He must persist.
1
He must persist.
Eight years have passed since Harry Potter defeated Voldemort and saved the Wizarding World from the fiery grasps of the noseless genocidal maniac. He fought for the bureaucracy of the Ministry of Magic to not lose the essence of why they fought tooth and nail to survive and moved up the hearing of charged Death Eaters as priority issue to be settled. Eighteen and fighting both in war and with the twisted bureaucracy.
He must persist, he repeated in his mind like a desperate prayer to a deaf God.
Seven years since he testified on behalf of Narcissa Black Malfoy and Draco Lucius Black Malfoy. It was never-ending questioning from lawyers and whatnot. Never-ending reliving of Sirius Black’s death, Albus Dumbledore’s death, Fred Weasley’s death, and many more deaths to dissect. The events in the Malfoy Manor, Hermione’s screams, his life on the run. Everything for the world to hear and see. It was hell for the Golden Boy. But he must persist.
As always he must persist.
Six years since Ginerva Weasley and Harry Potter called it quits in the pretense of being ‘not meant-to-be’. Behind closed doors, Ginerva had been particularly… emotionally abusive to Harry. Using his war-hero status against him. Using his scars against him. Using his manhood to attempt to bear a child he didn’t want.
Everything Ginerva did was subtle.
She was kind, Harry thought. She looked kind and Harry was broken from birth. He didn’t know what real was from the opposite. That made manipulation manageable. But, alas! Hermoine was the life-saver after all. She woke Harry up from his slumber which caused the divorce.
Ronald wasn’t happy. He also didn’t know how to be happy after that war. He didn’t know how to think straight, so he distanced himself from the others. Left Hermione with a child. Left his family mourning and frantically scouring through the country for him.
But, as always, he must persist.
Five years since Harry Potter decided to be an auror. With the sessions between the mind-healer going well, he decided it was time to step out into the world. His death wasn’t in vain. He gained the ability to fully control the full potential of his magic and use it without the means of using a wand. With the right amount of physical exertion and mental growth, he made a fine auror. The best in his generation, Shacklebolt Kingsley praised.
In that year he was given the mission of arresting every Death Eater to be charged and placed for hearing. The particular individual he had his eyes on was Fenrir Greyback. He didn’t die that day. There was no body found. No witnesses of his death. And a recent sighting of the werewolf exiting an apartment building on the edge of England. Harry knew to find him and persecute him for what he had done. He knew it was a must.
Hours turned to days, days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months. A concussion and a few hex scars earned Fenrir Greyback in their custody. Kingsley didn’t ask about the missing limb of Greyback or how the Golden Boy’s eyes flashed red during the raid or how the Earth shook with his magic. He turned a blind eye. Maybe if done enough, then this would all be a dream. However, Harry had one thing on his mind.
He must persist.
He didn’t know what from, or from who. He just knew he needed to go through whatever this is to come out on the other side happier. Maybe it was a pursuit of happiness after all. He didn’t know. He just needed to persist.
Four years since Harry Potter earned the Head Auror title, just two years since he joined the force. The youngest and fastest auror to earn the title. It was in his blood, he guessed, to be one of a kind. Not that he loves it. It was in that year he moved back to 12 Grimmauld Place. He was living in a shabby apartment all these years. But he guessed his power was stronger than whatever horror holds 12 Grimmauld.
And so, back in he went. Among the dark wooden table he still hears how Sirius taps his finger while listening to Professor Lupin’s absurd jokes. Or how Fred ran down the stairs just a few steps behind George. Harry wanted to get out. But he didn’t.
He must persist.
Three years since Harry discovered how to manage his finances thanks to Hermione’s wishful thinking. Three years since he rode that wretched rollercoaster with that wretched goblin to the wretched vault he last saw with Hagrid by his side. Hagrid died a few months before the hearing of the Malfoys were conducted. The old giant passed in his sleep with a newly hatched baby dragon by his side.
Harry took the dragon and placed it elsewhere, but still in his care. He called Charlie Weasley to pull some strings for him, in which the bloke happily indulged and now, Draco the dragon was safely housed in Romania with a few of his kind. He often visits Draco. It was the only Draco he could bear to look at anyways.
Two years since Harry went to that pub with his team and accidentally saw Draco the human walk in. Breath caught in his throat, eyes fixed and slightly dizzy, and heart beating loudly– you know, the common works or whatever of a person in love. But Harry, as persistent as he was, constantly tells himself that it was hatred and not love. Because love and hate were so easy to confuse each other with.
Draco’s silver hair was longer and it was tied loosely on his back. He was slender and had pale skin, like Harry remembered him to be. But his height seemed to be the same as when he was just eighteen. Sure, he was taller than Harry back then, but the Golden Boy was a late bloomer. He was taller by a head now.
Now he’s in a different kind of battle. A battle with himself.
But, as always, like tradition, he must persist.
Love isn’t for him. Not after what Ginerva did. Or was that love in the first place? He didn’t know. He was too broken to know. Only mended by a weak bandaid holding him together like a pebble stopping a hole in a dam filled with raging waters.
One year since Harry was tasked to conduct a raid on a group of wizards that have taken captive a unicorn in their premises. He went in with his team by kicking the door of the shabby cabin open and got in a spell shootout with five wizards. He got shot on the shoulder by a stunning spell. As if he wasn’t stunned in the first place seeing the familiar redhead on the other side of the shootout.
His beard had grown, was the first thing Harry thought as he fell on the ground with a thud.
When he woke up in a hospital bed in a private suite in St. Mungo’s, the only person with him was Hermoine. She had left young Rose with Molly Weasley, who still hadn't heard of the news. It was obvious Hermione already did, because her eyes were bloodshot and her frizzy golden hair wasn’t in a braid like she usually did it.
They talked for what seemed like hours about what’s going to happen to Ronald in prison. Killing a unicorn and drinking its blood was enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. And capturing it with the plan of selling it through the Black Market— what Ronald and his mates did— was enough to earn a decade in Azkaban. It was the lowest amount of years they could make it to.
Draco being forgotten, Harry was now in another new battle. How to keep his best friend sane.
He wasn’t sane himself, how could he keep another person sane? He didn’t know.
What he knows: he must persist.