Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this.
Prologue
Why it all began
o
Harry Potter was 26 years old, rich, famous, and at a loss as to what to do with himself.
o
Straight after the war he'd been inducted into the Auror Corps.
Back then, he'd been ecstatic and euphoric. What he'd believed for years to be his dream was coming true, and with minimal effort on his part: they hadn't even demanded that he take his N.E.W.T.s (though he supposed offing a Dark Lord could count as sufficient extra credit).
In hindsight, he could now admit that the highly irregular enrolling had been a very convenient way to, a) boost the Ministry's image by associating it with everybody's beloved hero (and didn't that gall, that he'd ended up a poster-boy after all?) and b) keep him under control, by indoctrinating him on his 'duty towards the Ministry' and by regulating what he learned and how (wouldn't do to let him become the next Voldemort, or worse, the next Dumbledore).
He was honest enough not to blame the Ministry however.
They were politicians, and as politicians they thought: which, despite everything, wasn't necessary a bad thing. After all, they hadn't forced him or even pressured him. They had given him exactly what he wanted.
Back then, he'd been eager to become an Auror, full of enthusiasm for the training and his future career. All they'd done was smooth things over so that it would be easy for him to follow the path he'd chosen and that was so opportunely suitable.
o
The problem was that it had taken him less than six months to realize that it wasn't what he wanted after all.
He didn't like being an Auror.
It had nothing to do with the training being exhausting, nor with him being tired of fighting. Far from it actually: the varied, demanding, taxing, nerve-wrecking, relentless training regime that drained every Trainee was, to Harry, amazingly interesting and it filled him with a joy for learning that he'd never felt before, challenging his mind, his magic and his body in truly satisfying ways; while the few mock-battles he got involved with charged him with exhilarating adrenaline and made his blood sing with passion.
No, the reason he was second-guessing himself was the rigid hierarchy and mindless discipline the job required.
He wasn't used to obeying orders.
He was used to follow only his own lead; to bend and break the rules as he saw fit; to make up his own mind about things without trusting the 'official version'; to put into action solutions he and his friends came up with without seeking permission, much less from paper-pushers.
No, blindly following directives from people he often didn't trust or even respect and carrying out assignments he didn't even know the reasons for was not for him.
o
He tried to stick at it, because he didn't want to let go of his dream, and because he felt a bit childish at saying he 'didn't want to follow the rules'. He felt like he could hear Snape's caustic voice in his head: Potter has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here – don't go blaming others for Potter's determination to break rules – arrogant, spoilt…
He didn't want to admit Snape might have been right!
So he grit his teeth and soldiered on, and managed to make it all the way through his first year as Trainee before breaking down and telling everything to his two best friends.
Ron had been shocked, hurt, offended and appalled (Don't you want to be my partner? Mate, I thought this was what you wanted! That we were in this together!); Hermione had been sympathetic but not understanding (Honestly, Harry, I know it's hard, but it's time you grew up…)
Between the two of them, they'd talked him into facing his second year of Auror training (though 'cajoling' would be a better description, or possibly 'guilt-tripping').
It had been a mistake.
Harry had grown more and more miserable, his short temper even shorter, his bad moods legendary; anger or brooding his default states of mind.
Not even the ever demanding training could distract him.
At the end of the year, without saying anything to Ron or Hermione, he left the Auror Corps for good and then locked himself inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place in order to avoid dealing with everybody's disappointment.
o
Three weeks later, George Weasley had at last managed to break into the grim house and dragged him out into the world again.
George had taken him on a Weasley Whirlwind Week, as he called it, which consisted in taking his mind off things by means of too much alcohol, too loud music and a lot of dancing (along with a bit of heavy snogging with random partners, though Harry didn't go any further because of Ginny) in an impressive number of muggle clubs.
It had rather effectively distracted Harry from his grumpy mood.
Then George had dropped him off at the Burrow, to be scolded and fussed over, reproached and reassured by his extended adoptive family (even 'Grandma' Andromeda had come for this).
And while there had been disappointment, they had quickly swallowed it and proclaimed that he had every right to be tired of violence and to desire a quieter life. Harry hadn't bothered correcting their assumptions. They felt more justifiable than the truth.
Then everybody had joined a brainstorming session aimed at determining 'what Harry should do now'.
o
He hadn't objected too much to the suggestion of becoming a professional Quidditch player. Why should he have?
He'd received invitations from every team in the League (except the Holyhead Harpies, for obvious reasons) and besides, he had once admitted unselfconsciously that Quidditch was all he was good at. It was the perfect solution, wasn't it?
