Author's note: I promise, it's only one more chapter until the WORF gala. Sorry (not really) for making you wait!

Harry wasn't surprised when the Sunday Prophet twitted him about Gemma, after he'd casually threatened to snap Barnabas Cuffe's wand. Technically it wasn't libel, since they didn't make false claims, but the issue was full of open-ended speculation, starting with the photo on the bottom of the front page. It depicted a glowing Gemma on her broomstick, with the headline, 'The Light Lord Strikes Again?'

The article began:

In what was supposed to be her triumphant home debut, Chudley Cannons Reserve Seeker Gemma Rees was ejected from yesterday's match after her newly-revealed Light magic interacted illegally with her broomstick. But the question on everyone's mind was whether she caught her glow from her notoriously promiscuous teammate, Harry Potter-Black.

Like most teams in the Quidditch league, the Chudley Cannons forbids sexual relations between players, and Potter-Black arguably broke this rule during his September encounter with two witches and teammate Darren Rogers. At the time, head coach Marjorie Tuttle reportedly had harsh words for the famously randy young Seeker but didn't penalise him, perhaps because of his near-undefeated record since joining the team.

However, she may be forced into action by Sunday's incident, which suggests Potter-Black and Rees violated team rules. Furthermore, Rees has been forbidden from using the Firebolt Ultra, due to its erratic behaviour in conjunction with her Light magic. Cannons representatives denied any prior incidents of glowing, which team observers confirmed, but with this new, glaring evidence of Seeker shenanigans, team management is surely investigating where Gemma got her glow.

Harry initially wondered if Rita was involved, and whether she needed another sharp rebuke. But the article didn't sound like her, and she had too much to gain from selling articles overseas to risk upsetting him. Indeed, she sent him a letter that morning, maintaining her innocence:

Darling Harry,

Just a brief note to let you know I had nothing to do with this morning's Prophet. If I wanted to make insinuations about you and Gemma, I'd depict scenarios involving sweaty intercourse after a too-short practice match, perhaps in the team locker room using Silencing Charms. And although Gemma isn't as photogenic as your other partners, I'd have made the most of her exceptional athleticism, much like your own.

I can't wait to see what you wear tonight, and I promise to help the society editor describe you in suitably glowing terms.

Yours devotedly,
Rita

Harry wrote Rita a friendly reply, which he posted with Lysander, and he had Orsino deliver Fiona's daily letter and gift. It was a floral arrangement, with a note suggesting she wear some of the flowers to the gala, if inclined. 'It's entirely up to you, of course, and you'll take my breath away regardless. But flowers in your hair, at your wrist, or anywhere else will give me an excuse to look at you longer, since everyone knows how much I like flowers.'

He intended to spend all morning answering fan mail and mooning over Fiona, but around eleven o'clock Lodie delivered a message from Draco, written on Muggle hotel stationery:

Do you have time for a telephone call with Vicki, or even a short visit? (I'm in Sheffield now, at a positively dismal hotel.) We spent the night together, and she's warming to my proposal, but she still wants reassurance.

Either ring me directly or turn up at the hotel before noon. Ask the clerk for the Executive Suite, which is apparently Muggle for 'overpriced soulless shoebox.'

Harry looked at the provided phone number, still marvelling that Draco had a mobile. He could easily ring him from Hermione's house, but he had a mad urge to see the unlikely lovebirds in person. Presumably Draco had concocted an explanation for rapid faerie travel, and Sheffield was on the way to Edinburgh—Harry's next destination. So he put away his stack of team photographs and fetched his jacket.

With help from his guide to UK Apparition Points, Harry travelled to Sheffield and walked the remaining distance to Draco's hotel. No wonder he hates it, thought Harry when he arrived. It was clearly built in the eighties for people like Uncle Vernon, who valued familiarity over charm. But otherwise it was fine by Muggle standards, and small only to someone used to a manor.

He went to the front desk and said, 'I'm here to see Draco Malfoy, in the Executive Suite.'

The clerk typed something into the computer. 'I'm afraid that's not the name I have on record. Not entirely, anyway.'

Bugger, he gave a false name, thought Harry. Recalling his own choice of alias—Evans—he said, 'Is it Draco Black?'

'It is indeed,' said the clerk, picking up a telephone receiver. 'I'll ring for instructions. May I tell him who's coming?'

Harry provided his first name, and the clerk directed him to the lift. 'Sixth floor, on the left, at the first corner.'

It was the top floor, and Harry walked down the low-ceilinged corridor, which had a patterned carpet and was lit by chrome wall sconces. He knocked on the door, and Draco opened it.

