." A few moments later, he heard a 'pop' followed by the appearance of his old, graying, wrinkled house elf.
"You called, Master," Kreacher croaked.
"I did. I'm sorry if I woke you."
The elf simply gave a barely perceptible nod of his head.
"Would Master care for a snack? Perhaps a spot of tea?"
"No thank you, Kreacher, but I appreciate the offer. I'm actually heading out. I left a note for her, but if Ginny wakes up before I get back, could you please let her know that I just went for a walk and that I'll be back before we have to go to her parents?"
"As you wish, Master."
A few moments later, Harry found himself walking the empty streets of Islington, once again thinking about his life – specifically the last six hours or so.
After the championship match, the players had celebrated on the pitch for a while before eventually showering and starting a rowdy pub-crawl across Wizarding Britain. The traveling party had gone on for hours. Truth be told, knowing the Killer Bees as he did, Harry figured that they were still at it. However, he and Ginny had begged off well before midnight. Ginny was a light-weight when it came to alcohol so, as soon as he'd noticed her getting a bit glassy-eyed, he'd taken her home. They'd ended the evening with their own private celebration in bed, but though she'd drifted off to sleep immediately, Harry had been unable. For a reason that he couldn't explain, a feeling of 'emptiness' had come over him as he'd lain there in the darkness next to Ginny. It wouldn't go away, and he simply couldn't figure out what was causing it.
It made absolutely no sense to Harry. He should've have been on top of the world, having just achieved his dream. A dream that he'd spent almost three years chasing. A dream that had been unbelievably difficult to grasp. When he'd finally decided to pursue a career as a professional Quidditch player, he was extremely rusty and out of shape. At that point, it had been several years since he'd competed at any level. But his focus had been solitary, sometimes bordering on obsession. He began training every day, changing his diet, greatly reducing his alcohol-intake. He'd even joined a Muggle gym to improve his overall strength. He'd woken up every morning with an incredible sense of purpose.
Eventually, he'd reached a point where he felt like he could attempt a tryout with a team and not completely embarrass himself. He sent out 'feelers' to every team in the BIQL, and they all agreed to a tryout, which wasn't surprising given who he was. However, based on his performance at the tryouts, only a few general managers actually offered him an invitation to their pre-season training camp. He'd debated for a while but finally accepted the invitation from the Chudley Cannons – for two reasons. Traditionally, they were the worst team in the league. Had been for the last century. So, he figured that, if he couldn't make their squad, then he couldn't make any others, for sure. But, more importantly, he picked them because he knew that very few truly believed in them. Every year, they were the laughing stocks of the league. The punchline of jokes. The truth was that he may have no longer been that little boy living in the cupboard under the stairs, but inside he still felt like it. So, for Harry, it made poetic sense that he'd join the Cannons – the 'orphans and outcasts' of the league.
Last year – his first in the league – had been one of both triumph and bitter disappointment. The season had started poorly with the Cannons losing five in a row, despite the fact that Harry had captured the snitch in three of those games. Harry had sat in front of his locker after that fifth loss – a 420-170 shellacking - and as he looked around the locker room at his teammates, his blood had started to boil. For none of them seemed to care. The music was blaring, half of them were already drinking, while a few others were playing grab-ass and popping each other with towels. Eventually, Harry had walked over to Burley's locker, grabbed his beater bat from where it was resting, and proceeded to smash the magical radio to bits. The locker room went completely silent, with everyone - players, trainers, locker room attendants - staring at Harry like he'd lost his mind.
"If you're not a player, you need to leave," he said in a quiet voice.
Immediately, the non-playing personnel headed for the exits. Once the doors were shut, Harry didn't say a word. He just stared each of his teammates in the eyes.
"I'm a rookie, so I've kept my mouth shut. But no longer," he finally growled out. "I may only have five games under my belt, but this," and he pointed around the locker room," is unacceptable. When you were young boys, dreaming of being a professional Quidditch player, is this what you dreamt of? Of mediocrity? Of being the joke of the league?"
No one said anything in response.
"Well, that may be good enough for you, but it's not for me. So, this culture of losing ends today. And, if that means that I have to catch the snitch within the first ten minutes of our next match, then that's what I'm bloody-well gonna do."
And that's exactly what Harry did in the next game.
The attitude of the players had changed after his speech and, even more so, after their first win. And, suddenly, Harry, despite being the youngest member on the squad, became one of the team's leaders. He rarely gave any fiery speeches. His style was to simply lead by example, but there was no doubt that the others started taking their cues from him. Showing up early and staying late after practices, and treating the game – and their profession - with much more respect.
Several weeks later, one day after practice, he'd asked Burley and Barnabas why none of his teammates had pushed back on him calling them out that day in the locker room. He'd assumed that most – especially the more veteran players – would have taken umbrage at a rookie chastising them.
