Note: Loose Cannon is also posted on An Archive of Our Own.


Harry was unable to find a cinema still showing 'Notting Hill,' but Brett and Douglas were happy to rent 'Four Weddings and a Funeral,' which he watched with them on Wednesday night.

'Whoever told you to imitate Hugh Grant was spot on,' said Brett. 'We used to channel him for American tourists in France, and it always meant bigger tips. Between that and your Light mojo, you'll absolutely slay them in America.'

'Speaking of tips,' said Douglas, 'be sure to tip generously over there, particularly in Muggle restaurants. In America they expect waitstaff to survive almost entirely on tips, so leave at least twenty percent.'

'Right,' said Harry. 'What else?'

'Americans are chatty. They'll tell you their life story at the drop of the hat and expect you to do the same. Although if they're wizards, they'll already know yours, which means they'll take it one step farther and ask intrusive questions.'

'Er, how is that different to England?'

'They'll ask about your feelings,' said Brett. 'And I hate to say it, but you'll probably get questions about growing up with your Muggle relations, and how that affected you.'

'Are you kidding me?' said Harry, aghast.

'No, he's right,' said Douglas. 'Americans are like children that way—no sense of what's appropriate to talk about, at least by British standards. But it's kind of nice once you get used to it.'

Harry looked sceptical, but Brett concurred. 'It's contagious somehow, and very freeing. After one beer you'll be perfectly comfortable spilling your darkest secrets to people you've just met, since everyone else is doing it. Women, at least. Men are a different story—there's a macho streak a mile wide over there.'

'Macho?' grimaced Harry. 'I don't think that describes me.'

'No, it doesn't,' said Brett. 'Wizards will give you a pass, because of the Voldemort thing, but don't be surprised if some Muggle calls you a faggot, which is American for "poofter."'

'Charming. Will that be before or after I spill all my secrets?'

'No, it'll just be a stranger on the street, or shouting it from a car window.'

'But just tell them you're an international underwear model known for wearing flowers,' said Douglas. 'That'll change their mind.'

'Don't forget the part where he has a broomstick between his arse-cheeks all day,' added Brett.

He and Douglas were attending the Cannons match following night, so Harry gave them the miniature containing Banthora. 'Are you sure you're all right staying here?' he asked her privately before leaving.

'I told you, it's fine,' she said. 'I might even have them freeze me so I can observe the Muggle side of the shop.'

She enjoyed the film tremendously, and Brett and Douglas argued about what to show her next. 'Banthora, if you'll stay the weekend, we can expose you to all the classics,' said Douglas.

'Don't even think of making her watch "Showgirls,"' ordered Brett. Douglas claimed he wouldn't, but the debate raged on. Harry had no idea what they were talking about, but Banthora seemed thrilled, and he felt better about leaving her there.

On Thursday he wasn't expected at practice until half past two, which gave him time to catch up on correspondence before leaving town. He'd only have one night with Fiona, and he didn't want to feel burdened with tasks during his trip. He also met with Marcus about Wizengamot business and looked in on Andromeda and Teddy, which meant he felt very accomplished by the time practice began.

Their afternoon was more fun than gruelling, as was the norm before a nighttime match. Gemma had mostly stopped complaining about the Silver Arrow, and everyone was excited about the three-day weekend. Harry was nervous about his radio interview, but otherwise he was looking forward to the change of scene, to say nothing of his night with Fiona.

It was cold at Ballycastle Stadium, and the players weren't permitted to cast Warming Charms, but they were offered league-approved amulets instead. Harry and Janet both accepted them, which drew jibes from the Chasers and Beaters. 'Ignore them,' said Janet. 'They're just jealous they lack our finesse.'

'Admit it, you don't work as hard as we do,' taunted Gary.

'You're right, we're too busy determining the outcome of the match,' retorted Janet. 'You just whack at things.'

Harry was grateful for the amulet, since it turned out to be a long night. He'd worn goggles all week at practice, but the brightly-lit stadium made spotting difficult for both Seekers. After more than three hours, Harry's energy was flagging, and so was Kieran Sheppard's.

'I don't blame you for hawking underwear,' said Sheppard. 'Even with your celibacy vow, it's an easier way to earn a living than this is.'

'True, although I don't see any banners calling you a "sausage peddler."'

'For what they're paying you, I'd change my name to "Sausage Peddler."'

'Sausage Peddler-Black,' quipped Harry, and they both laughed. 'Do you have plans for the off-season?'

'Yeah, I'll be playing in Australia.'

'Don't they have Seekers of their own?'

'They do, but English players are always a draw.'

'Because they like us?' asked Harry, puzzled.

'No, because they hate us. During the First Wizarding War, a lot of British players fled to Australia, and the promoters discovered that people like rooting against us. So there are several all-British teams, and we play exhibition matches against local Quidditch clubs. And against each other, of course.'

'Who do people root for during those matches?'

'Oh, there are enough Australians who like the British, so we still have fans. And Australia's very spread out, which means people will turn up for anything within easy travel distance.'

'Which of the other Seekers play down there?'

'Last year it was Jerome Wither and Sarah Trent. But I heard they're trying to get Gilstrap—apparently he's much more famous overseas since you punched him.'

Harry chuckled. 'He won't improve anyone's opinion of the British down there.'

'No, probably not. But that's the whole point, and he'd definitely be a draw. I can't persuade you to punch me tonight, can I?'

'No, Tuttle would kill me.'

'Yeah, I suspected as much. I guess I'll have to beat you to the Snitch instead.'

But Harry caught the Snitch, a full four hours into the match. Thank Merlin I don't have an early Portkey tomorrow, he thought during his victory lap.

He assumed Brett and Douglas would have already left, but they met him on the pitch, along with Brett's Muggle grandmother. 'These two wanted to go home, but I wouldn't let them,' she said.

'Quidditch needs a clock,' groaned Douglas, yawning. 'Oh, and congratulations.'

'Did you enjoy the match, Mrs Graham?'

'Call me Flossie, and the answer is yes. I'm mad for Quidditch—always have been, ever since my daughter introduced me to it.'

Banthora had also enjoyed the match, and she'd clearly bonded with her three companions. Professor Slughorn, however, had gone home early, to no one's regret.