The room was actually pretty nice, with windows on two walls and a small sitting area, but it was painfully Muggle. 'I'm glad you could make it,' said Draco. 'I'm sure you remember Vicki.'

Vicki was seated on the sofa, and a tray on the coffee table held the remains of a fruit plate. There were two champagne flutes—one with a lipstick print—and an empty bottle in a water-filled bucket, obviously from the previous night.

'Hi, Harry,' she said. 'It was sweet of you to come all the way from London just to talk to me.'

'I told you, it's no trouble,' said Draco. 'There's a faerie ring in the woodland nearby—the one you call the Ponderosa.'

'Is that what they call it?' said Harry, playing along. 'How odd.'

Draco sat next to Vicki and directed Harry to an armchair. 'As I mentioned, Vicki is concerned for her safety, and she's hoping you'll reassure her.'

'I don't know if that's even possible,' she said, frowning. 'I'm not sure I can trust either of you.'

'I don't blame you,' said Harry. 'This is all completely alien, and the legends are horrifying, often with good reason.'

'Exactly. But Draco tells me you used to be enemies, and that you're allies now. Could you say more about that?'

Harry glanced at Draco, who nodded. Where do I even begin? he wondered. After a silence, he said, 'I first met Draco when we were eleven, when we both started school. As Penelope might have told you, I wasn't raised by my parents, or even in the same world as Draco. I grew up in Surrey, with my aunt and uncle, and I went to an ordinary primary school. But on my eleventh birthday I found out who I really was, and that my parents had been killed by someone Draco's family supported.'

Draco was still nodding, which Harry took as permission to go on. 'Draco's father wanted him to cultivate me as an ally and bring me round to their side, but it was doomed from the start.'

'By his side, do you mean the Unseelie Court?' asked Vicki.

Oh bugger, this is one lie after another, thought Harry, belatedly recalling what Alistair and Davina had said about lies damaging the soul. 'Honestly, that's not the term I'd use. I call it Dark and Light, and Draco's father was trying to lure me to the Dark side.'

'Like Darth Vader,' she said, smiling a little.

'A bit like that. But in this galaxy, and not far, far away.'

She seemed reassured that Harry caught the 'Star Wars' reference, and he continued. 'Draco was indoctrinated from birth about how his side was right, and that the man who murdered my parents was a hero.'

'What was his name?' asked Vicki.

'I won't say. It's not safe for you to hear, and even our kind avoids saying it. They mostly just call him "You-Know-Who."'

She sniggered. 'A baddie called You-Know-Who?'

'I know, I thought it was ridiculous too. Still do, frankly. But he was truly a monster, and Draco's family supported him.'

To Harry's amazement, Draco took all of this calmly and said nothing. 'You-Know-Who was missing for a long time,' he continued. 'Starting when my parents died, due to a sort of backfire. But he kept trying to return, and eventually he succeeded.'

'My father thought he could manipulate him,' said Draco, 'but he couldn't have been more wrong. Instead we got dragged into an all-out war, which my family was stuck bankrolling. And we were basically prisoners in our own house.'

'Draco, you've skipped a bit,' said Harry, not inclined to let him entirely off the hook.

'Yes, what about your scars?' asked Vicki, looking at Draco. 'You said Harry gave them to you.'

Harry took a deep breath. 'It's true, and I'm not proud of it. I was angry, and my weapon was more powerful than I realised.'

'Did you attack him unprovoked?'

'Er, no. It was two-sided.'

'Did he give you any scars?' she asked, glancing at his forehead.

'No,' said Draco, 'he got that from the man who killed his parents.'

'You broke my nose once,' said Harry. 'That time in the train.'

It seemed to take Draco a moment to remember the incident at the start of sixth year, when Harry was wearing his Invisibility Cloak and eavesdropping. 'Oh, right,' said Draco, with an unmistakably proud expression.

Vicki noticed it, and Draco immediately looked chastened. 'Why exactly are you friends now?' she asked dubiously.

Harry decided to help Draco out. 'He realised he was on the wrong side. And when I was captured, he had the opportunity to identify me, but he didn't. And his mother did something similar. Without them I'd be dead, and my side would almost certainly have lost the war.'

'What about your father?' she asked Draco. 'I gather he never changed sides, if he's in prison.'

'His sentence was unjust—he didn't participate in the final battle,' said Draco, but Harry shook his head.

'He'd given up by then, but he hadn't changed sides. And neither had Draco, really, but he didn't have the stomach to murder me—unlike his father. Which is what would have happened if I'd been identified.'

Vicki was silent for a moment. 'I don't know why I should trust either of you. You're obviously both comfortable with violence.'

'No, I hate it,' said Harry. 'I've sworn off violence for good. The most I'll ever do is disarm someone.'

