It felt odd to simply leave after three solid days at the stadium. Harry would have loved to go straight to Fiona's, but it would be rude not to go to Seeker's night out, so there he went. His arrival at the bar caused a minor uproar, but he quickly dashed to the private room where the Seekers had gathered.

'By Jove, it's tonight's losing Seeker!' said Carl Wainwright. 'Will you sit down, or shall I send for a camp bed?'

'A chair is fine,' said Harry, taking a seat. He accepted a pint from Kieran Sheppard and asked, 'Did I miss anything?'

'About a dozen toasts in your honour,' said Sheppard. 'Not yours exclusively, of course, but all you poor buggers out there.'

'And to observational magic,' said Trevor Underhill, raising his glass. 'You should really demand a kickback from the satchel vendors of Great Britain.'

'Yes, because Potter doesn't earn enough,' said Gilstrap. 'Well done, by the way—although I really wish you'd chosen another week to finally lose.'

Harry chuckled, knowing his loss had cost the Magpies the cup. 'I swear, I did my best,' he told them. The other Seekers commiserated, swapping tales of high-stakes matches they'd lost due to the perversity of the Snitch.

'What was it like?' asked Isla Preston. 'The longest match I ever played was eight hours.'

He shared his impressions, and they laughed when he became emotional. 'It wasn't just me,' said Harry, blinking away tears. 'By the end we were all blubbering.'

'You won't be satisfied until you've got all of us practising the Light Arts, will you?' said Preston.

'Probably not. They really are brilliant.'

The beer sapped what remained of his energy, so he excused himself and went to Fiona's, hoping he'd perk up in her presence. But the first thing he did was flop down on a sofa.

She knelt down and kissed his forehead. 'Are you hungry, my love?'

'Famished. But I can ask Kreacher to send something.'

'Nonsense, I can warm up leftovers. Is lasagna all right?'

'It sounds heavenly,' said Harry, not moving. Fiona took care of him that evening, and he enjoyed a long, chaste soak in the bath. But when he began dressing to go home, she stopped him.

'Stay here,' she said, pulling him towards her bedroom.

'But what about Matthew?' Harry hadn't yet stayed overnight, for fear of disrupting Matthew's morning routine.

'I've started going to his room in the morning, instead of the other way round, and we can use charms to keep him from walking in on us. That's what Rob and I did, after all.'

Harry was too relaxed to protest, and he followed her into bed. 'Thank you,' he murmured, curling into her. 'Merlin, I missed you.'

'I missed you too. But I'm so proud of you!'

Basking in her affection, he drifted to sleep, hardly stirring until morning. When he awoke, at first he wasn't sure where he was. But when he turned and saw Fiona, a profound happiness settled into him. More than happiness—it was a sort of rightness he hadn't felt since he was with Helena, or even Ginny.

He tried initiating sex, but Fiona turned him down. 'No, he's probably awake. I should go for our morning cuddle.'

'What about my morning cuddle?' joked Harry, but he didn't stop her. Instead he kissed her goodbye and slipped out when she disappeared into Matthew's bedroom.

He returned to Grimmauld Place, and Kreacher was thrilled to discover he'd not yet eaten breakfast. 'Master will eat in the dining room!' he announced, and Lodie's eager expression hinted at a surprise. Indeed, Harry gasped when he saw how the room was decorated: a glittering ice sculpture shaped like the League Cup sat atop the table, surrounded by flowers, and fluttering Snitches hung in the air.

'This is lovely!' he exclaimed. 'But you know I didn't win, right?'

'Master brought honour to House Black,' declared Kreacher. 'They said so on the radio.'

Kreacher listens to the radio? thought Harry, and for an instant he worried about his own broadcasts. 'Really, they mentioned House Black?'

'Yes, Master! They said Master should fly for England, only Master has too many other responsibilities as a lord of the Wizengamot.'

Harry sighed. They're probably right, he thought, having reached a similar conclusion. But he still hadn't decided, and it was weighing on him. On an impulse, he said, 'Kreacher, what do you think I should do? I haven't yet been offered a spot on the national team, but most of the other Seekers think I will be, either as starter or reserve.'