'A bit of a snob, that one,' said Flossie. 'He asked the boys a few questions but decided pretty quick they were no one important. And he barely gave Banthora and me the time of day.'

'Ugh, I'm sorry,' said Harry. 'I invited him on the spur of the moment without realising I'd be subjecting you to him.'

'Don't apologise,' said Douglas. 'His monologue was hilarious—he'll keep us in quotes for years to come. I'm tempted now to preface all my statements with lines like, "As I was telling Everett Fawley, head of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, just last week ..."'

'"Don't leave hairs in the sink, you filthy slut!"' finished Brett. 'See? Pure comedy!'

Harry glanced at Banthora, who was laughing. 'Are you all right spending the weekend with them?' he asked the miniature portrait.

She assured him she was, and after chatting with his guests Harry took his leave. Tuttle kept her notes brief, promising a long teardown on Monday, and Harry went home without showering.

He slept soundly that night and took it easy the next morning, having been warned that the time adjustment would be easier if he were well-rested. Kreacher fed him a huge lunch of English food, clearly afraid Master would starve in the colonies, and he insisted on shaving Harry one last time. 'Master is an English gentleman and mustn't look scruffy,' declared the elf.

Harry tried not to laugh, knowing his hair was irretrievably scruffy, but he agreed that he shouldn't turn up for the interview with five o'clock shadow. Although he still had no idea what to expect, and he hoped Virginia could fill him in.

Suitcase in hand, he travelled by Floo to the Portkey terminal and collected the tickets Randall had reserved. 'You're on the fast track, Mister Potter,' said the clerk. 'Will you be needing a potion to smooth her out?'

'Yes, please,' said Harry, who'd been assured it was safe.

The clerk gave him a corked phial containing a soot-coloured potion. 'It isn't yummy,' he said ominously, 'and you'll have an aftertaste the entire time. Most people don't bother for less than three hops. But by the time you reach Greenland, you'll be glad you took it, and in Boston they'll give you a palate-cleanser.'

Harry held the phial as if it might bite him. 'Do I take it now?'

'No, they'll make an announcement before the first leg. You definitely don't want it any sooner than necessary.'

He thanked the clerk and followed signs to the gate marked, 'Points North and West.' A large sign underneath listed numerous cities, with sub-lists of the stops on the way. Nearly all the sub-lists started the same—Stornoway, Reykjavík, Nuuk, St John's—but then veered in different directions, and Harry felt lucky he had only one additional stop.

Five minutes before departure, the gate agent said, 'Attention passengers: Those taking travel-sickness potions should do so now.' Harry took the phial from his pocket and uncorked it, then made the mistake of sniffing the contents.

'Sweet Merlin!' he exclaimed, reflexively turning his head away.

'I know, love, it's horrid,' said an older witch, holding her own phial. 'But drinking it's the worst part.'

'What about the aftertaste?' asked Harry, wondering whether to skip the potion entirely.

'Not as bad, and it beats the alternative. Is this your first trip overseas?'

'Yeah, I've only been to Paris before this.'

'Oh, that's just one hop. But trust me, you don't want to cross the Atlantic without it.'

Harry looked suspiciously at the potion, then back at the witch. 'Bottoms up,' he said weakly before downing the murky liquid. 'Ugh, that's positively revolting!' he grimaced.

The witch laughed and said, 'I can see why you didn't win the Most-Charming-Smile Award. But the worst is over now.'

Indeed, the flavour faded and was replaced by an unpleasant but relatively mild aftertaste, which reminded Harry of Dudley's unwashed socks. Fortunately the Portkey itself was less jarring than usual, and they soon reached their first destination.

'Welcome to Stornoway,' said an agent in a thick Scottish accent. 'Next leg departs in five minutes.'

'Why not straight away?' Harry asked his companion. The Portkey ride wasn't exactly fun, but he saw no reason to delay.

'Your magic needs to catch up,' she said. 'It's all right after one leg, but if you take one Portkey after another without a break, your magic could get left behind.'

Harry stared at her in horror. 'Permanently?'

'No, a Healer could fix you up. But it would take a lot longer than just waiting five minutes between Portkeys.'

He stepped outside to a viewing deck, overlooking a body of water, and a map informed him that the Scottish Highlands were on the far side. The fresh air was bracing, but his mouth still tasted like Dudley's socks, and he was glad when they announced the next leg.

'Velkominn í Reykjavík,' came an announcement, followed by a stream of what Harry assumed was Icelandic. 'Welcome to Reykjavik,' it repeated in English. 'Five minutes until the Portkey to Nuuk.' No one stamped Harry's travel papers, since he remained in the transit lounge, but he was nevertheless excited to be somewhere new.

To Harry's surprise, the stop in Greenland lasted nearly fifteen minutes. 'Tourist trap,' said his companion, indicating a large gift shop. 'The local council requires a long stopover, in the hope you'll buy Arctic tat.'

Harry wandered over to kill time, and it was indeed full of Arctic-themed souvenirs. He was tempted to buy Matthew a soft toy, to go with the phoenix and unicorn, but he realised Fiona would come this way and, unlike him, she knew what Matthew would like. The shopkeeper recognised Harry and asked someone to take their photograph together, then insisted on giving him an enchanted model caribou.

'Prongs,' he said eagerly, pointing out the caribou's antlers.

'Brilliant! Thank you!' said Harry, touched.

The next stop was St John's, Newfoundland, which didn't have a gift shop. The sole passenger who had refused a potion was looking very green by that point, but Harry felt fine, other than the aftertaste. The view from the terminal was lovely, and he was thrilled to be on the other side of the Atlantic.

One more Portkey, and they arrived in Boston, or 'Bahstin,' as the gate agent pronounced it. The promised palate-cleanser got rid of the Dudleyish taste in Harry's mouth, and he felt shockingly good after so much travel. He said farewell to his companion, who was continuing on to New York, and queued to get his travel papers stamped.

'I'll be damned, it's Harry Potter!' exclaimed the agent, in a staggeringly American accent. 'What are you doing here?'

'Er, visiting?'

'Ha! That must be British humour! Will you be here long?'

'Only the weekend.'

The agent stamped Harry's identification papers, and the ink magically disappeared. 'Well, you're all set, Mr Potter. Enjoy your stay.'