Draco snorted. 'What about Gilstrap?'

'Oh, right,' said Harry sheepishly. 'I punched someone a few months ago. But he was a colossal dick and deserved it.'

Vicki looked at Draco for confirmation, and he nodded. 'Harry's right. And he didn't hurt him seriously.'

After another silence, she said, 'Harry, should I trust him? I'd like to keep seeing him, but I'm scared it'd be a huge mistake.'

'He won't marry you,' said Harry. 'He can't, really. But if you're open to something casual, there's nothing to fear. He told you his full name, right?'

She pulled a green and silver pendant from inside her shirt, at the end of a long chain, and Harry leaned in for a closer look.

'Don't open it,' blurted Draco. 'It's inscribed.'

'Understood,' said Harry as he examined the locket. It was exquisite, with a carved metal border and a smooth, green gem with a very tiny flower inside. He could tell it was wizard-made, not just from the craftsmanship—which would be prohibitively expensive without magic—but also from the faint protection charm he was sensing. 'Draco gave this to you?' he asked.

'Yes, and I love it. He says it's a token of trust, and proof that he'll never hurt me.'

Harry glanced at Draco, whose eyes were fixed on Vicki. 'It's no guarantee against a broken heart. But he won't harm you physically or abduct you into our world—or anything like that.'

'That's all I ask,' she said, looking tenderly at Draco. 'He wants to install me in a flat,' she added, blushing.

'Would you live there, or just visit?' asked Harry.

'I'll have to see. If he thinks this hotel is "ghastly," I'm dead curious to see what he chooses.'

'Are you scared it'll be too showy? His Manor certainly is.'

'The Manor was built with a specific purpose: to overwhelm and impress,' said Draco imperiously. 'Our flat, on the other hand, will have an entirely different ambiance.' Addressing Harry, he said, 'I'm picturing something like the smoking room.'

'Good choice,' said Harry. 'Vicki, I think you'll love it. But don't spend too much time there.'

She looked alarmed. 'Why not?'

'It's not unsafe,' he said hastily. 'It's just that you can't introduce Draco around, and it would be a shame if you grew apart from your other friends.'

'That's a good point. Is there anything else I should know?'

Harry considered the question. 'Don't go poking through his things,' he said, thinking of Draco's wand. 'I'm sure he won't have anything that could hurt you, but our world is private for a reason.'

She nodded sagely. 'Right. What else?'

'Tease him. He's a terrible snob and needs to be cured of it.'

'I beg your pardon!' cried Draco.

'No, he's right,' said Vicki. 'Your reaction to the hotel was hilarious. Harry, when we ordered room service last night, there was cling film over the strawberries, and he was downright offended. And "the champagne was insufficiently chilled,"' she drawled. 'He didn't like having to wait.'

And he couldn't cast a charm, thought Harry, recalling the frustrating summers when he couldn't use his wand. 'You'll be good for him,' he said. 'He needs to grow up, as do I.'

Draco looked impatient for Harry to leave. 'I think you've told her enough,' he said crisply. 'You should probably be going.'

Harry said his goodbyes and left the hotel. He found an alley nearby and Apparated to his next destination in Edinburgh. This should be good, he thought, walking the short distance to Douglas and Brett's shop. They'd told him it was in a Muggle district, and that the front of the shop contained non-magical antiques. But they'd enlarged the back room for wizarding clients, and it was even on the Floo network.

A pair of customers were in the shop when he entered, perusing the Muggle antiques. Harry started exploring, and Douglas addressed him from behind. 'Good afternoon, sir,' he said. 'May I help you find something?'

'Yes,' replied Harry, still looking away. 'I'm in need of a glockenspiel.'

He turned to face Douglas, whose eyes shot open. 'Jesus Christ, I'll be fucked!' he blurted, drawing strong disapproval from one of the customers. 'Are you having me on?' he said, in a lower voice.

'No,' said Harry, amused. 'I'll cast my Patronus if you like, but maybe in the back.'

'In the back,' echoed the astonished Douglas. 'Brett's in there—he needs to see this.' Reluctantly taking his eyes off Harry, he went to the back wall and pressed on an intercom. 'Brett, I've got someone looking for a glockenspiel,' he said.

'Oh, really?' replied Brett's voice. 'I'll be a moment.'

Facing Harry again, Douglas stammered, 'But, how? Was that really you last night?'

'It was. My girlfriend was busy, and Lisa offered to bring me along. We thought it would be a good disguise.'

'No wonder you got the robes right,' muttered Douglas, and Brett entered through a door.

'Christ in a sidecar!' he blurted, causing the two customers to leave in disgust. 'That was you last night?'

