A post-HBP ficlet. Inspired by how they kept referring to Harry as 'The Chosen One'. . . . I do apologize if this counts as a spoiler, but worse has been printed on t-shirts.
"You are the Chosen One, Harry. Now more than ever everyone believes it. You are a hero. Why do you still fight it? Think of the good you could do, if you worked for the Ministry. We could help you, Harry. Protect you."
Harry sneered. "After all this, Minister, you think you can win me over, when you've even less of a chance than before? I -"
No one knows what Harry may have said next, for at that moment a British gentleman interrupted them. He was oddly more British than most, and gave off an air of one who didn't see sunlight all that often, or at least not willingly. He was wearing tweed and had strode up confidently, somehow unnoticed by the arguing pair.
"Harry Potter?" a nod. "I'm here from the Watcher's Council." He took a breath, and then spoke, clearly reciting from memory. "Into each generation a Slayer is born. One g-er, Person in all the world, a Chosen One. One born with the strength and skill to fight the vampires, to stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their numbers. You are the Chosen One, Harry, and we must act swiftly."
The two wizards seemed to agree on something for the first time, as they both stared at the man with matching expressions of disbelief.
Before any of them could speak up, a spirit materialized, a male figure who wore robes that were odd even by a wizard's standards.
"Harry Potter?" at this point, Harry couldn't help but nod, still staring though his target had shifted. "I have traced the midichlorians throughout the universe, traveling far, far from my homeworld over countless eons, and at last I have found you. . . the one who has the midichlorian levels that indicate his presence, who can bring balance to the force. . . Harry Potter, you are the Chosen One."
Harry was somewhere between confusion and rage. The creature in his chest was still recovering from the shock but muttered something about a few well-placed curses.
He glanced around and noticed another dozen people, largely wizened old men(along with one younger, bald man in a leather trenchcoat), approaching with solemn expressions.
Under the right circumstances, Appiration can be quite easy, even without a specific destination in mind.
Ten years later, Jerry Patter had made quite a name for himself as the premier American owl-breeder. His varieties had already proven their superiority in carrying larger and heavier packages farther than the next leading breeder, and was experimenting with carefully directed shielding spells during the fertilization process to make them less susceptible to curses. In the early days, he had feared adoring girls somehow tracking him down and recognizing him for who he was, but oddly enough the less studious portion of the population had demanded to be transferred from the Salem Academy to Hogwarts, regardless of weather it actually opened or not. The few that caught on, more often than not, simply gave him a nod and smile and tipped him extra for their purchase.
His immediate friends, those he trusted implicitly and knew could leave without looking back, he had evacuated soon after he made his decision. They were doing well. They had bought a small apartment complex and filled it themselves, living comfortably and with the assurance their nearest and dearest were safe.
He had never bothered to check and see what had happened back there, ignoring the International section on the rare occasion he did read the paper.
Even so, his mind would occasionally wonder what had happened to his old nemesis and the world that had to deal without having a Chosen One.