Potter-Black, thought Harry, who'd gone to the trouble of getting new papers from Gringotts. 'Cheers,' he said, feeling very alien in spite of their common language.

After reclaiming his suitcase he emerged into the main station, which was a cacophony of American voices. I'm surrounded! he thought with alarm, and he wondered if he'd hear another British accent before Fiona arrived.

'Harry, there you are!' called Virginia, clacking towards him on high heels. She looked him over and said, 'I'm not used to seeing you with your clothes on.'

He smiled weakly, realising he was likely to hear the same line countless times in the future. 'Thank you for meeting me here.'

'Thank you for coming! I know I had to strong-arm you, but believe me, it'll be worth it.'

They chatted politely as she led him from the station. 'It's still morning here, so your hotel room isn't ready, but you can leave your bag at the desk and do some exploring.'

'That sounds good,' he said, looking around. 'I assume this is the wizarding district?'

'Yes, Underhill. Do you know how it works?'

'A bit. Apparently it's underneath a Muggle district?' He'd postponed buying a guidebook, assuming the local shops would have something more up to date, but Douglas had told him the essentials.

'Yes, we're under Beacon Hill, but you'd never know it,' said Virginia.

'Certainly not,' said Harry, looking up at the crisp blue sky. 'Does it ever rain down here?'

'All the time, and snow too. Originally Underhill was protected from the elements, and the top was charmed to look like the sky. But in the early 1800s the No-Majes started flattening Beacon Hill, since they needed dirt to fill in the harbour, and that messed with the enchantments.'

Harry didn't know what to ask first. 'They flattened the hill?' he stammered. 'By hand?'

'They had horses. But yes, with shovels and pick-axes. And they didn't flatten it entirely, so there's still a hill—just not as big.'

'Why fill in the harbour? I thought harbours were useful.'

'The No-Majes wanted more land, to expand the city.'

'And what about the enchantments?'

'It's complicated, and I'm not a Charms expert,' she said, a trifle impatiently. 'But the short answer is that after the Salem Witch Trials—which didn't involve actual witches, by the way—the local magical population decided to lay low.'

'Like, under a hill?' said Harry, unable to curb his curiosity. I blame Hermione, he thought.

'Exactly,' said Virginia, clearly resigned to answering him. 'And the city founders performed complicated charms to bring in natural light and fresh water, which they needed for agriculture, among other things. But the water was in channels, and they kept the weather fair year-round. Until the No-Majes got their shovels into Beacon Hill, and it disrupted the charms, causing normal weather to happen. Fixing it was impossible by then, because there were too many No-Majes running around, and the Statute of Secrecy was in place. And snow is pretty.'

'It is,' he said, and he promised to stop badgering her about history. They continued down cobblestone streets lined with red brick buildings and eventually arrived at the hotel, where Harry stowed his suitcase.

'And now coffee,' said Virginia. 'There's a cafe on the next block.' He followed her there, and they queued to place their order.

'Do they have tea?' he asked Virginia, looking at the large blackboard listing various countries and roasts. 'All I see is coffee.'

'Yes, just ask for it. And also pastries,' she said, indicating a framed menu on the counter.

He'd exchanged Galleons for both Dragots and dollars back in England, so he was able to purchase tea and a scone. 'Hot tea?' asked the witch behind the counter. Baffled by the question, he said yes. 'And what kind?' she asked.

Harry stared at her in confusion, and she opened a flat wooden box, with compartments containing teabags. Frowning, he read the flavour names: Blueberry Muffin, Christmas Cookie, Caramel Apple Spice, and other alleged teas. But finally a familiar name. 'English Breakfast,' he declared, relieved.

She unwrapped the corresponding teabag and placed it in a mug, into which she poured water from a carafe. There's no steam, he noted with concern, but he accepted it politely. 'You'll find lemon and honey over there,' she said, indicating a small counter near the wall.

What do those have to do with tea? he wondered. 'What about milk?' he asked nervously, no longer trusting his most basic assumptions.

'Yes, both skim and soy.' His horror must have been apparent, because she added, 'And regular milk.'

Next, she used her wand to fetch his scone and proudly served him the sugar-crusted triangle. Together with his steamless mug, it was the least English tea and scone he'd ever seen. 'Thank you, this looks great,' he said, a bit too exuberantly.

Virginia bought roughly a pint of black coffee and they found a table. 'Let's talk about the interview,' she said, as Harry attempted to remediate his tea and scone. 'You're not familiar with Chad Brewer, are you?'

'Is that the radio host?'

'Yes, but there's more than just Chad—there's the Brew Crew as well. So you'll be in the studio with maybe half a dozen people.'

Harry was having trouble imagining it. 'Will they all interview me at once?'

'No, it'll mostly be Chad and Nikki—she's his sidekick. Everyone else is more of a peanut gallery, so they'll weigh in from time to time.'

Peanut gallery? thought Harry, but he decided to let it pass.

'Now this is important: I heard your Weasley's broadcast from the other night, and you're going to need to lighten up. Because if you act all English snooty, you'll become a running joke. And they have sophisticated recording charms, which means they can replay your worst soundbite over and over, from now on.'

Harry felt a wave of panic, and he took a not-particularly-soothing sip of tea. 'So if they hound me about my Muggle relations, and I tell them to mind their own bloody business, that could become a ... soundbite?' he said, gingerly pronouncing the unfamiliar term.

'It could be anything, really. But yes. And remember, they're syndicated nationwide.' Harry nodded weakly, and Virginia said, 'By any chance, are you familiar with the No-Maj actor Hugh Grant?'

She was pleased to hear that he was, and they discussed more tactics for the interview. Eventually she asked, 'Is that what you're wearing?'

He looked down at his Muggle outfit. 'No, this was in case you took me through a Muggle district. I was planning to wear robes, if that's all right.'

'It's more than all right. And flowers, I hope? There's a florist right across from the hotel.'

He finished his unfortunate tea and scone-in-name-only, and she pointed him towards the main commercial district. She also gave him a potion to help with the time adjustment, with instructions to take it after lunch. 'I'll fetch you at four-thirty,' she said. 'Can you meet me in the lobby, or would you rather keep a low profile?'

