Buried deep within the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, the room was windowless and chilly. The only furniture was a heavy dark table with four chairs on either side. All eight were taken: four by the Ministry brass, and four by Harry and his friends.

Correction, friends and Malfoy.

The seating had been curiously mismatched, with the Ministry representatives perching their esteemed butts atop big black leather affairs, and leaving cushionless wooden chairs opposite to the guests, but Harry quickly got Tony to fix the obvious oversight. He now lounged in a plush armchair, unperturbed by the glares from across the table. The comfort had an unintended side-effect of making him drowsy, and he only half-listened as Kingsley, Robards, and Croaker took turns recounting the incident to Scrimgeour. Harry had no doubt the Minister had already been filled in privately, so the purpose of the exercise eluded him.

"In short," Croaker said, "these men nearly caused a catastrophe on a level unseen for millennia—it wouldn't be an exaggeration to call it Armageddon—that was only averted by the swift action of our two departments. I consider it a miracle that we avoided casualties. As it is, some of Level Nine's best were rendered unfit for field duty."

Harry straightened in his seat. "About that—I'd be happy to chip in for their rehabilitation—"

"No need," Croaker said icily. "We take care of our own."

Taken aback, he raised his palms in a placating gesture.

Robards cleared his throat. "This does pale in comparison, but there is also the matter of Potter's flying, er..."

"Knickers," Kingsley supplied with a straight face.

Robards looked like he had bitten into a lemon. "Right. The matter of Potter's flying knickers crossing the Channel, being observed from a Muggle fishing vessel, and causing a diplomatic incident with France."

The Ministry side went silent as though daring anyone to laugh. Harry bit the inside of his cheek as he struggled not to do just that.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Scrimgeour said at length, clasping his hands atop the table. "The evidence is damning indeed, but I would hear out the culprits before I make my decision. They have, after all, taken responsibility for their blunder, as it were."

Tony piped up. "Excuse me, we were promised—"

Draco interjected smoothly, "I believe I speak for all of us when I say that words cannot begin to describe how deeply we regret our actions." Solemn-faced and dressed in austere robes, he was the very image of repentance. "While we don't have memories of the event, the evidence is, as you say, incontrovertible, and we have no choice but to accept full responsibility. I only hope you'll take into account that we voluntarily took Unbreakable Vows as soon as we learned of our transgression and fought with no regard for personal safety until the end."

"I agree." Cedric squirmed as three sets of eyes and one obfuscated cowl turned his way. "Um, about how much we regret it, and everything." Tugging at his collar, he took a deep breath. "To be honest, I never imagined ending up in this position—I mean, I've never so much as Apparated without a license! But if the evidence is as damning as you say, I'll do whatever I can to make up for what I did."

Tony bobbed his head. "Ditto."

"That's all well and good," Scrimgeour said, his yellowish eyes boring into them, "but the fact remains that you were involved in a demon summoning, and the laws regarding that are far from ambiguous. I'm talking about nothing less than lifetime incarceration. We would be doing more than bending the law by allowing you to walk free."

Draco spoke again. "As I recall, you're still in possession of your wartime powers, Minister. If you were to issue a pardon, there would be no doubt as to its legality." He lowered his head contritely. "I understand if you have reservations, especially given the history of some of us present here. Myself, first and foremost. But if you look past the stigma of my family name, I assure you..."

Ah, so it was time for groveling. Draco seemed to have that well in hand, so Harry tuned him out and tried to recall halfheartedly which year Scrimgeour was serving. As the Minister who took down Voldemort's puppet regime, he still enjoyed great popularity and was probably looking to spin this incident to his advantage as well. Drawing a blank, Harry reclined in his seat and yawned.

"Are we boring you, Mr. Potter?" Croaker asked.

He blinked groggily, finding himself the target of several glares. "Well..."

"Don't," Cedric hissed, gripping his sleeve.

Harry yanked it away and grinned. "Kind of, yeah. Nice of you to finally catch on."

Robards slapped his palms on the table. "And this, Minister, is a recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class! I say he face the full brunt of the law, and we come back to the case once he'd had time to reflect on his crimes."

"I concur," Croaker said. "A stay in Azkaban might provide the attitude adjustment our hero sorely needs."

Harry frowned. "This has been bothering me for a while, but where's Louse? That geezer wanted to drill my forehead, and I still liked him better than you."

The clump of darkness faced him. "Louse has decided to step down as the Head Unspeakable and assume a more research-oriented role. The demands of the position are proving too much for his advanced years, I'm afraid... not that the internal workings of our department should concern you."

