Some Days

Some days it felt like the last five years didn't happen. Some days it felt like he was seventeen again, scared and fighting for not only his life, but the lives of everyone he held dear and even for the lives of those he had never met. Never did he wonder if defeating Voldemort was worth it. But some days, he wondered if his own continued existence was worth it.

Today was one of those days.

An all too awake Harry Potter stood in front of his bathroom mirror, scowling at himself. He looked tired, but that wasn't surprising since he hadn't fallen asleep very easily, only to be awoken a few hours later by what he had thought was an errant death eater but was only Stella coming back to her perch. Stella was a good owl, midnight black with flecks of white and grey on her underside stretching from wing to wing, like a clear midnight in the country. That's how she had gotten her name. Even as intelligent and reliable as she was, she was no Hedwig.

He scratched his chin lightly and shook his head from side to side, dark hair falling in a mess around him. He had grown it out since Ginny broke up with him and he had quit Auror training three years ago. Both events occurring nearly simultaneously but coincidental to each other. Ginny had been in tears exclaiming that he didn't love her, he just wanted to protect her like the rest of the family did. She was half right, but wouldn't listen to the explanations he had been trying to give. He loved her dearly, but time had just made him feel like he was her brother and not really boyfriend material. However, like the ever dutiful Boy-Who-Lived, he had continued on with the relationship because he had been expected - from both the public and private sectors - to marry her and have a family. It hadn't been fair to her and he knew it, but if it made her happy he would have done what it took.

Still it had caused a rift in the family, even though Ginny had explained it when she had calmed down. George, Ron and Mrs. Weasley were still in a snit about it, and though none were willing to abandon him their relationships with him hadn't been the same since. He kept rubbing at the stubble absently as he thought of how upset Hermione was with how 'foolishly stubborn Ronald was being about all this'. She had said that a relationship required commitment and then flinched visibly as she recalled that Ginny had claimed that he wasn't committed to their love when they broke up, and how she had shared that with everyone in the family when she was still upset. Harry had waved it off and said that Ron would come around on his own time, he always had.

Since the end of the War, he had managed to master a small amount of wandless magic, but its success depended largely on his mood. Some days, the simple shaving charm that he tried would leave him baby's ass smooth for the rest of the day, today however was not one of those days.

"Fuck!" The simple syllable had broken the stark silence of the white and blue bathroom, while a line of red appeared and started oozing rather spectacularly across Harry's cheek. As soon as he had tried the wandless charm it had gone awry, and left him with the rather deep looking gash. Fingers reached off to the side and grabbed the first washcloth he could get his hand on, pulling it back and pressing it to the wound as he trudged back into the bedroom, temporarily ignoring the single line of crimson that had started sliding down his neck and across his chest in the few moments it took for him to grab the washcloth and press it to his face. Going back to his bedside he grabbed his wand and with a few charms he had healed the cut, shaved and gotten his hair brushed for the morning. He was planning on playing some Quidditch after breakfast and so he'd save the shower for afterwards. Not to mention he had taken one the night before.

Still, as he returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth, he wondered when the James Potter clone that was his teenaged self turned into the man that stood before him. If he wanted to tell the truth he thought he looked something like the product of an experimental combining of both of his parents DNA with that of his Godfather. The shaggy hair and slightly haunted eyes, tattoos - all magical and able to move within a certain area, for instance his snitch was currently floating right above his navel, but as soon as he took his eyes off of it the ball of ink had gone off to some other part of his torso - and his penchant to wear tight pants and a leather jacket when out in the Muggle world was all Sirius. His build, the untamable aspect of his hair and his face were his father's, and then his hands, eyes and shorter stature were from his mother.