Her tone of voice made it clear what the right answer was. 'I can wait in the lobby,' he said. 'Should I tell people I'll be on the radio this evening, or am I a surprise guest?'

'No, they've been promoting it for days. And it'll be interesting to see the ratings, since that'll tell us how much of a draw you are. But don't worry, we'll have those numbers in real time—I think they project them on a wall in the studio.'

Brilliant, I'll know in the moment whether I'm popular or not. 'Cheers,' he said feebly, and soon she was gone.

He spent the rest of the morning exploring Underhill and was recognised everywhere—not from his adverts, which hadn't come out yet, but for all the usual reasons. Hardly anyone knew he'd changed his name, or much about his Quidditch career, but his Light magic was well known, and he clearly had a reputation as a ladies' man.

'Don't break too many hearts while you're here,' joked the witch who sold him a guidebook.

Virginia had advised him to downplay his relationship with Fiona, and even flirt a bit. He didn't approve of her suggestion, but somehow he flirted automatically. 'I wouldn't dream of it,' he replied, meeting the witch's gaze. 'And I'm only here for the weekend.'

'That's plenty of time, from what I've heard. Fortunately I'm married, or else I'd be first in line. I'm a sucker for a British accent.'

She wasn't the first person to tell him that. The moment he'd left the cafe, a young witch spotted him and exclaimed, 'Oh my god, you're Harry Potter! Say something English!'

'I beg your pardon?'

She squealed in delight. 'Yes, perfect! Say something else!'

'Er, don't order the tea in there,' he said, indicating the cafe. 'I think it's an afterthought compared to the coffee.'

'Ahfterthort—I love it!' she said, in what he supposed was an imitation of his accent. 'I can't wait to hear you on the radio—that's why you're here, right?'

'It is. Are you a fan of ... the Brew Crew?'

'They're a riot! I tried to get tickets for the studio audience, but no dice.'

A studio audience—brilliant. 'Anyway, nice to meet you, and I hope you enjoy the broadcast.'

'Brordcahst,' she repeated reverently. 'I will!'

Consulting the guidebook, he visited several tourist attractions, and the locals clearly took pride in how old everything was. 'The Old Meeting House dates back to 1694,' announced the caretaker, waiting for Harry to be impressed.

'Wow,' said Harry, hoping he didn't sound sarcastic. I've probably used toilets that old, he thought, recalling an out-of-the-way loo at Hogwarts. 'How often do people meet here?' he asked.

'Oh, it's not still a meeting house!' said the shocked caretaker. 'It's only used for special functions now.'

Isn't that just a fancy term for a meeting? Harry wondered. But he feigned interest when the caretaker showed him the original register, inscribed with the names of Underhill's founders, and he signed the current register at the caretaker's request.

After visiting several more 'historic' sites, Harry decided they were a waste of time, and that it made more sense to go somewhere new. After all, this is the New World, he mused. So he ate lunch in a busy commercial district and peeked into shops before returning to the hotel.

His room was lovely, and he was sorry Fiona wouldn't see it, although the Muggle hotel Randall had arranged was also supposed to be nice. He opened his suitcase and expanded it into a wardrobe, then changed into robes and went back downstairs.

'Will you visit one of our local tailors, Mr Potter-Black?' asked the concierge. 'Your reputation precedes you, and I'm sure they'd want to impress a famous London dandy.'

That was all the convincing Harry needed. 'Is there anyone you'd suggest?'

The concierge marked the map in Harry's guidebook, and with that his odyssey commenced. At first he felt sheepish, since he had plenty of robes already, but knew Fiona would approve, as would Hermione. And Reginald Hem would never forgive him if he didn't return from America with a sartorial souvenir.

By the time he got back to his room he had several receipts, with promises of delivery to his Muggle hotel the next day. He'd acquired a boutonnière for his lapel, and after freshening up he went down to the lobby to meet Virginia.

'Perfect,' she said, surveying his appearance. 'I don't know how you pull it off—your hair is a rat's nest, and you're not even tall, but somehow you make it work.'

It was a short walk to the radio station, and the awestruck receptionist asked them to wait in the lobby. A loudspeaker was playing a broadcast, with one voice dominating. 'Is that Chad Brewer?' asked Harry, and Virginia nodded.

Chad's voice was mellifluous, yet brashly American. 'Nikki, he's almost here—time for your Pheromone Potion. This is your one shot at an actual English lord.'

'Lady Nikki Battisto ... I like the sound of that.'

'Nice try, but you'd be Lady Nikki Potter.'

'No,' said another voice, 'Lady Nikki Black. His godfather was the lord.'

'Talk about whiplash, going from Public Enemy Number One to Peer of the Realm.'

Horrified, Harry exclaimed, 'I'm not a Peer of the Realm!'

'You could fool me,' said Virginia, looking at his robes. 'But don't worry, you can do your "Lordships are bollocks" routine—I'm sure they'll love it.'

It's not a routine, thought Harry irritably, but he quickly snapped out of it. You have a job to do, Snitchbottom. Just man up and do it.

A wizard entered the lobby. 'Harry,' he said, 'I'm Jack DeVries, station manager—nice to meet you.'

Harry nearly winced when they shook hands. Sweet Merlin, that's my wand hand—you're not crushing a can! he thought. 'Nice to meet you as well, and thanks for having me on the show.'

'We're thrilled to have you! Did Virginia tell you what to expect?'

'I think so. She said Chad and Nikki will interview me, and then I'll hang out with the Brew Crew for roughly an hour,' said Harry, inwardly noting how odd it was to talk about 'hanging out with the Brew Crew.'

'That's the drill,' said Jack. 'Do you need anything before starting?'

Harry had used the loo before leaving the hotel, so he knew his current need was just nerves. 'Just some water, but I can conjure that myself.'

Jack raised his eyebrows. 'Are you still an assassination target?'

'Actually, I was more worried about Veritaserum, but I know that's irrational.'

'We'd lose our licence if we tried that! Feel free to conjure your own water, but you may want to do it out here if you don't want a conversation about it.'

Harry conjured a glass and filled it, and Jack led them down a corridor to the studio. Before opening the door, he said, 'Harry, you'll wait in the green room until they're ready.'