Kreacher's normally droopy ears shot out like ramrods. Blinking rapidly, as if to banish tears, he said, 'Master is asking Kreacher for advice?'

'Er, yeah,' said Harry, embarrassed by the elf's reaction. 'On the one hand, I love Quidditch, and flying for England would enhance my standing at Pratt's, which would help me politically. But it's a huge time commitment, and I really don't need the attention. Not to mention I'd be taking the spot from someone else.'

Scrunching his face in thought, Kreacher said, 'Master might get injured. Kreacher was exceedingly helpful when Master broke his pelvis.'

'That's true,' said Harry slowly. 'Although I can't say I'd list getting injured amongst the positives. It did hurt, after all.'

'Yes, Master,' said the elf, without the slightest remorse. 'Master would also travel and require a valet.'

An alarming image popped into Harry's mind, in which he and Fiona shared a hotel room somewhere, with Kreacher sleeping under the bed. 'Have you travelled much?' asked Harry.

'Kreacher spent many years abroad with Master Sirius Apollo.'

'In his room?'

'No, Master, in the elf quarters. Every suitable hotel has them.'

The scenario in Harry's mind improved considerably. That doesn't sound so bad, having an elf around to sort out inconveniences, he thought, and a plan took shape. 'I'm going to America this winter,' he said. 'Would you like to accompany me?'

'Yes, Master! With pleasure!' exclaimed Kreacher, actually bouncing on the balls of his feet. 'Kreacher will be at Master's beck and call!'

Harry had immediate misgivings, but he was touched by Kreacher's joy. 'One question: How will you travel? Do house-elves use portkeys?'

Kreacher couldn't hide his disdain, and for a moment Harry was reminded of his former hostility. 'House-elves have no need of portkeys! Kreacher will travel by Elfway.'

'Elfway?' asked Harry. 'What's that?'

'It is how house-elves cross large bodies of water. Far better than how wizards travel,' said Kreacher with contempt. But then he inhaled sharply, slapped a hand over his mouth, and vanished with a loud crack.

Harry looked at Lodie in astonishment. 'Er, what just happened?'

The equally-shocked young elf said, 'Kreacher was very naughty. House-elves must never criticise wizard magic. It is the ironclad rule.'

Lodie's tennis-ball eyes—so like her father's—and her use of the word 'iron' filled Harry with alarm. 'Don't tell me he needs to punish himself!'

There was a long silence, then Lodie shook her head.

Baffled, Harry said, 'Does that mean he's not punishing himself, or are you just not telling me?'

'Yes, Master!' she said brightly, and Harry's fear increased.

Realising he was wasting precious time, Harry called Kreacher, who returned with a loud crack. But in a radical departure, he threw himself at Harry's feet and a switch appeared in Harry's hand.

'Master will punish Kreacher!' said the cowering elf.

'God, no!' cried Harry, casting the switch aside. Kreacher flinched, clearly expecting the lash, and Harry knelt next to him. 'I won't punish you,' he said, flooding the elf with Light energy.

Kreacher curled into a rigid ball, showing no sign of receiving Harry's Light magic. 'If Master will not punish Kreacher, Kreacher will punish himself. Kreacher has already begun boiling water.'

'No, I forbid you!' said Harry, not wanting to know what Kreacher had in mind. 'Lodie, go stop the water from heating.' Lodie disappeared with a loud pop, leaving Harry and Kreacher alone. Harry gently placed a hand on Kreacher's back and said, 'I'll punish you if you really want, but I don't understand what you've done wrong.'

'Kreacher criticised wizard magic,' said a muffled voice. 'It is not done.'

'Why not?' asked Harry. 'House-elves are extraordinarily powerful compared to wizards.'

'House-elves serve wizards,' said Kreacher. 'Our magic is one and the same.'

'Then why can house-elves cross water, and wizards can't, except with a portkey?'

Kreacher shook his head. 'It is elf-lore and must not be told. Kreacher is very, very naughty.'

His tone made it clear that answers weren't forthcoming, so Harry tried another tack. 'Do you feel my Light magic? It doesn't look like you can, and I'd like you to.'

