Later that day, Harry and Hermione went to a muggle tea-room in London to recover from the day's exertions. It was rather grand; a high, ornate ceiling, tall, snug wooden benches, smartly dressed waiters, and a tempting variety of cakes on display at the counter. Hermione ordered a pot of tea and a plate of scones with cream and strawberry jam for the pair of them. Harry also ordered a slice of Esterházy cake, a Hungarian speciality he'd grown fond of in the years after leaving Hogwarts before returning to marry Ginny, when he worked as a magical rent boy on the streets of Budapest. But that's another fan-fiction altogether. The pot of tea arrived; Harry strolled over to the stand where a selection of the day's newspapers were provided, and returned to the table with "The Times". He was immediately struck by a small story in the corner of the front page. Its title was "Alohomora Closet!"

"It says here Dumbledore's gay!"

"Oh, that's interesting," replied Hermione. "That would explain the shelves full of Eurovision Song Contest memorabilia in his office. Who's said he's gay?"

"J.K. Rowling, at some thing in America. Apparently she also said that Neville married some boring person. What's the Eurovision Song Contest?" he said, passing the newspaper over to Hermione.

"Oh, it's a muggle thing. My parents watch it, it comes on muggle television once a year. Every country in Europe sends a pop song and the public gets to vote for the winner. It's a load of shit," she said, with a dismissive nod of the head. Harry thought it sounded rather interesting. Memories of his days as an undercover magical rent boy on the streets of Budapest began to reawaken. But that really is another fan-fiction altogether. It really is. I won't mention it again. Well, I might.

"But you know, it doesn't really answer the question the kid asked," said Hermione, now that she'd read the full article. "The kid in the audience asked if Dumbledore ever found his true love, and we still don't know. The thing with Grindelwald sounds very much like an unrequited, one way thing. Grindelwald probably wasn't even gay."

"There's something about those straight emo boys," said Harry, "they get their hooks in you and you just can't let go. There's something about the darkness, the intensity, the redeemability, the vulnerability, the wounded little animal inside the angry outer shell. I can imagine how Dumbledore must have felt."

"What?" said Hermione, somewhat startled and bewildered.

"Oh, nothing," said Harry, "I was just reminiscing about my time as a rent boy on the streets of Budapest. I shan't mention it again."

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that." said Hermione. "How is your bum these days? Recovered?"

But Harry wasn't listening any more. His mind had wandered onto another possibility.

"You know, I wonder if that spell actually works?"
"Which one? You don't mean the Alohomora one?"
"Yeah. I know the copy editor probably only meant it as a joke, and it's actually a really clever one, but do you think it might actually work? Do you think we should give it a try?"

"I don't know whether we're in that place, whether we should risk it. I mean, if it did actually work... it would open a whole can of worms about the ethics of outing people. What exact effect would it have? We don't know!" Hermione was concerned, but more than that, fascinated. Her mind was boggling the sociological effects of performing such a spell.

"Sod that," said Harry decisively, whipping out his 11 inches of wood and grasping the shaft firmly in both hands. It reminded him of his days as a magical rent boy on the streets of Budapest. "Alohomora Closet!"

The effect was immediate. The café doors flew open and a dramatic gust of wind blew through the room, followed by a brief blast of disco music; then the scene dissolved, and Harry found himself in darkness. It was a sort of warm, squishy darkness. And if you think that sounds ominous, you'll probably enjoy the rest of this story very much. It's full of cake, hotpants and Republican senators. Reminds me of my time as a rent boy on the streets of Budapest. Ah, the days...