And the moment he'd found himself on a broom again, after two years of not having the time for it, he was utterly convinced that nothing in the world could ever suit him better.
Flying was as natural to him as breathing – and almost as necessary.
Yes… Quidditch was the fulfilment of his every dream…
Or so he thought.
Too bad that the actual flying time was nothing when compared to the amount of hours wasted on 'public relations' – giving interviews, releasing statements, signing autographs, endorsing products on command, going to 'the right parties'… in short, everything Harry disgustedly gathered under the heading 'catering to fans'.
He brought the Chudley Cannons to their first victory since 1892 (an endeavour judged 'most impressive' by Seeker Weekly) and joined the British National Team for the European Cup, where he had the chance to challenge none other than Victor Krum in what several magazines declared 'the most breath-taking and foolhardy seeker-to-seeker race since the days of 'Dangerous Dai' Llewellyn'.
But he hated it.
Every minute of it, every silly gushing groopie going wild for an autograph, every greedy reporter gleefully digging into his private life and past, every absurd fan stalking him outside his door, every idiotic nickname and mock-title he was given, every stupid line the press agents forced him to feed the media…
If he'd thought his fame as the Boy-Who-Lived was bad… this, this was a hundred times worse!
o
His Quidditch days also marked the beginning of the end for his relationship with Ginny.
A successful Chaser herself, already slated to become the next Captain of the Holyhead Harpies as soon as the celebrated Gwenog Jones retired, Ginny found true delight in regularly appearing in public – and on the covers of several magazines – looking good on Harry's arm.
She laughed at his grumblings about being unable to keep the fans at bay and insisted on reading to him every line Quidditch Monthly, The Witchcraft Tribune and Witches Chic printed on her and Harry, despite his reiterated protests that he didn't want to know.
She didn't seem at all fazed by the blinding sea of flashbulbs they were met with on even the simplest stroll and she clearly enjoyed the ocean of voices calling their names outside the stadiums.
Whenever Harry tried to make her understand just how much he hated the circus his life had become, she brushed him off as ridiculous or actually got offended. She seemed to expect him to simply go through life hand in hand with her, oblivious to the glare of the flash bulbs and the shrieks of the crowd that drove him mad.
After the sixth time she'd playfully posed for a moronic freelancer who was holding his camera up and shooting off several rounds even as Harry was flinging him from the premises, Harry told her it was over.
She'd been incredulous and offended, the tabloids had had a field day with it, Molly had been inconsolable and over two thousand offers of anything from marriage to kinky sex had come from witches all over Europe, in letters complete with suggestive photographs.
All in all, Harry had been miserable.
o
At last, though, the outcry about his leaving the Quidditch scene – which bordered on hysteria, with crying fans begging him to reconsider and a widespread movement of orange-clad idiots with scars tattooed on their foreheads petitioning for his return – was somewhat contained when Rumours! first published (quickly followed by every other tabloid) the theory that he was depressed over the break-up with Ginny.
He was rather relieved that they stopped hounding him then, even if the pity was annoying; Ginny however was less than pleased to find herself the target of Howlers and Hex-letters from deranged fans blaming her (especially after Witch Weekly insinuated her alleged infidelity as cause of the fallout, despite Harry's indignant denials).
To get away from everything, Harry seized the weirdest offer he'd had so far in his life: a contract for a series of exhibitions of stunt flying.
The manager, Meander Bancroft, organized the exhibitions to promote new brooms and had told Harry, quite frankly, that he'd receive more money than he had from the Cannons, as long as he flew more dangerous manoeuvres and sold more brooms. If Harry's popularity dropped, they would adjust his Galleons accordingly.
Harry felt excitement running through his veins at the thought of all the dangerous moves he would have the occasion to fly – nay, he would be paid to fly.
The sheer joy that he could find in the freedom of flying stunts, no pressure to find the Snitch, no need to watch out for Bludgers and fouls, was amazing.
He'd always loved flying just for flying.
The element of danger in pulling off difficult stunts was enticing, too.
After all, there was a reason why he'd earned the 'Dangerous Dai' Commemorative Medal – which was given every year to the player who took the most risks on the pitch – three times in a row.