No problem, I'm a Slytherin. 'Cheers,' he said, entering the room, which was inexplicably not green. A witch with a clipboard told him it would be a few minutes and to relax.

'By the way, the numbers are unbelievable,' she said. 'You'll see them in the studio, below the audience window, but don't pay any attention.'

Then why did you mention it? he thought, but he just nodded and took a seat.

Chad and the Brew Crew were audible through a loudspeaker, and they'd begun talking about Voldemort. 'Have you seen pictures of this guy?' said Chad. 'He was a sideshow freak! Red eyes, no nose—he could have been the poster child for rituals gone wrong. "Don't let this happen to you, kids! Always ask a grown-up for help before summoning Beelzebub!"'

Harry chuckled, but the Brew Crew laughed out loud. 'I'm wondering about his thought process,' said Nikki. 'Do you think he woke up one morning and said, "That's it, I'm sick of having a nose. Time to do something about it."'

'Maybe he had allergies,' suggested a voice.

'Or it was winter,' said Chad, 'and he had a frozen booger and tried to curse it out.' Clearly they're not afraid of him, thought Harry with amusement.

'When he renewed his Apparition license, was there a checkbox for red eyes, or did he have to write it in?' asked Nikki.

'Or maybe the red eyes were to fix his vision, since he couldn't wear glasses,' said one of the crew.

They eventually cut to adverts, and the witch with the clipboard said, 'You're on after this. They'll announce you, and you'll go from there.'

A few minutes later the broadcast resumed and Chad said, 'It's time for our very special guest. He's here all the way from Merry Old England ... the man with the lightning scar, Harry Potter-Black.'

Pleased that Chad had got his name right, Harry stepped through the door. The studio was much bigger than Walburga's booth, and a large glass window showed an enthusiastic audience of maybe forty people. 'Welcome,' said Chad. 'Have a seat.'

Chad's appearance didn't match his voice, which suggested someone strapping and handsome, like a young Ludo Bagman. Chad Brewer, however, was balding and somewhat paunchy, with sunken eyes, and Harry recalled Lockhart's comment about 'a face for radio.' But his smile was friendly—and alarmingly white—and Harry thanked him for the warm welcome.

Chad introduced him to Nikki, an attractive witch of about thirty. 'Don't let her corner you,' said Chad. 'She's got a thing for British accents, and she's a known cradle-robber.'

'He was twenty-two!' she protested. Turning to Harry, she said, 'But what do we call you? Are you Lord Harry now?'

'God no!' he blurted. 'The lordship's a joke! I mean, it's real, but this is a wizarding lordship, and they're complete bollocks.'

After a comical exchange about what 'bollocks' meant, Chad said, 'Tough luck, Nikki—it looks like you won't be a lady after all.'

'Not unless you want to sound like a complete twat,' said Harry, and a blue light flashed.

The crew was laughing hysterically, and Chad said, 'Sorry, Harry—you can't say the T word on the radio.'

'Oh dear,' said Harry, mortified. 'I had no idea. It's just an ordinary insult in Britain. Are we off the air now?'

'No, it just got bleeped. And let me be the first to tell America that the Boy Who Lived is a complete potty-mouth.'

'Guilty as charged, although I'm not as bad as my teammates. Or my coach, for that matter.'

'So much for the English being proper,' snorted Nikki.

'Where did you hear that?' asked Harry, amused.

She stared at him for a moment. 'Chad, he's got a point. Why do we think the English are proper?'

'It's the accents,' said Chad. 'Ta-ta! Cheerio, old chap!'

'No one my age talks like that. Oh, hang on, my friend Blaise does. But he's the exception, and the French think we're a bunch of lowlifes,' said Harry, thinking of Sophie and Fleur.

'This is big talk coming from someone wearing custom-made robes and a flower on his lapel.'

'Chad Brewer, do not even think of criticising my future husband's outfit!' scolded Nikki. 'Harry, you're an absolute dreamboat in those robes, and I can only hope American wizards start copying you.'

'Battisto, I'm shocked! Normally you prefer someone a little more macho. No offence, Harry.'

'None taken. I was warned that Americans have a macho streak.'

Everyone laughed, and Chad asked, 'What else did people warn you about Americans?'

Harry recalled what Douglas had said about the American tendency to pry. 'Er, let me think,' he stalled, not wanting to give them an excuse to ask overly personal questions. 'That you're absolute pants at making tea. Although, strictly speaking, no one warned me about that—I learnt it the hard way this morning at a cafe.'

'I'm more of a coffee man myself, but tea seems pretty foolproof. Did they spit in it or something?'

'No, that would have required effort. They literally just poured lukewarm water over a teabag.'

'So it wasn't hot enough?' said Nikki. 'I have bad news for you, future husband, but you're sounding a bit demanding. Why didn't you just cast a Warming Charm?'

'I did, but it was too late. I don't know how it works, but clearly there's some kind of tea alchemy which demands boiling water. Because when I heated it up, it still didn't taste right. And yes, I know I sound demanding, and I apologise.'

With that last sentence he deployed a bit of the Look, and Nikki said, 'Apology accepted! Did you hear that, America? Tea is to be served with boiling water only.'

'Black tea,' said Harry. 'I have no idea how you're supposed to prepare Blueberry Muffin tea, which was one of the varieties at the shop.'

Chad studied him. 'Clearly you've come a long way from the teenage freedom fighter who lived in a tent, if you're worrying about tea.'

'Oh, we always got the tea right. Hermione laid in heaps of tea before we went into hiding. It got stale eventually, and we usually had to do without milk, but it was always hot enough.'

'Hermione?' said Nikki. 'Is that how you pronounce it? I always thought it was Hermy-own.'

Harry assured her it wasn't, and the conversation turned to the war. 'Here's the part I don't understand,' said Chad. 'By all accounts, Voldemort was insanely powerful, and yet you managed to kill him with a Disarming Charm. What happened?'

'A prophecy is what happened,' said Nikki, but Harry shook his head.

'No, it wasn't that simple. There were heaps of factors involved, the main one being that I'd become master of his wand without his knowing it.'

'Master of his wand,' sniggered Chad. 'Go on.'

'He'd also performed a series of ... protective rituals, which we needed to overcome in order to defeat him. That's what Ron, Hermione, and I did for nearly a year prior.'