Harry repeated his explanation, and his two new friends stared at him with wide eyes.

'We didn't slag you, did we?' asked Douglas.

'You called me a breeder,' smirked Harry. 'And Brett said it was my civic duty to marry someone good-looking, since I'll be up to my armpits in sprogs.'

'That's not slagging, that's a statement of fact,' said Brett. 'But didn't Douglas call you a tart-munching trollop?'

'Yes, but so do my teammates,' said Harry, thinking of Janet. 'Believe me, I've heard everything.'

'Now that's what I call a challenge! But what brings you here? Did you come all this way just to make Douglas shit his pants?'

'I need an antique, believe it or not. A blank miniature. Do you have one?'

'Yeah, a couple,' said Douglas, opening the door to the back.

Brett followed, and Harry asked whether someone needed to mind the front. 'No, I can lock the main door from here, and we'll just charge you extra, to make up for lost business.' Harry stared at him, and he added, 'Just kidding. We have a ward to notify us if someone comes in. And anti-theft wards, of course.'

'That's good. It's an impressive shop, actually. Did you start it from scratch?'

'No, we bought it from a pair of old queens ready to retire.' Harry was surprised they could afford a shop in a central district, and Brent, reading his expression, said, 'Douglas comes from money. New money, but it still works like the old kind.'

'My dad was shocked by the lack of upward mobility in the wizarding world,' explained Douglas. 'He thought good exam results would be enough to get me a prestigious job somewhere. But you have to know someone, and I didn't.'

'Meanwhile, I have no ambition at all,' said Brett. 'I just love shiny objects, and this was a way to surround myself with them. Douglas thinks I'm part dragon.'

'That's because you are, especially in the morning,' chided Douglas. 'Anyway, Dad gave us the money to get started, and here we are. The wizarding part of the shop's all new, so we don't have nearly as much merchandise. But we pick up whatever we can, and we're young yet, so it'll eventually be a warren of weird enchantment.'

'That's how we picture your house, by the way,' said Brett. 'Full of creepy magical treasures.'

'Actually, it's rather bare. Everything valuable was stolen during the war, which is why I need a blank miniature.'

'Wait a moment,' said Brett urgently, and he pulled a heavy wooden chest from a under a table. It was locked, and he performed several complicated charms to open it. 'This is where we keep the Dark stuff. It's not our line of business, obviously, but sometimes you pick things up without realising it, and here's where we stash it.'

There were numerous smaller boxes inside, and it took him a while to find the right one. 'Aha,' he said, showing him a palm-sized oval of tarnished silver. 'Does this look familiar?'

Harry took it from him and studied it. He recognised the engraving as a variant of the Black family crest, and in loopy calligraphy were the words Toujours Pur. There was a hinge, and when Harry pressed a small button the oval popped open, revealing a smooth piece of what looked like ivory.

Brett put a hand to his chest with a dramatic sigh. 'I feel like I just witnessed King Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. We've never been able to open it.'

'Are you serious?'

'I am. We picked it up at auction, in a lot of seemingly useless items.'

'Not "seemingly,"' said Douglas. 'That lot was nothing but junk.'

'Except for that little treasure, which we suspected belonged to a particularly Dark and paranoid house.'

'Suspected?' asked Harry. 'Don't you have a guide to the old family crests?'

'We do, but that one was unreadable. It looked posh, with plenty of scrollwork, but there's nothing identifiable. Which is typical of Dark families, hence its home in the Trunk of Despair. Do me a favour, though, and hold it up.'

Harry closed the hinge and held the oval in his hand. 'Well, look at that—it's the Black family crest,' said Brett, examining it through a magnifying glass. '"Toujours Pur." I guess that was classier than "We fuck our cousins."'

'It is,' laughed Harry, knowing how much Sirius and Tonks would have appreciated the joke. Popping it open again, he asked, 'Is this a normal blank miniature, or is it Dark somehow?'

Brett asked Harry to set it on the table, and he cast several identifying charms. 'Unicorn horn,' he said. 'Illegal, as you can imagine. Although the Ministry turns a blind eye to antique sales, since any regulations would penalise the old families. And we can't have that!'

Douglas cast several more charms. 'Family magic, as you've probably noticed. Keeps anyone but a true-born Black from opening it. Not that you are one, exactly, but Head of House always wins. Scion of a lesser branch, renowned for his manhood ... brilliant.' Handing it back to Harry, he said, 'Nothing evil, though. Do you want to try it out?'

The room was lined with portraits, several of whom were awake. 'Will it work for non-Blacks?' asked Harry. 'I don't want to hurt anyone.'