"Oh, but they do. See, I accept that we nearly destroyed the country and all, but I get the feeling you don't like me personally. This is a—what's the word—something to do with the Down Under..." He snapped his fingers.

"Kangaroo court?" Draco said. "For the record, I recognize its legitimacy."

Harry jabbed his finger at the grey-robe. "Kangaroo court! You're not even pretending to be impartial."

Croaker snorted derisively. "How perceptive. Yes, Mr. Potter, I don't like you, and I believe few would if they could see beyond the heroic persona you cultivate. I reserved judgment after learning that the stories behind your numerous achievements were quite at odds with the hogwash you fed to the press—"

"They were told what they wanted to hear!" he exclaimed, paraphrasing Scrimgeor's words from a while back.

"—but after meeting you in person, I can safely say that my first impression was correct. You are, in fact, nothing but a puerile sybarite toying with powers beyond your ken."

Harry made a mental note to look up 'sybarite' in a dictionary as he parsed the accusation for something he could deny. "That's rich, calling me puerile. You lot wear face-obscuring cowls and have 'Mysteries' in your name!"

Kingsley snorted into his fist, then tried to mask it with a cough.

Croaker bristled. "These are essential to protecting our identities. You haven't the slightest notion of the forces we defend ignoramuses like yourself from every day!"

"Easy, Croaker," Kingsley said. "He's just baiting you."

Robard's eyes glinted as he leaned forward. "Perhaps Mr. Potter needs a reminder that it is only my word as the Head Auror that keeps him and his associates from being carted off to Azkaban."

"And we're confident that you'll make the right decision," Draco said quickly.

Tony's chair scraped the floor as he sidled closer to Harry. "Mate," he whispered, "not that I disagree with the sentiment, but maybe we should let Malfoy handle this."

Harry waved him off. "Relax, they can't do shit to us. Thanks to someone"—he gave an exaggerated wink—"leaking the story to the press, everyone thinks we're heroes."

The Ministry side erupted in diatribes, which were difficult to understand since at least three people were talking at once. Robards unholstered his wand.

"Potter, for god's sake!" Draco glanced warily across the table before leaning closer to him. "We know it, they know it, but you don't just say it out loud!"

He buffed his nails on his robes. "I thought it would be more expedient to lay everything on the table."

"Well, my job, reputation, and livelihood are on the line, so I'll thank you not to antagonize the people who hold our fates in their hands!"

"Have you seen today's headlines? Saviors of the Nation. Hellspawn Falls to Britain's Heroes. And my favorite, Potter the Demonslayer. We're on the front page of every paper in the country. The moment the public catches a whiff of us being tried, they'll storm the Ministry and take it apart brick by brick." He grinned when he saw the four officials listening. "So how about we just skip to the part where you let us go?"

Kingsley sighed deeply. "I say this as someone who wishes you no ill: you won't make any friends this way."

He folded his arms. "Wasn't looking to."

Scrimgeor sighed. "Very well, Mr. Potter. I know when I'm beaten."

Croaker and Robards turned to him and said in a disturbing unison, "Minister—"

"Gentlemen, please." Scrimgeor raised a palm. "The Kneazle's out of the bag, and while their attitude leaves much to be desired, these brave men played a crucial role in subduing the demon."

Producing a scroll from the inner pocket of his robes, Scrimgeour unrolled it on the table. It was a document stamped with the Ministry seal. Everyone watched with bated breath as he picked up a quill, dipped it into an inkwell, tapped the nib against the rim, and flourished his signature at the bottom. Harry patted his pockets for his wand, half-expecting Hitwizards to rush in through the sole door; after all that bluster, Scrimgeour sure appeared to give up quickly.

Scrimgeour slid the parchment across the table. "This decree clears you of any and all charges relating to the demon summoning. I'm sure my colleagues will agree that lesser crimes like the prison break you staged can be overlooked given the extent of your accomplishment."

Tony jumped up. "Yes!"

Malfoy leaned over the table, his grey eyes scanning the parchment. His lips curled into a smile before he schooled his face into a polite mask and drew back.

"Then—then we're free to go, Minister Scrimgeour?" Cedric asked, sounding like he hardly believed it.

"Not only that, Mr. Diggory, but you should expect an owl regarding your Order of Merlin in the coming days. I believe that rather than downplay your deed, the Ministry should make certain it receives every bit of recognition it deserves." A leonine smile spread across Scrimgeour's ascetic face. "Since a person cannot receive the Order twice, we will come up with something even better for Mr. Potter."