'Is that why you broke into Gringotts? Because that took balls of steel,' said Chad, with what seemed like sincere admiration.

'Bollocks of steel,' said a crew member.

Harry chuckled. 'That is why we broke into Gringotts, although the details are classified. And yes, it was terrifying, but we really didn't have a choice.'

'Yes, you did,' said Chad. 'You could have given up and left the country. Or were you afraid of bad tea?'

'I couldn't have left. According to the prophecy I was the only one who could stop him. To leave would be tantamount to murdering everyone I still cared about, and letting England become a cesspit of Dark magic. Better to die than let that happen.'

There was an awkward silence, and Harry belatedly realised how intense he sounded. Chad was the first to speak. 'Paul, could you play a fart sound to break the tension?' he asked a crew member. Paul obliged, and everyone laughed.

'Sorry, I got a bit maudlin there,' said Harry sheepishly.

'No need to apologise. It's not every day we have a bona-fide war hero on the show. Our usual guests are a bit less distinguished.'

'He's right,' said Nikki. 'Don't we have an underwear model tonight as well?'

'We certainly do,' said Chad brightly. 'Should we bring him out?'

He nodded to one of the crew members, who cast a charm to reveal a previously hidden curtain on the rear wall. Harry felt himself blush, knowing what was behind it.

'Nikki, please do the honours,' said Chad.

'My pleasure,' she said, emphasising the second word. Using her wand, she opened the curtain, revealing an oversized version of Harry's solo advert. 'Oh, baby!' she cried out, and the witches in the audience were equally enthusiastic.

'Our listeners can't see it,' said Chad, 'but a certain English lord is wearing nothing but his tighty-whities, to promote a new underwear brand.'

'Ahem, lordships are bollocks,' said a crew member.

'Yes, and I can make out his lordship's bollocks,' said Nikki, examining the mortifyingly large photograph.

'London Underground,' said Chad. 'Available in stores nationwide, I assume?'

'That's the idea,' said Harry weakly, his cheeks still burning.

'You poor thing!' exclaimed Nikki, facing Harry again. 'This is the first time the public is seeing your ad, isn't it.' Harry nodded, and she said, 'Trust me, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Assuming that's all you, and not just a body-double.'

I'm not going to strip, he thought indignantly. 'Yes, that's all me.'

'So Harry, why did you do it?' asked Chad, his expression serious.

'Er,' stalled Harry, not wanting to admit that the pay was fantastic.

'I'm just messing with you! Why does anyone model underwear? And good for you, cashing in like that! Although isn't it just bringing coals to Newcastle, as the Brits say? I'm sure even bollocks lordships come with a vault.'

'It did, but the Blacks squandered most of their assets, and I'm expected to rebuild them. And this seemed like a good way to do it, particularly since I was already using the product, more or less.'

'Tighty-whities?'

'Actually, I'm more of a boxers man, but I meant underwear in general. I always wear trousers, unlike some British wizards, and these seemed like a high-quality product. And the boxer briefs in the photo are surprisingly comfortable.'

A ka-ching noise sounded, similar to a cash register, and the crew laughed. 'That's our "shameless plug" detector,' explained Chad. 'But you're forgiven, since that's the whole reason you're in the studio right now. Or America, for that matter.'

'It is, and my employers would never forgive me if I didn't talk up the product.'

'But let's not forget the ladies,' said Chad, and he revealed the second advert, featuring Sophie. They asked about her, and Harry spoke in general terms about their fling in Paris and the onset of his Light magic. He described the casting session—including his celibacy vow—and concluded with their reunion in London.

'Sophie's brilliant, and more than just a pretty face. We're no longer dating, but we're still on good terms.'

Chad leaned back in his chair. 'Okay Potter, it's official: You've got some serious game. You wipe a Dark wizard off the map before you're eighteen, inherit a lordship, glow on demand, and knock boots with a French supermodel. And we haven't even mentioned a certain "pure-blood princess." Does that ring a bell?'

Harry tensed, not wanting to expose Lydia, but Nikki eagerly told the entire story, with commentary from Chad and the crew. 'And they shacked up in his London mansion for a couple of weeks before splitting up for undisclosed reasons,' she concluded. 'Did I miss anything?'

Yes, everything, thought Harry. 'No, that's more or less the shape of it. We're still friends, though, and I wish her all the best.'

'Are you seeing anyone now?' continued Nikki. 'I'm just curious,' she purred, pulling her neckline lower.

Harry laughed, since it was clearly just an act. 'I am, but only for the past couple weeks.' And I'm madly in love with her, he added inwardly.

'So you're not on the prowl here in Boston?' asked Chad.

Harry caught Virginia's eye. Turn on the charm, she seemed to be saying. 'No, but I've seen plenty of pretty witches since I arrived,' he said, amplifying his Light magic. 'If things don't work out with my girlfriend, I may need to come back for a change of scene.'

Virginia nodded approvingly, and Harry settled into his roué persona. Chad and Nikki seemed to pick up on it, because the conversation turned to Harry's debauchery, and Chad even revealed an enlarged version of the drawing from Harry's drag party. 'You Brits are filthy, aren't you?'

Harry did his best to look sheepish, much like Hugh Grant, and it worked. 'It was probably the war,' he said guiltily. 'At some point afterwards I realised I survived, and that I might as well act like it.'

'Carpe frickin' diem,' said Chad. 'You limeys could teach us a thing or two.'

'I'm sure we could learn something from you Yanks,' rejoined Harry. 'For example, I suspect your coffee is better, to make up for the tea.'

'I'm sure there's more than that. Crew, help me out.'

'Teeth,' said Nikki. 'Yours aren't the worst I've seen—not by a long shot—but why don't the Brits bother with orthodontic charms?'

'Some do, I think,' said Harry, thinking of Lockhart. 'But it's just not a priority.'

'When are you going home? I bet we could get you fixed up this weekend, even. I'm sure there's a Magidontist who'd do it for the publicity.'

'No, my girlfriend made me promise not to.'

'That's a bit presumptuous, if you've only been dating a few weeks. Is she afraid you'll throw her over if your teeth aren't a little crooked?'