'Try him,' said Douglas, indicating a grinning wizard. 'He's not sentient, so we use him as a guinea pig. Oi, Jasper! Are you up for a little adventure?'

'Am I ever!' exclaimed the wizard, clapping his hands. 'I love an adventure!'

'Cheerful sort,' said Brett. 'Probably goes with the lack of sentience.'

'Then what's Walburga's excuse?' muttered Harry. He held up the blank miniature and asked them how to use it.

'Easy peasy—just press it up to Jasper and invite him in.'

Harry did so, and the smiling portrait entered the miniature, shrinking to fit. 'By Helga, what a treat!' he exclaimed gleefully. 'You should try it!'

'Thanks, but I'm not a portrait,' said Harry.

'All in good time,' said Jasper. 'And I'm sure you'll love it, since it's no end of fun!'

'Clearly sentience is the impediment to human happiness,' observed Brett. 'Harry, you can evict him by pressing the miniature to the original portrait.' Harry did so, and Jasper returned to his frame.

'Jolly good!' he declared. 'Toodle-oo!'

'Perfect,' said Harry, addressing Douglas and Brett again. 'How much do I owe you?'

'Free of charge,' said Brett. 'It's no use to anyone else, after all.'

Harry frowned. 'But you paid for it. Can I at least reimburse you?'

'For something that's rightfully yours, only it was stolen? No, that's our gift to you. Might I ask what your plans are for it?'

'It's not for Walburga, if that's what you're asking,' said Harry, and he told them about Banthora.

'She sounds delightful!' said Douglas. 'Personally, I love a good spinster portrait. They often have a high degree of sentience, and they're chock-full of ye olde gossip.'

'That describes Banthora perfectly,' said Harry, resolving to tell them about Priapus Maximus Black. 'Have you eaten yet? If I can't pay for the miniature, perhaps I can take you to lunch.'

The two wizards looked at each other. 'If you don't mind having takeaway in the shop, all three of us can eat here,' said Douglas. 'Otherwise one of us needs to stay put, and that's just cruel.'

Brett led Harry to a nearby chip shop. 'Douglas kept his cool pretty well, but he's probably ringing my grandmum right now. She's a Muggle, of course, and a huge fan. Joins us for your broadcasts, even.'

'Oh dear. Sometimes I think the only reason I'm able to go on the radio is because I never try to picture who's listening.'

'Like Dolores Umbridge?'

'For example.'

'Vicious cow,' grumbled Brett. 'She hauled in my parents. Accused them of stealing the magic of true-born wizards.'

Harry was startled—Brett had omitted that detail at the party. All he'd said was that they'd gone abroad. 'What happened?'

'They were convicted. Wands snapped, and forced to pay a fine. Talk about adding insult to injury.'

'But you were able to leave the country?'

'It wasn't easy. Douglas had a passport, but my parents and I didn't. Portkeys are hideous, but you don't realise what a godsend they are until they're your only way off the island. We could have stayed here, of course, with the three of them living like Muggles. But we had no way of knowing how long the war would last, and whether they'd be able to practise magic ever again. So we left and tried to start a new life in France.'

'And how was that?'

'My parents were able to get new wands, which was a huge relief. Later, after the war, my mum showed her wand to old Ollivander, and it turned out he'd made it, only it was stolen. She tried paying him for it, but he refused.'

'I'm not surprised,' said Harry, recalling the peculiar old wandmaker.

'Anyway, they could perform magic again, and Douglas's parents let us stay in their cottage in Provence. Bloody generous of them, really. The natives didn't have much use for us, though. They were up to their tits in British refugees, and they don't like us under the best of circumstances. Helped us find jobs, at least, but nothing interesting.'

This was more detail than Harry had heard from a wizard who'd fled, other than the British wizards he'd met in Paris. Although they were the ones who stayed, he realised. So presumably they had a better time of it.

'It was hard for my parents. They hated accepting charity from Douglas, or from his family, rather. Meanwhile, it was a nice bit of role-reversal for Douglas's parents, since they were used to being scorned for not having magic. Not by my family, but by wizards in general. Anyway, they visited us once, which was a bit of a disaster. We'd charmed the cottage larger, so we weren't on top of each other, but it was still tense. Not least because Douglas's dad isn't keen on the whole homo thing. Not in a "you'll burn in hell" way—more like "I'm sorry you feel compelled to choose such a difficult lifestyle."'

As Brett described their challenging year abroad, Harry was reminded of his own war experience. 'It's funny,' said Harry after they ordered their food. 'Looking back, you remember the big events, and not the day-to-day uncertainty. But in some ways that was the hardest part. We were always on edge, because we didn't know what would happen next, and how much worse it might get. Which meant we were irritable and much less able to go with the flow.'