Maybe it was at some point in the year after the War, when he had gone back to Hogwarts to finish his schooling. 'After all,' Hermione had said, hands on her hips as she stared down at him while he laid on the couch in Number 12, Grimmauld Place. 'Do you really want the next generation of students to think that it's okay not to finish school since The Great Harry Potter didn't?' Harry had to admit that she had a valid point, so he, like most of the other students that had been either forced out, on the run, or just plain unsatisfied with what they had learned had gone back to repeat the previous year. For Harry, Ron and Hermione, it had brought up a lot of difficult, conflicting feelings. Not even his rivalry with Draco Malfoy could wind him up like it used to.

He wasn't sure how he had passed with enough NEWTs to become an Auror, as he had spent most of his time either sitting by the fire and nearly hexing almost anyone that tried to sneak up on him, or out on the Quidditch Pitch flying on his broom until he was so cold that his fingers were numb and his bum ached from the unforgiving wood that no cushioning charm could make comfortable for long without the rush of adrenaline that came from competition and the looming threat of pain.

Perhaps his change had come in the two years that he had been training his ass off to try and protect the Wizarding World from threats that were no longer over everybody's heads. The change might have come in this last year, when he had spent a good deal of time doing nothing but lounging about the house, watching television and playing Quidditch when the mood struck him. It might have even happened the year before, when he did a stint with the Tutshill Tornados as their seeker. Harry had thought that maybe playing professional Quidditch would have put the spark back in his life after nothing else - not even a few illicit affairs with both witches and wizards - could seem to put it back. He wouldn't call it depressed; after all he still enjoyed Seeking, and hanging around with his friends, or even pulling the occasional prank. He didn't have trouble putting weight on or keeping it off, and in fact he had filled out nicely enough with muscle to the point where Mrs. Weasley didn't try to stuff food down his throat at every possible opportunity anymore. Although she still insisted on him having seconds when he was over for supper. He supposed the reason for his melancholy was the fact that at seventeen years of age, he had defeated the worst Wizard to ever rise to power, survived death for a second time, and lost his purpose. There was just nothing that he knew of that he could do now that he had saved the world twice. He had more people clamoring for his attention and affections ever before, and yet, he had never been lonelier.

Getting changed into clean clothes, Harry grabbed his broom and headed for the door picking up a small case that contained a snitch before leaving the flat. He locked the door with a key, and then made sure that the warding charms on the place to make sure that nobody could get in without it alerting him were still functioning at their peak. Satisfied, he checked the hallway before disappearing with a crack to a small public pitch that remained in one of the few Wizarding communities left in England.

Taking a deep breath of the fresh air and waiting for his stomach to stop swirling Harry looked up at the clear blue sky. It was only about eight in the morning and very few people were about, which was good for him, because the more people meant the better likelihood of him getting recognized which meant he would never get any peace from the flashbulbs and the questions.

Almost immediately after kicking off, Harry pulled the snitch out of its box and tapped it with his wand so it would recognize the charms around the pitch as the boundary lines before he let it go and shrunk the box down, sliding it in his pocket. Closing his eyes he counted to five before zooming up high and scanning for the flecks of gold and silver sunlight that were reflected back at him. Spotting it, he took off, leaning flat against his broom.

Seconds stretched into minutes, which then stretched into an hour and finally people were starting to gather around the pitch, wondering who it was that was so avidly following the little golden ball into all manner of hairpin turns and dives, rolling effortlessly away from imaginary bludgers without taking his eyes off of the prize. Harry caught the snitch within the next half an hour, just as the photographers were starting to arrive.

'Well,' He thought, in a moment of adrenaline fueled pride at his broom handling skills. 'If they want something impressive, I'll give it to them.' He tucked the snitch into his other pocket and spiraled to the top of the pitch as fast as he could, did a corkscrew turn and fell into a nosedive. The intent was to pull off an impressive Wronski Feint. However he pulled up a fraction of a second too slow and the tip of his broom handle grazed a lump of ground that was sticking up unevenly.

The last thing Harry heard as his world went black was a series of cracks and the collective gasp of fifty witches and wizards as their Savior tumbled ass over end off of his Firebolt and across the pitch.