Chapter Text
Harry stumbled out of the floo into Grimmauld Place, turning on his heel and waving his hand to close off the floo access so he would not be followed. Soot covered his robes. It smelled like he might be slightly burnt from his haste.
That was his third attempt to visit Diagon Alley since the end of the war, and each time was somehow worse than the last. He was mobbed by entitled, insistent fans.
He managed to get to the bank, avoiding his eagle-eyed account manager while he was there, and when he walked down the steps into the sun, word already spread. The entire Merlin-be-damned alley seemed to flock after him. He'd ducked into the back of an apothecary, dodging precariously piled ingredients and slipped into the floo.
Harry pulled off his robe and flung himself onto his couch face first. Harry groaned.
Ron and Hermione left a few weeks ago to search for her Muggle parents in Australia. He rarely heard from them. It was a good thing, or so he told himself, that they were moving on and moving forward. Someone ought to be.
As for Harry? Well...
He turned to his side, clutching a cushion to his chest and shut his eyes.
The press hounded him endlessly for interviews. His every move was recorded, photographed and sold to the highest bidder. They called him The Boy-Who-Lived and The Savior of the Wizarding World. Like they hadn't spent so many years saying equally awful things about him. The ministry was the worst. Desperate to look put together and reliable, they bent over backward to entice him to this or that event. Harry's implied approval necessary to establish peace after troubled times or some such rot. What they really wanted was to dig their claws into him and walk him about like a show pony.
Not a chance.
"It's over now, Harry," Hermione had told him. "No more running, no more fighting."
Then, in the next breath, she was pressing Auror pamphlets into his and Ron's hands, gushing about how well they would do. Irony not lost on Harry.
They left together and Harry was alone. Left to the mercy of the public.
"Did you really kill Voldemort? The Dark Lord?"
Harry had and it haunted his sleep.
Sometimes...sometimes Harry wanted the world to understand, to know what he had done and gone through. The oily feel of Voldemort possessing him, the cool stillness of the blank-white-in-between which looked like a train station. The ache he felt in his chest where the second killing curse struck him. He wasn't sure even Ron or Hermione could really understand. It was too raw and sharp and they were afraid. They wanted to look to the future while Harry was busy sinking under the weight of the past.
A hoot had his eyes flying back open, darkening in annoyance. Harry leaned up and looked over the other end of the couch toward the window.
There a tawny owl was perched on the windowsill, a letter clutched in its beak. Harry fell back and groaned, writhing around in a tantrum before sitting up and taking in a deep breath. He stood and walked toward the owl.
If this was another attempt by the ministry to dress him up and drag him around some event he was going to throw a tantrum for real.
Harry gave the owl a pat and removed the letter, standing straight and running a finger along the blue wax seal, breaking it.
To Mister Harry Potter,
We are pleased to extend you an invitation...
Harry stared, blinking, then a smile bloomed across his face. He was being asked to tryout for quidditch! He quickly read through until he got to the bottom.
...be expected to report for reserve tryouts Wednesday at 8 am. We hope to see you then.
Harry whooped, jumping around in his living room. Gods that would be so much better than being a ruddy Auror. He'd only said he wanted to because Umbridge thought he was too stupid to get the grades. Harry was a terrible choice for Auror, he knew it. He constantly broke the rules, was flippant at the best -and worst- of times, and he had zero respect for authority. None.
Flying though, now that was something he could do.
Harry darted into his small kitchen and returned, setting a large pile of owl treats on the sill and stroking the tawny owl which appeared to be waiting for a response.
"There you go, have your fill you magnificent bird." Harry cooed.
The owl fluffed up smugly, then dug into the treats. Harry pulled the letter out. It was slightly crumpled. He flipped it open, smoothing out the crisp linen paper and held it against the wall. Harry rummaged in his other pocket for a bent quill.
He scribbled 'hell yeah'.
The owl gave Harry a pleasant chirrup when he approached it again and allowed Harry to reuse the ribbon to fix the letter to his leg. Then he was off.
Harry watched the owl fly through the air, cheer he'd been missing building inside of him. Soon he'd be flying too. Harry sat on his carpet and lay back, basking in the sun from the open window.
Next week couldn't come quickly enough.
-HPXOW-
Oliver wiped a hand over his neck as he balanced on his broom. Practice was going well. After this drill they'd call it a day. He swerved two feet lower, a bludger zooming over his head.