'Exactly,' said Brett. 'If we'd known it would be less than a year, it would have been like a long holiday. Yeah, we were working shite jobs, but we were still in France, and we'd get to go home in the end. But not knowing—that was the definitely the hardest part.'

Harry always attributed their own discomfort to the Horcrux, but he was starting to see things differently. If we'd only known we'd defeat Voldemort, he thought. Of course, it would have been devastating to know in advance who would die, but perhaps he could have cultivated acceptance and enjoyed his remaining time with those he loved.

'How did you hear about the final battle?' asked Harry.

'Douglas and I worked at a cafe. Filling drinks, casting dishwashing charms, and so forth. Our French had improved by then, but it wasn't great, and we could only pick up bits of what people were chattering about. But we heard "Arry Potteur" from all directions, and we asked what was happening. Turned out you'd broken out of Gringotts on a dragon.' Brett paused and said, 'I hadn't realised until then that I'd given up hope. But when it came back ...'

Their food was ready, and Brett resumed his story on the way back to the shop. 'That day was endless. After you flew off, no one knew what would happen next. We were hoping for a confrontation, but nothing else happened all day. Until nighttime, of course, when all hell broke loose. You were a folk hero in France, so they were rooting for you, but all we heard that night was bad news. My parents got discouraged and went to sleep, but Douglas and I spent all night chain-smoking next to the radio.' Brett chuckled and added, 'That was probably our biggest adaptation to French culture. Took more than a year to kick the habit, touch wood.'

For a moment, he was silent. 'When they said you died, it was the saddest thing I'd ever heard. They announced it in French and English, and in a truly surreal moment they played "God Save the Queen." Douglas sang along—we were both crying, of course. We should have gone to sleep before starting work, but we just sat there moping. And then they announced you were alive, and that Voldemort was dead. If they hadn't said it in English I wouldn't have caught it, because they were jabbering at top speed.'

Brett started walking more briskly, clearly enlivened by the story. 'We woke my parents up, and it was like a party. The radio was playing the most absurd variety of British music—the Beatles followed by Culture Club, and even Black Sabbath at one point. Douglas and I were dead on our feet at work, but everyone hugged us and bought us drinks.'

'When did you decide to come home?'

'We waited a while,' said Brett. 'A few weeks, anyway. Wanted to be sure it would stick. But things moved quickly, and when it was clear the Death Eaters were out for good, we set the cottage back to normal and took a portkey home.'

'Were your parents able to get their old jobs back?'

'Eventually. And they still had a house, thank Merlin. Douglas and I no longer had a flat, though, and we stayed with his parents for about a week until everyone realised it wouldn't work. So there was a Big Family Talk, which is a thing with them, and they decided to help us start a business—on condition we get the fuck out of the house.' Harry was startled, and Brett said, 'Well, they didn't phrase it like that. More like constant helpful suggestions to find a place with a flat upstairs.'

'Which you did, presumably.'

'We did. And as much as I slag his family, they've been tremendous. Thanks to them, I get to spend all day with my boyfriend in our warren of weird enchantment. Not to mention the part where we weren't homeless during the war.'

They arrived at the shop, where Douglas was helping a Muggle customer, and Harry noticed how his eyes lit up when he saw Brett. I hope Fiona and I are like that, even after we've been together several years, he thought. He knew it was premature to think like that, but he couldn't help it. Six more hours until I see her.

Douglas joined them in the wizarding half of the shop. 'I'm pleased to announce that we're rid of those massive andirons.'

'How much did you have to pay the customer to haul them off?' asked Brett.

'That's the amazing bit—they paid us. Thirty quid, in fact.'

'And you didn't use a Compulsion Charm?'

'No, because I was afraid Harry would walk in at the wrong time. And I still can't believe I'm talking casually about my new mate, Harry Potter-Black. Talking of which, are you really going to introduce us to Lydia Travers?'

'That's my plan,' said Harry. 'We were on bad terms until recently, but we seem to be friendly again. And I'll be meeting regularly with Marcus from now on.'

'Bad terms? Does that mean you haven't been to her salon, even though she promised you a standing invitation?'

'That's right,' said Harry sheepishly. 'But Hermione and Ryan have been there.'

Douglas set down his fork and said, 'This is a dream, isn't it? Or a weirdly precise Patented Daydream Charm.'

'Not a dream,' said Brett. 'And we know he's the genuine article, because he was able to open that miniature.'

'I can offer you Cannons tickets as well, if you're available this Thursday night.'