Harry exhaled in relief. There was something off about Scrimgeor's smile, but after hours of tedium, he couldn't bring himself to care. "Cheers, Rufus. Lads, I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Let's grab a bite and a pint on the Muggle side, my treat."

"I'm in," Tony said. Free food was involved, so no surprise there.

"Not me," Cedric said. "I have to tell my wife the good news."

"Man, she clearly has the longer wand between you two," Harry said as he headed for the door.

Cedric paused mid-step. "She does, now that I think of it. What does that have to do with anything?"

Shaking his head ruefully, he patted Cedric's shoulder.


You could hear a pin drop in the jam-packed Three Broomsticks when Harry paused his story for dramatic effect. Shifting on the chair he stood on, he raised his hands, a glove covering his left, as though clutching the hilt of a sword.

"And then," he said, miming a broad sweep, "I swung my sword, and lopped off the foul demon's head in a single stroke!"

Cheers erupted, and cameras flashed in the crowd. Some of the more inebriated patrons banged their tables and stamped their feet. When Harry climbed off the chair, he was surrounded by admirers clamoring for a handshake, a kiss, or simply an instant of being in his presence. At a nearby table, Tony and Malfoy were likewise basking in adoration. Only Cedric wasn't present, having begged off on the account of Quidditch training. The chump wasn't fooling anyone with that excuse.

"Mr. Potter, Mr. Potter!" A starry-eyed witch in a Hogwarts uniform elbowed her way through the throng. "Won't you please sign this for me?" She held up a poster of him in Gladrags dueling robes that promised 'demonic performance' to anyone who purchased them.

"Why, certainly." Producing a Self-Inking Quill he kept on hand these days, he scribbled his signature in the corner and handed the poster back with a wink.

"Oh, thank you so much," the witch gushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've been a fan for years, ever since—" Her gaze darted over his shoulder, and her expression fell. "I—I'll be going now. Thanks again!"

Harry swiveled around to find Su glowering at the fangirl's retreating back. He smiled widely. The Unspeakables were up to their ears in dealing with the fallout, so he hadn't seen her beyond running into her at the Ministry once.

"Hey, you made it!" Schooling his face into a stern expression, he leaned closer to be heard over the din. "That was rude, by the way."

"She was underage," she murmured, pink tinging her cheeks.

Gasping, he placed a hand over his chest. "To imply that a man of upstanding reputation and morals like myself would lay a finger on a naive little schoolgirl! You wound me."

The corners of her lips twitched. "Shall I make it up for you?"

He grinned. "And how are you going to do that?"

She inched closer and peered up at him. "You tell me."

"I could think of a few ways." He leered, eyeing her slim figure. It was nice to see her out of uniform and in sleek casual robes.

Her dark eyes glinted. "Like?"

"Er—you know." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She quirked an eyebrow, not a hint of amusement on her face.

Had he gone too far? He rubbed the back of his neck. After all these years, he still couldn't read her. "Um, bad joke. Can we pretend I never said that?"

Turning away, she shot him an impish smile over her shoulder. "Pity."

His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. She melted into the crowd. He gave chase, only to bump into a rotund wizard in colorful honeycomb robes that made his eyes swim. No, wait, the pattern was actually moving.

Blinking, he attempted to circumnavigate the man's immense girth. "'Scuse me."

The wizard gripped his upper arm. Harry came close to shrugging it off before recognizing Horace Slughorn: out of breath, beaming, portly face flushed with drink.

"My word, Harry, it's never a dull moment with you. I knew you'd go far, but not even I imagined you slaying demons!"

He plastered a polite smile on his face. "It's been a while, professor. How are you?"

"Horace, please, my boy! I haven't been your professor for years. Truth be told, I was just speaking with your fellow alumni, one Cormac McLaggen. A bright young man, doing very well for himself as a saleswizard at Fairywells."

"Oh yeah?" he said noncommittally as he scanned the crowd for a raven-black ponytail.

"It's lucky I ran into you—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that you ran into me. I told Cormac I'd put in a good word for him with you. He has a business proposition, see."

Harry gave him a distracted look. "Who?"

Slughorn chuckled. "Dear me, I see I'm not the only one indulging in drink tonight. Focus, lad, focus! It's Cormac McLaggen, the rising star of the Fairywells company—he wants to speak with you about those Harry Potter figurines from a couple years back."