"Sorry, Wood!" There was a loud crack. The ball was sent flying back across the field.
Oliver lived for this. The strategy, the competition, the physicality. He lived and breathed Quidditch. He had to remind himself of this lately, as he poured himself into training in an effort to forget the last few months.
He gripped his broom, twisting on his thighs and pulling his Silversweep Millennium back to whack a quaffle arcing toward the middle ring high into the air and out of bounds.
A whistle sounded.
He rolled upright with a grin then headed toward the ground, jumping off when he got close. His shoes hit the damp earth with a soft thud. His broom settled beside him two seconds later, levitating at waist height. Oliver swung it over his shoulder.
"Whoo!" Someone cheered. "We're solid!"
Oliver followed his rambunctious teammates into the locker room.
"We'd be more solid if you watched your bludgers." Avery said.
"You can't get more solid than solid, Avery."
Oliver stuck his broom onto the rack. "Tryouts next week, dinna forget to show up even if yer na getting a reserve." He called out. "These are potential future teammates."
There were some excited whoops.
"We're na expecting tryouts to go long." He raised his brows, "Apparently, our Seeker prospect will be a shoo-in. I wouldn't ken since yer all determined to keep secret who the manager has in mind."
There were snickers and one of the beaters, Thompson, ran a finger across his lips miming closing a zipper. They were intent on keeping it from him.
Oliver huffed and sat on his bench. Merlin only knew what they had up their sleeves. He couldn't imagine who they'd asked. Who could warrant making it such a big surprise?
He tugged his jersey off, wincing at the stiffness in his back.
"Long day?" His seeker called.
"A bit." He responded, pulling off his other shoulder padding and setting them aside to be cleaned. He looked up to see his teammates filing out. "What? Where are you lot off to?"
"Going to soak up some firewhiskey at the Ram's Ledger. Care to join us?" Avery asked.
Oliver snorted. "No."
Avery kicked her Chaser's jersey under a bench then stretched. Her eyes fell back on Oliver, "You should lighten up, Wood. Maybe then you'd be less...stiff."
The witch dodged a balled up shirt he tossed at her, giggling. "It was only a suggestion." Avery darted outside after the rest of the team.
Oliver laid back on the bench and closed his eyes. After a minute he dragged himself to his feet and headed to the showers. He didn't mind the teasing, he knew he had a one-track mind. Especially as of late.
When Oliver Wood was interested in something, everything else just sort of ceased to exist.
-HPXOW-
It was only halfway through the day on Thursday, and Harry was already so close to walking out of Auror training. Again.
The air in the training hall was thick with the sharp tang of burning spellwork and sweat. Each trainee paired against a partner for five rounds, then a different partner for the last three. After that it was a 'free for all' which Harry found incredibly asinine when these guys were more interested in flashy displays of magic they could barely wield and one-upping each other than they were in paying attention to their surroundings.
This was hell. Harry was in hell.
Harry stood at the edge of the blue practice mats, shoulders tight with frustration. He was supposed to be engaged. Watching. Learning. How could he be? This wasn't training. This was busywork for people who had the luxury of inexperience.
They were slow. They were inefficient. They would die in a real fight. And Harry had to sit through six more months of this.
Merlin, somebody kill him now and end his misery. If it didn't stick, kill him again.
Harry stood off to the side with a wandless shielding spell up protecting his vital organs. He tilted to the side, lazily dodging a jinx sent his direction. The red light sizzled in the air before crashing uselessly into the far wall, dispersing with a soft hiss.
He flicked his wrist, cast a silent Expelliarmus and sent the offending trainee's wand soaring straight into his hand.
A startled yelp. A few snickers. Someone muttered something about dirty tactics. Harry rolled his eyes and tossed the wand back.
Harry leant his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes The sounds of the stuffy training room washed over him—sharp cracks of spellfire, shuffling boots on the floor, the frustrated murmurs of trainees struggling through the simplest counterspells.
This was pointless.
If he had to sit through another lecture about proper duelling etiquette, he might just walk out the door and never come back.
"Trainee Potter?"
Harry opened his eyes and squinted to his left.
One of the instructor's assistants stood there. Danielson or something.
"Yes?"
Danielson stuck out a hand with a letter toward Harry. "This arrived for you, sir."