'Bloody brilliant!' cried Douglas. 'That's better than a Saturday, actually, because of the shop.' With a glance at Brett, he said, 'Can we bring Brett's grandmum? She's a Muggle and a huge fan.'

'You can, but the match is in Northern Ireland. Can she handle a portkey?'

'For Harry Potter she can,' said Brett. 'Will she get to meet you afterwards?'

Harry explained how guests came down to the pitch after the match. 'But I have one requirement,' he said. 'Bring Banthora. She wants to see me fly.'

Douglas looked awestruck. 'This day just gets better and better! Next you'll tell us you're posing for Blood Traitor.'

'Er, actually...'

'No fucking way!' exclaimed Brett, and Harry shook his head rapidly.

'No, not Blood Traitor, and it won't be nude. But I'm endorsing a new underwear line and appearing in the adverts. That's why Sophie was here a few weeks ago.'

They pressed him for details, and although they were disappointed the adverts wouldn't run in Britain, they were otherwise thrilled. 'It's as if when you killed You-Know-Who, you unleashed a secret reserve of fabulousness,' said Douglas.

'No, it was when he quit the Ministry. He was boring until then.'

'You sound like Rita Skeeter,' said Harry. 'I could also introduce you to her, if you like, though she's a viper.'

They were, in fact, eager to meet Rita, in the hope she'd publicise the shop. 'There's no such thing as bad publicity,' said Brett. 'And she's a gay icon as well, in an evil, poison-pen sort of way. She's like a female, magical Addison DeWitt.'

Harry had no idea who they were talking about. 'Oh my god, you haven't seen "All About Eve,"' said Douglas urgently. 'And probably heaps of other films. This wrong must be righted!'

It turned out they had a video player in their flat, and Harry promised to come over. All told, he enjoyed his visit tremendously, and he looked forward to introducing them to Fiona. Five more hours, he thought impatiently.

His next stop was Andromeda's house, where he had a standing invitation, and he was pleased to find Simon there. 'Harry, please excuse the mess,' said Andromeda, looking uncharacteristically disheveled, with feathers clinging to her robes. 'I'm re-feathering the bed, which is always a huge chore. Fortunately Simon is minding Teddy.'

Harry's tutor was, in fact, stomping about the room, with a delighted Teddy standing on his feet and holding his hands. 'If he weren't a Metamorphmagus I'd bring him to the Natural History Museum in London, to show him the dinosaurs. But for now we'll have to make do with books and models.'

Andromeda didn't object to Simon's implication he'd be an ongoing presence in Teddy's life, which made Harry wonder if their relationship had finally advanced. Simon had been hopeful on Friday, telling Harry that Andromeda had invited him to dinner the next night. 'I saw her on Wednesday, and after putting Teddy to bed we spent another hour together, talking and listening to records. If the circumstances were different, I might have kissed her, but I didn't presume.'

'Can't you tell her how you feel?' Harry had asked.

'She already knows. And I'm almost certain she feels the same way. We'll kiss when she's ready.'

Harry offered to help her with the mattress. 'That would be grand,' she said. 'Simon was helping me at first, but Teddy got in the way, as he does.'

She led him into the bedroom, which was a riot of feathers, contained only by charms. 'The bed was a wedding gift from my Uncle Alphard. Normally my parents would have thrown me a big wedding, and we'd have received an entire houseful of furnishings—not new, but from our relations' attics and spare rooms. But that never happened, since I married Ted, and our first flat had furniture made from bottle crates and cable spools. But Uncle Alphard gave us a marvellous bed, passed down for generations, and every few years it needs tending.'

'Tending?' asked Harry, wondering if his own bed needed something similar.

'Normally a house-elf would do it, but it requires various charms and a handful of fresh feathers from magical birds.' Harry looked sceptically at the mass of feathers, and Andromeda said, 'The trick is knowing which feathers to replace. Most of these are ordinary goose feathers, which can stay, but a handful are Augurey and Diricawl feathers, which provide the necessary magic. And it means I have to open the mattress and Summon them.'

'I'm sorry you didn't ask for help,' said Harry. 'I could have sent over one of the elves.'

Andromeda chuckled. 'I'd have refused. Re-feathering the bed was a tradition for Ted and me, and we grew rather fond of it. It's only every couple of years.'

Harry noted her tender expression. Not overwhelmed by grief, he thought, but enjoying a fond remembrance. 'And you asked Simon to help?'

Her cheeks coloured slightly. 'I did.'

'Does this mean ...'

She nodded before he could continue. 'It does. You were right. I'm not that old yet—at least not by wizarding standards—and Simon seems to understand what my life entails. He's fond of Teddy, and vice-versa, and we've decided to give it a go.'

You decided, more like, thought Harry. Simon had decided ages ago. 'Congratulations?' he said tentatively.