'No, Master. Kreacher has severed the telepathic bond.'

'What? No! I rely on that!'

Kreacher, still curled up, shook his head. 'Kreacher has been tainted by wizard pride. It is too dangerous for an elf. But Master need only call Kreacher's name, as before.'

'Didn't you like our telepathic bond?' asked Harry, not wanting to lose it. It's bloody convenient, he thought, aware of his selfishness.

'Yes, Master. It made Kreacher very happy. But Kreacher is forgetting he is an elf, which is wrong.'

'Is there something I can do to help you remember? I really don't want to give it up.'

After a silence, Kreacher said, 'Master can display the family ring.'

'Bloody hell!' he blurted, in spite of himself. 'The ring is hideous. Isn't it enough for me to wear robes?' Kreacher curled up even more tightly, and Harry took a moment to think. 'What if I only show it at home, when we're alone?'

His hand was still on Kreacher's back, and he felt the muscles relax. 'Yes, Master,' said Kreacher. 'That would work.'

With a heavy heart, Harry cancelled the concealment charm, and the ring became visible. Why is it always worse than I remember it?

'Look,' he said to Kreacher, holding out his hand.

The elf uncurled and came to his knees, prompting Harry to stand up quickly. He seems to crave subservience, thought Harry, not wanting to ponder that too deeply. 'Can we reestablish the telepathic bond?' he asked aloud.

Kreacher nodded and they engaged in a brief silent exchange, which ended with a burst of Light magic. Mischief managed, thought Harry, and the elf disappeared. Breakfast appeared on the table—along with the Daily Prophet—and Harry began to eat.

Doing his best to ignore the ring, which dominated his peripheral vision, he read about the match. 'PUDDLEMERE TRIUMPH,' blared the headline, with a photo of the team celebrating in mid-air. Phil was front and centre, holding the Snitch, and Harry was delighted to see him getting attention. I should owl Daphne, he mused.

There were multiple pages of coverage, with high praise for his own performance. Draco Malfoy was quoted again—not praising Harry, but commenting on the overall gameplay—and Harry wondered if he might find work as a Quidditch analyst. Clearly the Prophet thought he had something to contribute, and hopefully the public wouldn't hold his past against him.

Little was said about the national teams, since they'd previously been discussed ad infinitum, but a source said a decision was imminent. 'And based on the talent we saw these last few days, it's safe to say both Puddlemere and the Cannons will be well represented,' said the article.

After eating, Harry washed and allowed Kreacher to shave him. The elf asked whether he could move Harry's robes into the large inner wardrobe, promising to use house-elf magic to bring it to the front. 'This way Master can enter his dressing room directly,' said Kreacher, already starting to pack Walburga's clothes.

Harry assented, though he worried about what other changes Kreacher had in mind. It's a good thing Ron is moving in, he thought, fearing an inexorable slide into what Gemma would call 'Tofferdom.'

Flowers in hand, he went to visit her at St Mungo's. 'That'll be Artefact Accidents, ground floor,' said the Welcome Witch, pointing down a corridor. Harry followed directions to Gemma's room, avoiding stares from passing Healers and their assistants. He looked inside and found a scowling Gemma, in bed and fiddling with a Muggle Walkman.

'Er, hi,' said Harry, holding out the flowers. 'How are you doing?'

'Harry!' she said, her expression brightening. 'I'm all right, except for this blasted thing. I'd almost rather it didn't work at all, but instead it's fucking with my brain.'

'Really? What's it doing?'

'It'll start out normal, but then it gets weird. At first I thought it was the potions I'm on, but I had Ingrid try it and she heard it too.'

Intrigued, he asked for details, and she handed it to him. 'See for yourself.'

He put on the earphones and pressed the button, and the starting notes of 'Satisfaction' played. It sounded normal at first, until Mick Jagger's voice got higher and the music turned jazzy. 'Is that Celestina Warbeck?' he asked, recognising a song he'd heard at the Burrow.

'Is that who you got? I got the Weird Sisters, and Ingrid got the Hobgoblins.'