Harry took it and flipped it over. It was another letter from Puddlemere. He felt himself smiling softly, running a finger under the now familiar blue and broke the seal. A request to meet at the medical wing of the team's training facility for a physical before his tryout. 'At your earliest convenience'.
Well, looks like Harry had plans for the evening.
"Potter! Back to training."
Harry groaned.
He didn't even look up. Another flick of his wand and there was a loud clattering on the ground.
"Oi!" A fellow trainee huffed in annoyance, scrambling to pick it up.
He flicked his wand twice more, disarming.
"Potter."
Oops.
Harry folded up the letter and stuck it in his pocket, walking over to his instructor, Auror Dawlish. A man in his late forties who took himself too seriously in Harry's opinion. "Sorry about that." Harry said, blandly.
Dawlish gave him a dark look.
"It's faster." Harry defended.
"Potter, it's unfair. The point of training is to teach you new tactics-"
"It's your job to teach your students how to stay alive. Not how to die with honour."
The instructor took his wand from Harry with a rude yank. "This is how a proper agency operates, Potter. Not a children's vigilante group."
"Those children saved your life," said Harry. He let out a gust of air and twisted his back. "I'm leaving early, I have an appointment this evening." He was turning even as he spoke, already over this conversation.
Dawlish's hand snapped out and gripped his arm, stopping him in place. Harry went still, breath leaving him, goosebumps raising all over his skin. Heart beating a little faster. He kept his wand to himself, but just barely. Chanting to himself this was just a training room and the man holding on to him was not a Death Eater he could or should blast into the nearest wall. Unfortunately.
"You can't walk out of training, Potter," Dawlish growled. "You have to stay the full hours just like everyone else. No special treatment."
Special treatment? The sheer audacity made Harry's skin crawl.
Slowly, deliberately, he let his gaze fall to the hand clutching his arm. He went half-lidded, green eyes bright and poisonous.
"Let go."
The instructor dropped Harry's arm with a swear, shaking it out like it burned. He had a fierce scowl on his face, eyes flickering over the other trainees in the room. "Just get out."
Harry gave him a mocking bow and strode from the room. Heavy doors shut behind him, muffling the din of the training hall.
The older he got, the more he understood Snape's perspective.
The world really was full of dunderheads.
-HPXOW-
Harry stood in front of his floo, hopping up and down on his feet. He'd taken a shower after storming out of the ministry. He wasn't certain what to wear to a physical, as he'd never had one. He settled on loose jeans, one of Sirius's tank tops and shoes that were easy to slip on and off. He figured comfort was important; who knew how long it would take?
He glanced at his wristwatch. It was time.
Harry scooped out some of the glittery floo powder from the tiny jar on his mantle and tossed it into the fire. The flames crackled and sparked, turning a vibrant green. Not dissimilar to his eyes.
Or the killing curse.
Blinking away phantom flashes of green and screams, Harry cleared his throat. "Puddlemere medical wing." Harry stepped into the flames and let the floo whisk him away.
He was spat out the other end in a small well kept lobby with just six chairs on either side of the floo and a singular reception desk. The carpet was a deep royal blue, matching the Puddlemere United logo covering the left-hand wall. Subtle.
Harry broke off in a coughing fit, sucking up soot.
A young wizard at the desk stood up, coming around the corner with a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh.
Harry scowled at the receptionist who only grinned in response.
"Mr Potter right? I'll lead you to where you need to go."
Harry wiped soot off his shirt. "Yeah, thanks."
"We will need your medical records sent over. If you make the team. Do you have a regular healer?"
Harry stiffened. Medical records? He had none. None that he knew of anyway, he can't imagine the Dursleys kept any from when they still bothered to take him. He might have been eight when that stopped? Would that matter? "I uh..."
"Not to worry, we're very professional here. No one will release any information about you to the public or to any reporters." The receptionist reassured, leading Harry through one of two doors and down a short hall.
Harry let him chatter on, content not to correct the wizard about his concerns for now.
They stopped outside a partially open door, and the receptionist motioned him inside. A witch stood near a small desk, flipping through a clipboard stacked with parchment. Blonde hair pulled back in a short ponytail. She looked up when Harry entered, her sharp, appraising gaze flickering from the chart to him in an instant. She gave the receptionist a glance and a tight smile.
"You must be Harry Potter."
"That's me," said Harry. "And you must be the Healer I'm here to meet."