Perking up, he fully faced Horace. He had made a pretty Knut selling those after Voldemort's defeat. "What did he want?"

Slughorn's eyes gleamed. "Well—I wouldn't presume to speak for the man. Shall we?"

Casting a last wistful look over the crowd, Harry allowed himself to be ushered away. Slughorn huffed and puffed as he bulled his way through to a corner, where a vaguely familiar blond bloke in robes that resembled a Muggle suit lounged against the wall. At their approach, he sprang up, flashed Harry a blinding smile, and pumped his hand.

"Harry, looking good, old boy! It's been far too long. When was it—back when we fought those knobheads at Hogwarts?"

"Er," Harry said, furrowing his brows, "did you even do any fight—"

"Good times, good times," Cormac said, his smile not wavering. "Listen, you must be busy, so I'll cut to the chase. Ever think of going international with those figurines of yours?"

"International?" He snorted. "Barely anyone's heard of Voldemort—and by extension of me—outside Britain."

Slughorn shuddered at the name, causing his eye-watering robes to ripple.

"Voldemort's ancient history," Cormac said, waving dismissively. "News has broken over the continent about you offing a demon—we have a unique window of opportunity to hit the pitch flying! Let us develop your brand. No point in trying to boil the ocean by yourself, right?"

Harry glanced helplessly at Slughorn, who smiled and mouthed, "Rising star!" He turned back to Cormac. "Just so we're clear... You're talking about selling my figurines?"

"You bet I'm talking about selling them," Cormac cried. "Good lord, man, keep up! I'm talking about leveraging Fairywells' core competencies to penetrate those foreign markets!"

Harry snickered.

Cormac took that as an invitation to drape an arm over his shoulder. "He gets it! We'll do a seeding trial down in France, run it up the flagpole, then scale up going forward. We're going to be minting money!"

Harry abandoned his attempts to escape Cormac's grip and gave him a considering look. "For real?"

"'For real', he asks." Cormac sent Slughorn a look of mock exasperation. "What do you think I do all day, yank my wand? I can already smell the dosh, mate! We'll get your specky mug into every toy shop from here to Belgium!"

"Yeah... Yeah." He stared at the worn timbers of the pub's walls and instead saw piles upon piles of gold coins. "A figure of me, beheading the demon and striking a heroic pose—"

"No, see, the brats would love that, but their mothers would never buy it," Cormac said, drawing back. "Wand instead of sword, no blood... maybe fairy dust or sweets..."

He frowned. "Sweets?"

"Little Harry aims at big bad demon, says Hokus Pokus, and it explodes into candy," Cormac said, snapping his fingers. "A collaboration with Honeydukes... Demonic Drops—Hellspawn Hots—they will be exclusive to our product! Boom, cross-promotion!" He pumped his arm. "Am I a genius or what?"

"Dunno... That's kinda tacky."

"You've got to keep the target market in mind." Cormac looked around as though seeking support before leaning closer. "Look, mate, I'm talking thousands of G as a ballpark figure. Just put down your signature, and we'll get the Quaffle rolling. What do you say?"

"Thousands?" He swallowed, considered Cormac's shark-like grin, then smiled in response. "That I can get behind."

"That's my man," Cormac roared, slapping him on the back. "That's my man, Sluggy, right here! How about we meet next week to get our Snidgets in a row? Our bean-counters will crunch the numbers and draw up a preliminary contract."

"Uh, sure," he said, making a mental note to get one of the Weasley twins to translate for him.

Cormac went for an elaborate handshake; Harry somehow managed to follow along until completely fumbling it five motions in. Not to be deterred, Cormac stepped back and made finger wands at him. "Owl me if you need to touch base. Let's make some dough!" He then pointed at Slughorn, who awkwardly yet enthusiastically returned the gesture. "Always a pleasure, Sluggy."

"A productive meeting, wouldn't you say, Harry?" Slughorn said after Cormac vanished with a crack.

"Yeah," he said, a little overwhelmed. Now that was a bloke who loved his job. "Cheers, prof—Horace. I'll see you later, alright? About to have a get-together with friends."

"Anytime, Harry, my door's always open for you," Slughorn said, shaking his hand.

Harry rejoined the crowd feeling a great deal better about his financial future. Accolades were nice, but they didn't put bread on the table nor buy expensive merch. He would have to remember to send 'Sluggy' a hoarded bottle of Slovak mead as thanks.

He mingled with the patrons as he drifted toward the bar. Before reaching his destination, he signed three posters and two body parts, shook a dozen hands, and got his handkerchief stolen by a crazy fan who promptly Apparated away. Par for the course.

