Holiday

Harry arrived at the beach house at 1:31 in the afternoon, after an achingly long travel through customs asking him why he had a carved stick of wood in his luggage. Much to his delight, he got to take a bus ride to the little cottage. The bus was smelly and run-down but the experience, in Harry’s words, built character.

As he set his luggage down in the cozy one bedroom, he realized that soon enough he would need to buy the fixings for dinner. The bellhop had given him an excellent recommendation on where to buy groceries, which just so happened to be a small farmers market about a two mile walk fom his stay. He decided it would be in his best interest to grab the food now, maybe take a nice walk along the beach, and then cook later at night. He might even treat himself to a little Pharmacy wine, if he was feeling extra special.

Harry’s beach house looked similar to a retirement home. Right outside his door was both a tennis court and pool occupied by about 3-4 old married couples. A bit beyond that was a community game room, a sheltered cabana and a bar that looked like it sold only gin and tonic. While it was nice to be spending time away, it did leave Harry a LOT of alone time to think. He almost wished he had brought one of the nice old muggle ladies he did a painting class with, the kind that always talked about getting away and taking a “vacation”. They would probably be tolerable company, at least until he had to take them to physical therapy or the chiropractor or, even worse, the hospital.

He glanced out at the old ladies and shuddered. One day he would be old like that. This made Harry feel almost lonely, but he would save it for his beach walk.

He gathered his stuff, deciding to go shirtless and barefoot, but with some shorts on that showed the slightest bit of abs he still had. He grabbed his wallet, and with a salute to the hotel owner, he was off.

…

Harry had been walking for nearly ten minutes before he was interrupted with a sharp pain stabbing his foot.

“Shit!” Harry exclaimed. He grabbed his foot and noticed a small trickle of blood extending from his middle toe.

“Merlin,” Harry said, trying to take the blood off, “What is that?”

He sat down near where the blood had been and began shuffling through the sand. He found a plastic beverge cap, a couple of rocks and finally came upon a beautiful, dove white sand dollar with a slight crack down the center.

The sand dollar was achingly beautiful, even with the slight crack down the center. It sort of reminded Harry of his scar, but not the beauty part. Just the ugly little crack down the middle. He gently brushed the sand off and used his thumb to scrape away some of the blood. It had started pooling where the crack was, a little stream of crimson cutting the fossil in a shocking contrast. He hadn’t noticed how much blood was starting to get on his shorts. Instead, he just stared on down at the sand dollar.

The sand dollar felt almost like porcelain. it was smoothened by years and years of toil from the ocean, only to be ruined in moments by the careless step of Harry Potter. The blush of red immediately tainted years worth of beautiful craftsmanship by the ocean. What would become of it now? it went from a beautiful, perfectly carved stone to a cracked piece of rubbish.

Harry didn’t know why it bothered him so much. After all, it was just a silly little sand dollar.

On the other hand, however, it was much more than a sand dollar. It was Harry.

How did he go from a perfectly polished, expertly carved golden boy to a cracked piece of rubbish in mere months? How did he go from being the hero of all to a simply unrecognizable shell of himself? He didn’t quite understand it. Was this all that was left for him? A silly old sand dollar with a bloody ugly crack down the middle? What would become of him?

He started to feel uneasy. He began thinking about all the old ladies by the pool and how they looked longingly at their husbands who looked longingly at the sea.

Was Harry an old lady looking at his husband? or an old husband looking out at the sea? Would he carry this forever, that undeniable ache of being know as Harry Potter? Would he always be looked at as the savior to all?

Harry wasn’t really sure. He wanted to look longingly at the sea. But he was pretty sure he was an old lady looking longingly at his past, which was looking longingly at loss.

More than that, he wanted to be WITH the sea. He wanted adventure, something new and challenging. Something that treated him the way he needed to be treated. He wanted something that would ignite him, something that would leave him always wanting more. He wanted something that treated him like something ordinary. He wanted something that looked in his face and called him weak. And he wanted to win again. He wanted something that would let him win over and over again, everyday. Something that would fill him up and never let him feel empty again.

He pocketed the sand dollar and pushed himself off the sand. Would he ever be anything else?

Harry wasn’t sure.

He began walking, treading lightly so as to avoid any more sand dollars.

He was just beginning to get lost in thought when he heard a familiar tone.

“Potter?” It called from away.

Harry looked up and squinted his eyes. His face changed quickly to shock, then finally to a sheer sense of joy. He cracked a great smile.

“Malfoy?”