"Endrie Valentine, Head Healer for Puddlemere." She beckoned him forward. "I'll take good care of you." She stepped back and indicated a chair. "Take a seat. We'll start with some general tests and a quick scan—nothing invasive."
Harry stepped fully into the room and took a seat. The chair had a blue cushion. Puddlemere blue.
"Right. I'm going to start with a simple reading." She said. Harry watched the healer bring out a long metal rod from a drawer. That was slightly alarming, though he didn't imagine Healers often hit their patients.
"We're going to do a quick check of your core and magic levels. Then we'll do a simple medical scan for your current health. Ready?"
"Sure."
Harry tilted his head slightly, watching warily while she adjusted something near the base of the rod. She flicked it in a shallow swooping motion, then waited for something. A bright purple light lit up the end of the rod. Healer Valentine studied numbers that appeared on the metal rod for a moment, eyes flicking between the rod and Harry. Her hands trembled.
That was definitely a good sign.
"Everything seems to be in order." She said quickly, sticking the rod back in the drawer. She smoothed her robes with one hand and turned back toward him wearing a carefully neutral expression. "Let's move on to a basic scan and see what we're working with, alright?"
She waited for his nod before waving her wand in the air over him. A white light swept over his skin, leaving behind a tingling sensation. Harry shuddered.
The healer seemed frozen so he leaned forward and squinted at the readings on the back of the healer's clipboard.
"I…" Valentine trailed off, her fingers tightening around the edges of the parchment. The healer walked up to Harry and grasped his wrist for a moment. She frowned. "I can feel your pulse."
Harry blinked. "Isn't that a good thing?"
"Well, yes," Valentine said, holding up her clipboard and staring at it. She then looked at her wand and flicked it at Harry, casting the scan again. "Same results." she said, faintly.
The healer set her clipboard down, pulled forward a stool and sat down on it. She rested her head in her hands a moment before looking up. "Mister Potter, I want to assure you whatever is revealed or shared with me today will be kept strictly confidential."
Harry shifted. "Okay, that's good to know."
"Is there any reason to your knowledge, Mister Potter, that my scan would label you as both a non-human and non-living entity?"
Oh. He swallowed and put on a cheerful face. "That. Well, I actually do have an explanation. Sort of."
Valentine nodded encouragingly. "Again, sir, everything is confidential, and the Puddlemere United team should be noted as committed to diversity with no bias against non-human beings."
Harry tapped his shoes up and down nervously. "Uh huh, sure. Well, see, during the everything..." He trailed off, raking his fingers through his hair with one hand and making a vague motion with the other. How the hell would he even begin to explain how fucked up and abnormal he was? "Okay, I've never had to put this into words before. I used to be two souls in one body, one soul much smaller than the other, and now I'm just the one. I, uh, also died again but as you can see I bounce back." He gave her jazz hands and a bright smile.
There was a beat of silence.
Then a clatter as her quill slipped from her fingers and hit the floor. "A-again?"
"Yeah...but it doesn't stick! So, I'm not even sure if it counts."
The healer put her face in her hands, shutting her eyes briefly. "Mister Potter, if I may, what...species are you?"
"Human-ish?" Harry offered. "My parents were human. I think. My dad was a stag sometimes."
"Mister Potter," Healer Valentine groaned.
"Look, I don't have a name for you. It's sort of a one-of-a-kind situation," said Harry. "I can tell you I'm connected to death and that's about it. Like, the entity of death."
She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. "Right. Okay." Valentine snatched her clipboard and made a note on it. "Unknown undead-adjacent species. Humanoid."
Harry snorted. "Close enough."
"Is there anything in particular I should know regarding your needs? Your health?"
"I have no idea ma'am. I don't...I don't stay dead, and things get weird sometimes. Especially near cemeteries or places where somebody has recently died. I'm still getting the hang of it." He paused. "In the name of honesty and transparency, I should probably clarify when I said I died again"
A pause. "Please do."
"I mean to say I died during the Second War. On the day that it ended." Harry said.
She nodded. "Yes, I follow."
"That isn't the only time."
The healer took another calming breath. "I see."
"Just a few more after that," Harry added quickly. "I…was having a hard time. It was right in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts. That first two weeks. Like I said, it doesn't stick."