Madam Rosmerta was a whirlwind as she served drinks left and right, but upon spying him, she dropped what she was doing and approached with a smile.

"Evening, Rosmerta," he said. "Sorry about the commotion—even I didn't expect a turnout like this."

"Oh no, don't apologize," she said, swatting his shoulder. "I ought to be thanking you. The girls might whinge about being overworked, but they'll change their tune once they count the Sickles in their pockets." She glanced down at her wristwatch. "Your room's the first on the left, dear. I'll make sure you're not bothered."

Nodding gratefully, he began elbowing his way toward the stairs in the back. After surmounting about two yards in as many minutes, he sighed, and shrugging off the paws of the people around, Apparated onto the staircase. Many in the crowd turned at the noise.

He waved. "Thanks for coming, everyone! Look forward to awesome Demonslayer figurines coming out soon!"

Smiling at the chorus of groans and calls to stay, he ascended to the second floor and opened the first door. The private room was dim and cozy, and despite the crackling fireplace, pleasantly cool. Empty chairs surrounded an oval table in the middle. He leaned in the doorway and waited.

Tony popped in clutching a tankard in each hand and yelped as his drinks sloshed over the rims. Su traipsed up the stairs with Hermione in tow. Harry tried to catch her eye, but by the time he exchanged greetings with Hermione, she had slipped inside.

Draco also opted for the long route, pausing to wave every few steps and grinning smugly at the resulting cheers. Arriving on the second floor, he nodded amiably at Harry.

He barred the doorway with his arm. "Whoa, who invited you?"

Malfoy gave him an uncertain look before bristling. "You did, Potter, and I agreed against my better judgment. If you'd rather I leave..."

Snorting, he lowered his arm. "Just fucking with you, Draco. Get in there."

Malfoy glared, but entered, pausing just inside the threshold to consider the seating arrangement. Harry shut the door, drowning out the noise from downstairs, and appropriated a chair beside Tony. This left only one vacant seat next to Hermione, which Malfoy took with obvious reluctance. It was hard to blame him, for it had taken Harry himself some time to get used to the blue pixie cut and cat-eye glasses she sported these days.

A maid ducked into the room hauling a tray of drinks and snacks. He accepted his beer with a nod and took a long swig. As fun as it had been, recounting his heroics had left him with a parched throat.

Having distributed the drinks, the maid lingered at the door. "If you need anything else, anything at all..." She batted her lashes at Harry.

"Nothing for now, cheers," he said with a smile. He kept it up until the door closed, then sighed good-naturedly. His experience told him the furor would die down soon, at least to the point where he could make a public appearance without causing a commotion.

He regarded the gathered over the top of his glass. The Demonslayers, minus Cedric; Hermione, who had made time despite working on her bachelor's thesis; Su, who's role in the events remained unknown to the public. They were just missing Padma, who was traveling in Bolivia on behalf of her parents' company. It was morbidly amusing to think that she might have returned home to a burning wasteland.

Su sent him a coy glance before becoming very interested in her Gillywater. He hid his grin in his glass. To her right, Hermione was talking Malfoy's ear off. Harry tuned in, thinking that the conversation was bound to be amusing.

"...ability to shape its body as it pleases has enormous implications. Unlike ours, their society must be entirely free of gender roles! The biological aspects are no less fascinating. One has to wonder if they procreate at all, or simply spawn from clumps of negative energy like the Dementors..."

The glassy look that had been settling into Draco's eyes vanished. "Good god, woman! I don't know anything about their breeding habits nor I care to. In case you missed it, the thing was hell-bent on killing us until Potter killed it right back." He adjusted his lapels. "With plenty of help, mind."

"Well." Huffing, Hermione turned away. "About that—there's something missing from your story, Harry. You said you decapitated the demon with the Sword of Gryffindor, but how did it get all the way down to South England? Su mentioned—"

"Don't say it," he pleaded, putting a hand up.

Hermione frowned. "Don't say what? Was there really a phoenix?"

Groaning, he slid his glass aside so he could bash his head on the table. Hard surface (ouch). Cold beer. Timber walls. Crackling fireplace—blast it.

Flames burst overhead, and a warm weight settled on his shoulder, eliciting gasps. He sullenly eyed the red-and-gold bird. With its feathers not yet grown in, it was looking scruffy and not at all dignified.

"Happy now? This bloody turkey is somehow reading my mind. Every time I think of anything remotely to do with fire, it takes that as an invitation to flash over."