'I'm sure that's not it. She doesn't want me to fix my hair either—I think she likes the contrast with my robes.'

Nikki looked at him appraisingly. 'She's right. Tailored robes and sex hair are a great combination. But we have to send you back to England with some kind of souvenir. What about a tattoo?'

'A tattoo?'

'Yes!' cried Chad. 'Nikki, there's a reason I keep you around! Harry, what's your tattoo going to be?'

He wanted to protest, but far too many ideas popped into his head. 'I don't know, I'll have to think on it.'

'And drink on it,' said Chad. 'Have you tried American beer yet?'

'No, what do you recommend?'

'Believe it or not, the No-Majes have some good ones. Come out with us after the show and we'll hook you up.'

Harry found himself agreeing, and they talked about magical tattoos, which were apparently popular in America. 'Interesting,' said Harry. 'They're considered a bit unsavoury in Britain, probably because of the Dark Mark.' He explained what that was, to everyone's horror, and the crew showed him their own tattoos.

'There are moving tattoos, of course, and ones you can activate with a charm,' said Paul, who was clearly an addict.

'Light magic!' blurted Nikki. 'Can Light magic affect a tattoo?' Paul didn't know, but he knew who to ask and promised an answer that evening.

'You need a tattoo of a sexy witch,' declared Chad, 'And when you start glowing her clothes will disappear.'

'No, it needs to be classier,' said Nikki. 'He's a bollocks lord, after all.'

'Family crest, then. I assume you have one?'

'The Potters don't, but the Blacks do,' said Harry, smiling wickedly. 'The portraits would hate that. But we need to work in my parents somehow, and maybe Moony.'

He told them about Prongs and cast his Patronus, which dazzled the crowd. They also asked about Quidditch, although their ignorance was laughable. As the hour passed, Paul played several soundbites he'd made on the fly, mostly of mild profanity. 'Bugger that!' came Harry's voice at intervals, or 'Are you taking the piss?' At one point Harry actually said, 'Mind your own bloody business!'—when Chad asked for intimate details about Sophie—but everyone laughed, and Nikki congratulated him.

'Nice work, Harry. I don't think we've ever had a guest shut him up like that—normally that's my job.'

'Sorry,' said Harry, blushing. 'I'm afraid I have a bit of a temper.'

Chad, still laughing, said, 'I deserved that. But now you have to get a tattoo—no backing out!'

Harry nodded solemnly. 'Godric's honour,' he said, and the crew said they'd hold him to it.

When his hour ended, Harry departed to great applause, and Virginia met him in the green room. 'To use a No-Maj expression, you hit it out of the park,' she said. 'But are you really getting a tattoo?'

'Yeah, why not? It's safe, right?'

'If you go to Paul's guy, I'm sure it is. But don't get too drunk beforehand.'

Harry assured her he wouldn't, and she left him to his evening. He had half an hour to kill, so he stretched his legs before returning to the station and signing autographs for the studio audience.

'You were a great guest,' said Chad afterwards. 'We'd love to have you back anytime you're in town.'

'Cheers. I had a lot of fun—I was prepared for the worst, you know.'

Chad laughed and said, 'We really need to work on our PR, if a kid who's survived two Killing Curses feels like he needs to prepare for the worst before coming on the show.'

He followed Chad, Nikki, and most of the crew to what they claimed was a pub but looked to Harry more like a restaurant, and the host led them to a large table in the back. Within minutes they were joined by Chad's wife Kristina and several others.

'Harry, this is my boyfriend, Steve,' said Nikki, introducing a tall wizard. 'Steve, this is my future husband, Harry. I hope you don't mind!'

Nikki confessed she'd been with Steve for years, and that her persona on the show was largely an act. 'But you're completely sincere, aren't you?'

'Not exactly,' said Harry. 'To be honest, my girlfriend and I are more serious than I let on.'

'Oh? Have you been together longer than you said?'

'No, it really has been only a few weeks. But I'm completely mad for her, and now that I've won her over, I think it's mutual. She's arriving tomorrow morning.'

'I'm happy for you,' said Nikki, beaming. 'She's a lucky girl. And frankly, I'm glad you kept it to yourself.'

'Why? Virginia wanted me to downplay it to promote sales, but I assume that's not your reason.'

'No, it's not.' Glancing at Steve, she said, 'You need to keep a part of yourself private. When we researched you to prepare for the interview, I was shocked by how little privacy you have. I know the British press are partly to blame—they're notorious—but I think you've also defaulted to living in public. And that's not healthy.'

'I'm sure you're right,' said Harry, fidgeting with his serviette, 'but I'm not sure how to avoid it. I think living in public is just the price I pay.'

'Living in public is great,' interjected Chad. 'Everyone should try it.'

His wife rolled her eyes. 'You're a special case, dear. Harry, I don't know if you've heard the show before tonight, but Chad isn't shy about airing our dirty laundry. I've had strangers in the grocery store offer me advice on our sex life, based on stuff Chad said on the air.'

'Merlin, I'd never do that!' blurted Harry.

'That's because your sex life is the stuff of legend,' said Nikki. 'And I know that because of your impressive lack of privacy. Harry, you need to set stronger boundaries, particularly at your age.'

He suddenly realised they'd gone easy on him during the interview. 'Is that why your questions weren't as invasive as I was expecting?'

'You can thank Nikki,' said Chad. 'I was prepared to pry like I always do, but she reminded me you were literally hunted and tortured, and that maybe you wouldn't want to relive all that when you're just trying to sell underwear.'

'Thank you, Nikki,' said Harry sincerely. 'I've learnt how to handle nosy questions, but I had much more fun tonight than if I'd been on the defensive the whole time.'

'Chad's being modest,' said Nikki, and Kristina nodded in agreement. 'He knows instinctively when to hold back—that's why he's so good at what he does.'

'And tonight's show was great,' said Kristina. 'Harry, you really don't need to reveal more than you want to. The public's appetite is insatiable, but it's not your job to satisfy it.'

They paused to review the dizzyingly vast menu, from which Harry was urged to try the lobster roll, and they ordered several pitchers of beer. When it arrived, Harry declared it better than the tea, and the conversation turned to his tattoo.

'You don't need to get one if you don't want,' said Chad. 'I was only hassling you for laughs.'