So for a while, Harry toured Europe, showing off his flying tricks. For a while, he delighted in the gasps he elicited, in the excited shouts for his many close calls, in the admiring and amazed eyes that stayed riveted on him as he rolled and dived, spiralled and soared, somersaulted head over handle and bristles over heels, hanged upside-down and spun sharply, plunged falcon-like and rose again in twisting spirals…
The crowd went wild every time he revealed a new routine but it never bothered him: he tuned them out the way he'd once done when playing Quidditch, easily maintaining a surface awareness in case someone else flew near him or he ran into the hoops of the Pitch or the ground, but keeping his focus on the motion of his body and the broom.
He loved it.
He loved how he could hear both magic and wind straining as they flowed through the bristles when he threw himself into a series of sideways rolls or rose to his feet and balanced on the broom's handle, sending the spectators into raptures.
He loved how his mind almost instinctively made sense of the speed of the wind, the soreness of his limbs from his earlier tricks, the momentum of the broom, and a dozen other factors, bringing him to the point where he knew, as he had always known where the Snitch was going to be, that he could perform the trick he wanted.
He loved how the shouts of panic inevitably became yells of laughter and amazement and awe, once the public realized what crazy stunt they had been privileged enough to witness.
He loved it immensely, for all of six months.
Then he began to realize that there weren't really all that many manoeuvres he could fit into a routine, that the manager showing off his skills and his name to sell brooms was getting tiresome, that the fans were starting to stalk him again and this time they were even crazier than his earlier groupies.
And when Bancroft organized a tour of the United States, he realized he didn't want to go.
He'd grown used to travelling around Europe while moving from stadium to stadium with his teams, but the idea of finally leaving the continent he was born on just to be paraded around in pre-arranged circus shows suddenly revolted him.
He wanted to travel, he knew that much. He didn't want it to be on someone else's schedule.
o
Unfortunately, the first few tourist trips he made on his own after leaving Bancroft – to Australia, to Morocco and to Brazil, just because – were disappointing.
Staying with a group that was led around like a bunch of sheep and told to marvel at this and admire that and enjoy pre-arranged activities at pre-determined times and taste exactly the array of typical cuisine that was prepared for them, kind of took all the fun out of travelling.
No, he definitely didn't like obeying rules.
He wanted to go on an adventure, finding things, discovering places, meeting people…
Easier said than done, because without a tour operator and without a specific purpose, he found himself pretty much stranded the first time he tried India. It had taken him longer than was reasonable to figure out how to get to the Taj Mahal, he'd been robbed twice in less than three days and he had been plagued by unexpected fares, hygiene problems and the insistent, unpleasant sensation that the locals were laughing at him behind his back, or worse, pitying him for his evident stupidity. He could only thank his foresight in going as a muggle, because he did not dare imagine what the added complication of his fame might have meant.
o
On top of that, there was the harping Hermione was doing about his wasting his life. She still thought that he'd been irresponsible in leaving a serious career in the Auror corps to do 'nothing productive' instead. She continually nagged him to lend his support to her political career, which albeit amazing for one so young, was severely impaired by her blood status, despite the two wars that had been fought to stop this kind of discrimination.
Well, he gave in of course, because Hermione was a force to be reckoned with and simply not liking the political scene didn't seem to be a good enough reason to avoid it for her. However, after two major gaffes at Ministry functions, predictably blown out of proportions by the gleeful tabloids, she changed her mind on his involvement.
After that, Harry stuck to plastering a smile as bright and as empty as a lamp bulb on his face and steadfastly declare Hermione's latest crusade of extreme importance. It worked surprisingly well, though it didn't say much good about their world.
o
He ended up spending the majority of his time with Teddy Lupin, who was now six years old and had his Godfather wrapped around his little finger thanks to his infallible combo: an earnest desire of having his own way, a cute mischievous smile, and a great deal of noise.
He also let himself be caught in bouts of enthusiasm for the most diverse things, from Arithmancy, to ceramics, to Owl breeding, to Mayan history. Generally, his passion for a certain topic would flare consumingly for anywhere between two and six weeks, before he got tired or bored or his attention was caught by something else.
He would have been the first to admit, however, that nothing he did truly satisfied him.
o
So there he was, 26 years old, rich, famous, and at a loss as to what to do with his life.
Which is why he couldn't find it in himself to turn down the intriguing invitation…
Acknowledgements:
The idea of the flying stunts exhibitions is from 'Learning Life Over' by Meander Later (and the manager's name is a homage to this surprising author): the story is a unpredictably good Harry/Draco with an unexpected but wonderfully developed basic idea. If you want something different, long and well written this is worth a read.
Other ideas and snippets are inspired by jennavere's hilarious 'Quidditch Wife' (and its sequel).
Quidditch data come, of course, from 'Quidditch Through the Ages'.