"Y-you're saying..." Hermione goggled. "It became your familiar! Harry, being chosen by a phoenix is the highest honor!"

"Honor, shmonor. It's just an obnoxiously garish bird." He picked the phoenix off his shoulder, causing it to squawk and kick, and extended it across the table. "Here, you can have it if you want."

A hush fell. The phoenix settled down and cocked its head to peer at Hermione with a beady eye. When she reached to caress its brilliantly plumaged crest, it warbled and tilted its head back. Harry couldn't help but snort at her peeved expression.

"Not very friendly, is it?" she said, withdrawing her hand.

Su's hand that also had been stretching toward the phoenix stilled. She worried her lip, a yearning look in her eyes, before timidly touching its wing. Her lips parted in wonder as her fingertips brushed its warm feathers.

Hermione pursed her lips and tapped a painted fingernail on the table.

The bird endured Su's attentions for a few moments, then wriggled free of Harry's grip and hopped over to rub its head against his shirt. When he sighed and gently pushed it away, it took that as an invitation to bunt his palm. Adoring awws came from the witches.

He glared at his alleged familiar. "I know what you're doing, and it won't work." Alas, all his stern tone accomplished was making the bird tilt its head and coo as if in puzzlement.

"This is unreal," Draco said. "A creature of myth, and it chose this buffoon for its master."

Harry flipped him off. "Like I told Hermione, you're welcome to it."

"I have my hands full with father's peacocks," Draco said. "Now those are majestic creatures."

He snorted and took a sip of his beer. The phoenix waddled down the table craning its neck at the snacks. It pecked at a slice of cheese, then squawked and shook its head to dislodge it from its beak. Upon discovering a bowl of chili peanuts, it trilled happily and proceeded to help itself to them.

Hermione leaned closer to scrutinize its plumage. "Is it the same one as Dumbledore's?"

"Nah." He wasn't sure how, but he was certain he was right. "This one's really young, and kind of dumb to boot. Came as a package deal with the sword, I suspect, but don't ask me how that works."

As though to prove his point, the bird sneezed violently, flapping its wings and scattering chili powder everywhere. He buried his face in his palms. What had he done to deserve this?

"You know, they say phoenixes bond for life," Tony said helpfully.

He groaned. "At least no one can ever call me Dark now. I could probably stroll down the Diagon Alley throwing Cruciatus Curses like it's going out of style and get a free pass. Reckon that's the biggest reason Dumbledore kept his around."

Malfoy grimaced. "Dumbledore was no paragon of virtue they made him out to be, that's for certain. Perhaps the phoenixes' reputation for picking exemplary masters is undeserved."

He crossed his arms. "Hey, I'm plenty exemplary."

"Very deep down," Su said to a round of chuckles. She covered her smile with a hand when he sent her a mock glare.

Hermione harrumphed. "You're taking this too lightly. It's not every day that a legendary being finds someone worthy to follow." She conveniently didn't mention that the being was currently covered beak to talon in red powder and did not look very legendary at all. "Does it have a name? You can't keep treating it like some common animal."

Harry shrugged. "I suppose I should give it one. Er, let's see..."

"You're going to name it right now?" Hermione wrung her hands. "Harry, wait—this is a momentous occasion, there hasn't been a phoenix in Britain since Dumbledore's—you have to really put some thought into this. Oh, I wish I brought my copy of Cadmus's Cognomen Compendium, it's always so snooty, but I'm sure it would've suggested something befitting a—"

He snapped his fingers. "Firo."

Hermione got red in the face. "You can't just take 'fire' and change one letter—"

"Hey, my pet, my rules. Firo it is." The pet in question continued scarfing down peanuts without any acknowledgment. "Don't worry, there's deep symbolism behind the name. No, really. It means she's destined to transform into a cute girl."

"Transform into... What?" Hermione appeared to be hyperventilating. Su silently filled a glass with conjured water and handed it to her.

Tony eyed the newly christened Firo with a grin. "One can only hope."

Harry pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at Tony. "Keep your paws off the bird, man. I'm watching you."

As Tony sputtered indignantly, Harry stuck his left hand under the table to adjust his slipping glove. He cast his gaze around as he absently scratched the baby-sized fingers growing at the end of the stubs. Strangers thought the glove was for vanity, which suited him just fine, but friends deserved to know. Perhaps even Malfoy did.

Leaning forward, he wagged his eyebrows. "Hey guys, wanna see something freaky?"