'Thank you. I assume you don't object.'

'Of course not!' But he understood the subtext. 'Are you afraid of how Narcissa might react?'

'I am. But I don't anticipate another estrangement. We've both lost too much, and I think she realises that.'

'Let me know if I can help,' said Harry. 'On a related note, Fiona and I are officially dating.'

'So I gathered, from the radio on Tuesday. I trust she's not upset about Gemma?'

'Not at all. She knows we're only friends.'

'I'm glad. And I look forward to meeting her again. Perhaps she can bring her little boy around.'

He was about to ask how to help with the mattress, when he realised there was a better option. 'Do you want me to mind Teddy instead? That way you and Simon can re-feather the mattress.'

To his surprise she actually giggled. 'I suppose that would be more appropriate. The whole idea was to get a fresh start, although neither of us said so explicitly.'

'Then that's settled—I'll take over with Teddy, and Simon can wrestle with feathers.'

He went to the lounge, where Simon and Teddy were still stomping about. 'We're swapping jobs,' he announced. 'I'll be on toddler patrol, and you'll help Andromeda.'

Simon raised one eyebrow. 'Did she tell you?'

'She did. And congratulations!'

Harry would have enjoyed hearing more, but Teddy wanted attention, so they changed roles and Simon disappeared into the bedroom. Harry spent the next hour playing with Teddy, never looking in to check on their progress. I hope the mattress didn't take long, he thought, thrilled they were finally a couple.

Eventually they emerged, and Harry couldn't tell whether their disheveled state had more to do with the inside or the top of the mattress. They thanked him for minding Teddy, and he went home to relax until the gala.

After his customary shave from Kreacher, he changed into his formal robes. The first and last time he'd worn them was to dinner at Lydia's flat, just one night before the Boudoir fiasco. Once again, he was struck by his resemblance to Robert de Montesquiou, the French aristocrat whose portrait had inspired the robes. But he wasn't worried he'd be overdressed—Fiona had told him that the gala was 'maximally formal,' and that he was free to pull out all the stops.

He'd ordered a specific boutonnière, combining white agapanthus with maidenhair fern. Together they meant 'secret love' and 'discretion,' and he'd ensured that neither were in Fiona's bouquet, since it would defeat the purpose if she wore them as well. He consulted the book of sartorial charms to finish off his appearance and went downstairs to collect Banthora.

She was astonished he'd located the stolen family miniature, and that she'd be in it. 'Only the most esteemed portraits were carried about,' she said reverently. 'Agamemnon Black, for example.'

Harry nodded, recalling her stories about the long-ago Head of House who'd ruthlessly provoked the Hundred Years' War and sold weapons to both sides. 'What happened to his portrait anyway? I've never seen it.'

'I'm told he spends all his time in the Star Chamber,' said Banthora, 'but of course I've never been.'

'The Star Chamber? What's that?'

'Good gracious, did no one tell you? No, of course not—you were never a proper heir.'

'Are you saying there's another secret room I haven't heard about? I only just discovered the inner wardrobe.'

'There is, but I can't lead you there. Your godfather should have done, but it's too late now.'

Not unless Padfoot can do it, thought Harry, and he realised he could use the miniature on him as well. 'I'll ask Kreacher,' he said. 'But not now—we need to get going.' He removed the miniature from a green velvet box and opened it, allowing Banthora to enter.

'Splendid!' she said, looking out from her new vantage point. 'And now, an outing!'

Confirming she'd be all right, he closed the miniature and slid it into his pocket. Then he consulted the invitation to the gala, which included instructions for getting there. It was in the middle of Hyde Park, in the Crystal Palace, which Harry had never heard of. 'It was built by Muggles in 1851, for the Great Exhibition,' Fiona had explained. 'Completely impractical, since it was made of glass and iron, and there was no way to keep it comfortable inside. They moved it several times after that, but it fell into disrepair and finally burned down in the thirties.'

'I think I missed something,' was Harry's reply. 'If it was moved and burned down, how will it house the gala?'

'That was the Muggle version. But wizards duplicated it when it was first built—right in the same place, only Muggles can't access it. And it's still there.'

He was still surprised he'd never heard of it, and she explained that as well. 'It's almost never used—it requires an absurd number of Warming Charms, even in October. And the owner is eccentric, to say the least. He only allows WORF to use it—otherwise it's a bit of a white elephant.'

Harry reviewed the travel instructions on the invitation and decided to Apparate. I can't exactly ride the tube like this, he thought, looking down at his shoes, which were sheathed in white spats. Fortunately, I'm a wizard, he smirked, and he turned lightly on his heel.