"Are you kidding, Harry?" said Barnabas. "You're the man who defeated 'You Know Who."'
"Twice," added Burley.
"When you talk, people listen."
Burley nodded in agreement. "You still haven't replaced my radio, though."
The team made a dramatic turnaround that season, winning over half of their remaining games and making the last spot for the playoffs. They unfortunately lost in the first round to the number one team in the league, the Montrose Magpies, but, overall, the season was still considered a success. For it was the first time in over four decades that the Cannons had made the post-season tournament. And they had carried that momentum into this past season, culminating in the previous night's championship.
It was a fairytale story of a bunch of underdogs coming together with a unified purpose. A story of teamwork and perseverance through hardships and trials. So, then, why in the world did Harry feel so empty? He didn't know, and he wished he had someone he could talk to, but, at the moment, the only person who was awake at that hour was Kreacher. And he highly doubted his house-elf would be able to give him any insight.
Harry stopped at a street corner, and sighed again. And though no traffic was coming in any direction, he didn't move. He just stood there, not really sure of where to go next. Eventually, he looked up and noticed the full moon shining above him. He couldn't remember ever seeing it so bright. He stared at it for a long time before, suddenly, realizing who he wanted to talk to. He turned his head, looking for a nearby, dark alley. He walked towards it and, as soon as he was in the shadows, he disapparated away.
An instant later, Harry appeared in a thicket of trees outside the small village of Godric's Hollow and immediately began walking towards the center of town. He only stopped in the middle of the square for a moment – to briefly look at the large statue of his parents and himself – before heading towards St. Jerome's church. The village was dark and quiet, but that was to be expected at that time of night. The only real noise was the gentle breeze rustling the leaves and a far-off owl hooting softly, which of course made him think of Hedwig. It had been years since her death, but he still missed his first real friend.
He eventually made his way to the cemetery behind the church and, with the aid of the full moon, easily found his parents' gravesite. He'd visited the site a dozen or so times in the last four years, typically only on special occasions - their birthdays and, again, on every Halloween, the day of the deaths.
Harry knelt at the foot of the gravesite, facing their headstone.
"Dad, Mum," he said barely above a whisper. "I think you'd be proud of me. Or, at least, I hope you would. Because we did it. The Cannons won the Cup."
He then sighed, lowered his head and closed his eyes.
"I've got great friends…a woman who loves me, who's willing to marry me. We just won a championship. I should be chuffed. So, then…why am I feeling so hollow? I think…I think there must be something seriously wrong with me. Because I…I'm not sure I know how to be happy. For the last six hours, I can't stop thinking, 'Great. You won. Now what? Is this it? Is this all there is?'"
He opened his eyes and looked at his parents' names on the tombstone.
"There's got to be more to life than this."
Upon saying the word 'life,' his eyes found the epitaph at the bottom of their tombstone.
'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.'
Over four years ago, when he'd first seen the headstone, he'd been completely confused by the epitaph, thinking that it sounded like some kind of Death Eater motto. Hermione had explained to him at the time that it meant 'living beyond death.' But Harry honestly still didn't truly understand what the words meant now any more than he had then. Because his parents were clearly dead. There was no 'living beyond death' for them. In fact, despite the immense power of magic, he didn't know of anyone – not even the most knowledgeable of wizards - who had died and come back to life. Not even himself. Dumbledore's ghost – or whatever he was – had made it clear in the vision at King's Cross Station that Harry hadn't truly died from Voldemort's killing curse. So, 'living beyond death' sounded like a bunch of nonsense.
Plus, what did 'destroying death' even mean? Again, that sounded like some mantra of Voldemort's. If Hermione was right about its real meaning, then why didn't his parents just say something straight forward - along the lines of "We'll live beyond our death." Why make it so complicated and confusing? Was the epitaph a line from some poem? It certainly sounded like it. He remembered being forced to read some poetry back in primary school, and he'd rarely understood what any of it meant.
Harry had looked at the words every time that he'd ever visited the gravesite – each time, pondering their true meaning. But each time, the question had been fleeting, quickly leaving his mind. But, now, suddenly, something was different. Now, Harry felt compelled to find out. To find out the origin of the epitaph. To find out exactly why his parents had chosen those words. To find out its true meaning. He didn't know why, and he knew it didn't make much sense, but he thought that if he could figure out the mystery behind the words, then maybe – just maybe – he could figure out what was wrong with him, why he felt so empty on what should have been one of the happiest days of his life. He realized that it was just a gut feeling, but he somehow knew that the two riddles were connected.
"Thanks for listening," he said as he got to his feet. He nodded his head resolutely, for he knew exactly who he was going to speak with first, and then he disapparated away.