'Like hell he doesn't!' cried Paul. 'I already sent your Light magic question to my tattoo artist, Josh, and he knows how to find me.'

'Honestly, I think I would like one,' said Harry, and he told them what he was imagining. Kristina, who was conveniently an artist, began drawing in a sketchbook.

'Don't worry if you can't describe the crest perfectly,' she told Harry. 'Good tattoo parlours usually have a Pensieve, so they can get the details that way.'

'Can you draw lilies? I'd like some around the border, for the Light magic version. And also a wolf on the shield.'

After several iterations, she produced two versions of the Black family crest. The first was the one emblazoned all over Grimmauld Place, with two black greyhounds on either side of a shield, with stars on the top half and a sword on the bottom. But unlike the crests at Grimmauld Place, the banner underneath said, 'Toujours Puissant.'

The second drawing replaced the greyhounds with a stag and an enormous mutt, and the stars were joined by a full moon. Beneath the moon was a howling wolf, and the shield itself was crowned in lilies. The banner underneath read, 'Mischief Managed.'

Midway through dinner, Josh, the tattoo artist, showed up and asked Harry about his Light magic. 'Yeah, piece of cake. It's the same as linking a tattoo to wandless magic—I'll just charm it to resonate with whatever you're doing when you activate your Light magic.'

Harry used his wand to extract memories of Padfoot, Prongs, and the Black family crest, and Josh returned to his shop to prepare the drawings. 'Come by in an hour, and we'll see if you like them.'

'How long will the tattooing take?' asked Harry, dimly recalling that Muggle tattoos took hours, or even required multiple sessions.

'Full colour, and two drawings? Two hours, tops.'

Josh left, and Harry drained his beer to bolster his resolve. 'This is a good idea, right?' he asked Nikki.

'That's your call, not mine. But personally, I think it'll look great. And you can always glamour it, if you don't want it visible on certain occasions.'

'Glamours are for pussies,' blurted Paul. Harry stared at him, and Paul said, 'Sorry, I meant to say "Glamours are bollocks." But yeah, they work in a pinch. And if you really want to wimp out, you can get it removed, although it'll cost you.'

'Is it difficult?'

'No, it's more of a tattoo artist tradition. Unlike No-Maj tattoos, magical tattoos are fairly easy to remove unless there's Dark magic behind them, like that Dark Mark you were talking about. But it doesn't take much courage to get a tattoo if you know you can remove it in a week, so tattoo artists charge a fortune to do it, and they'll hurl insults at you the whole time. It's kind of fun, actually—they post announcements whenever someone schedules a removal, so people can show up and give 'em hell.'

I should tell Draco about this, thought Harry, recalling how he'd removed his Dark Mark free of charge.

Harry enjoyed his lobster roll and also the massive pudding he'd shared with Nikki and Steve, which was called 'Death by Chocolate.' They told him nearly every restaurant had one, and he wondered if Fiona would like it. I hope she likes my tattoo, he thought nervously, but he'd already made up his mind.

He was thoroughly pissed by the time Paul led him to the tattoo parlour, which was outside Underhill. 'This is perfect,' said Paul as he steered Harry through an alley leading to No-Maj Boston. 'It's considered good luck to be hammered for your first tattoo.'

'That makes no sense at all,' said Harry. 'If I were any more wankered, I'd tell him to fuck the coat of arms and give me a great bleeding heart with my girlfriend's name inside. And she'd definitely curse me if I did that.'

'No, let's stick with Plan A.'

When they arrived, Paul brought Harry into a back room and Josh showed them the drawings he'd prepared. 'Bloody brilliant!' cried Harry. 'If Sirius is watching me right now, he's shitting his pants with pride. Although that would mean my mum is watching too, and she's probably beside herself. Sorry, Mum!'

As promised, the process took a couple of hours, and Paul gave Harry another beer to distract him from the discomfort. 'Josh could use a charm and you wouldn't feel it at all,' explained Paul, 'but where's the fun in that?'

'You call this pain?' retorted Harry. 'Try being Crucioed by Tom Fucking Riddle. That's Voldemort's real name, you know. Only the fucking was Marvolo, his grandfather's name. Unlike my grandfather, who was named Fleamont. Talk about a crap name!'

'Harry, you're doing great,' said Josh. 'Ten minutes and you're done.'

'Fantastic. What time is it anyway?'

'Almost eleven. Are you hanging in there? I know it's much later in England.'

'No, potions are brilliant. But you raise a good point—what time is it in England? Wait, don't tell me ... it's five hours ahead, so four in the morning.' An evil thought crossed his mind. 'Do you have a telephone, and can I ring the UK?'

Fifteen minutes later, Harry had a completed tattoo and was dialling a number he'd stowed in his pouch. 'What?' mumbled the voice at the other end.

'Draco!' boomed Harry. 'I'm in America.'

'What the ...'

'Yes! And I just got a tattoo. So now we're twins, only you don't have one anymore.'

Harry heard a female voice in the background. 'Draco, who is it?' she asked.

'Vicki!' cried Harry. 'Put her on!'

'No! It's four in the morning, you git. Are you pissed?'

'Yes! I wish I'd brought one of your hangover potions, because Merlin knows I'll need one tomorrow. But I'm sure they'll have something at the hotel, since it's mad posh. Selling out is brilliant!'

'I'm ending the call now,' said Draco. 'And you're a fucking idiot.'

'So are you!' said Harry fondly. 'I think you're my best mate now, if you can believe it.'

'Whatever. And I'll curse you if you ring me again.'

'I love you too!' said Harry before hanging up.

He paid for the tattoo, and Paul helped him back to his hotel. 'Well done, Harry. First tattoos are usually lame, but you really went for it.'

'I really did,' he said proudly, impatient to see it again in the mirror. 'Thanks again.'

Back in his room, Harry took off his shirt and admired his upper arm. 'Toujours puissant,' he murmured, taking care not to over-pronounce the 'pwee,' as Sophie had taught him. Next he directed his Light magic to the tattoo, and he watched the sleek greyhounds turn into Padfoot and Prongs. Moony's fur ruffled under the full moon, and delicate lilies wreathed the top.

'Mischief managed,' said Harry with satisfaction, and he drained a glass of water before passing out.