Valentine winced, scribbling something down. "I see." She repeated, clearing her throat. "Have you considered seeing a—"
"No." Harry said flatly.
"Mister Potter, mind healers can be very useful when dealing with stress and trauma."
"You want me to explain to a mind healer that I can't die?" Harry asked, incredulous. "I'll be committed. Or dragged to the Department of Mysteries and locked up."
She sighed heavily. "I respect your decision, because I am required to." Healer Valentine set her clipboard down on the counter and stood. "Okay Potter, stand for me over on this yellow line. See it?" She motioned toward a strip of what looked like yellow tape on the floor.
Harry obeyed, rocking slightly on his heels. Something flashed into the air in front of her which she read before nodding.
"You are small for your age, in height and in weight, but I imagine that is not news to you."
"I had noticed that, yes." Harry grinned. "And not just today, either."
She muttered something under her breath then added another note to her chart. "I can't say that I'm pleased with your results but you do meet the requirements to join the team if you move forward after tryouts."
Harry did a little wiggle and bounced on his feet. "Yes!"
Valentine rolled her eyes and waved him toward the door. "Out. Try not to not-die in practice. You'll traumatise your teammates."
"Absolutely zero promises coming your way." said Harry, walking out the door. He could hear her ranting about Quidditch players as he started down the hall. He turned, fighting the ridiculous grin he knew he had on his face, and walked out the door back into the small lobby.
"All done?" called the receptionist. "Did she send for your records?"
Oh, shite. "All done. Says I meet the requirements!" Harry said, honestly.
The receptionist gave him a thumbs up. "Good to hear."
Harry's stomach made a grumbling noise. He flushed. "Ah...don't suppose you've got snacks?"
Suppressing a laugh, badly, the receptionist pointed. "Out the door beside the floo, down the hall and through the locker room. There's a staff lounge with food and drink in the right hand corner at the back. Feel free to grab something before you leave, Mister Potter."
Harry gave him a salute. "That's a lad."
-HPXOW-
Oliver Wood was jogging through the locker room. He yanked his jersey up over his head, peeling it from his sweaty skin, muscles protesting, and leaned against his locker. He hit the back of his head against it a few times as if to ground himself. Gods, he was stiff. He needed to do more stretching or take up running.
Yoga maybe.
"...sure you don't want to come with us, Wood?"
"Na," said Wood. He opened his eyes and stood up, throwing a towel over his shoulder. "I'm busy." He moved toward the showers.
"Doing what?" Avery asked. "Dreaming about Quidditch?"
"Polishing his broomstick," suggested someone who let out a grunt as he was elbowed in the gut.
"We'll see you Monday," Avery called.
He heard the door shut just as he stepped under the hot water. Oliver rolled his shoulders, trying to ease to tightness of his muscles. He let the water run down him for several long moments, mind replaying training exercises and plays. Running through them again and again, making notes for improvement. Analyzing plays, picking apart mistakes and mentally adjusting them. Faster transitions. Tighter formations. His brain never really stopped thinking about Quidditch.
Gods below. He needed to unwind. Oliver emptied soap into his hands and started running the silky lemon smelling stuff over his body. He was quick and thorough about it, rinsing before long and stepping out from the spray, knotting a towel low around his waist. Already planning out notes to bring up at the next pratice.
He was a five feet toward the lockers when he realised he hadn't turned off the water. Muttering a curse, Oliver pivoted sharply on his heel—
And slammed directly into something small but solid.
No...someone.
They went tumbling sideways into the shower with a surprised squeak. Oliver followed, bare feet sliding on wet tile as he tried and failed to regain his balance. Reflexes kicking in he threw his arms out, bracing his hands against the walls of the shower to avoid crushing the other person with his body weight. They found themselves tangled, bodies dripping water while the shower sprayed down on them.
Torn between apologising or unloading on the idiot who wandered into the team showers, Oliver looked up to do one or the other and felt his brain stutter to a halt. Pretty olive skin peeked out from beneath nearly transparent fabric clinging to a slender torso, soaked under the hot spray and revealing more than intended. He was...Oliver's gaze traced down to where the wizard's legs seemed to go on for miles, wrapped in drenched jeans that left nothing to the imagination. He snapped his attention back up. The wizard beneath him was rambling apologies, breathless and flustered, but Oliver barely heard a word of it.
Because he knew those eyes. Bright green, wide and startled.
"Harry?!"