'That's magic for you,' he said, handing back the Walkman. 'But aren't you going home soon?'

'This afternoon, most likely. And thanks for the flowers—you can put them over there. We even saved you a spot,' she said, indicating a large vase.

'Am I that predictable?' he asked, placing the flowers into it.

'Yes, but that's all right. How are you? Sorry I screwed up and got injured.'

'Why are you apologising? I read the Prophet, and no one said you did anything wrong.'

'Yeah, but they didn't know I lost my temper.'

'What, because you gave Goodall the bird? I'm sure everyone saw it, but didn't you spend a while disrupting the Chasers first?'

'I did,' said Gemma, 'but I was still off balance.'

'That's just how it goes sometimes. But really, don't blame yourself.'

'We might have won the match if I hadn't been injured. You'd been flying nearly six hours when the Snitch turned up.'

'Or maybe it wouldn't have turned up at all, and we'd still be playing,' countered Harry. 'Don't worry, it's all for the best.'

'That's what Tuttle said. But still, I feel bad for leaving you in the lurch, all because I can't get my head screwed on straight.'

Harry assumed she was referring to her crush on him, which he'd hoped was entirely in the past. 'Goodall sends his regards, by the way. He said you were a great rival.'

'He certainly found my weak spots,' grumbled Gemma. 'Did he tell you about it?'

'He said you did great. Apparently he hounded you for hours about me, but the only thing that rattled you was how we mightn't be equals.'

Gemma looked down at her blanket. 'There's no "mightn't,"' she said. 'We obviously aren't equals.'

'You mean you're not saddled with a hideous ring for the rest of your life?' he said, trying to lighten the mood. 'Kreacher's latest surprise is that he needs me to make it visible when I'm at home, otherwise he'll punish himself with boiling water.'

Her frown was replaced by laughter. 'You're having me on, right?'

'Not even slightly. And believe me, I want us to be equals just as much as you do. I've been a complete freak my entire life, and it's much better having company.'

'You have company,' she said sadly, and he knew she meant Fiona. 'Don't worry, I'm not going to embarrass you again. But Goodall definitely hit a nerve.'

'That's his job, and he said you gave as good as you got. You're a great Seeker, you know.'

She chuckled. 'Nice try, Toffer. And I was lying just now—I think I will embarrass you a little.'

'Oh?' he said, bracing himself.

'There's that hunted look. God, I wish I had a camera—I could sell it to Witch Weekly.'

'Doesn't that thing take pictures?' he asked, indicating her Walkman.

She examined it and said, 'Who knows? Maybe it's been upgraded. Magic, after all.' After a silence, she said, 'It's getting easier. For one thing, I'm not lying to myself anymore. And at least you're with Fiona and not just shagging C-squareds and supermodels. That was a bit much.'

'Sorry, I didn't exactly plan that. If it had been up to me, I'd still be with Ginny. Although I'm glad things turned out as they did, at least where Fiona is concerned.'

'I really need to get to know Ginny one of these days,' mused Gemma. 'I'm sure she has stories.'

'I'm sure she does, and you'd like her regardless.'

They compared notes about the match, and she agreed with how he'd handled the Snitch. 'And you're not upset?' she asked.

'Honestly, no. Puddlemere deserved the Cup, and we proved the Cannons are first-rate—reserves included. And I'm thrilled the match is over. But how was it for you? Before you got injured, that is.'

'It was great. Not just for me, but for all the reserves. Up till now we've mostly been holding down the skybenches, but this time we were on equal footing with you lot.' She let out a hollow laugh and said, 'There's that word again.'

'Do me a favour,' said Harry. 'Next time someone says we're not equals, tell them to shove off. Got it?'

'Got it.' She glanced at his robes and said, 'What else do you have planned for today? Lunch at Pratt's, perhaps?'

Ignoring her dig, he said, 'Yeah. I'm hoping to gain political capital from all this. You know, so I can make wizarding Britain more egalitarian.'

'Off with you, then,' she said, waving him away. 'Thanks again for the flowers, and sorry to ruin your nap yesterday.'

He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. 'Good luck with the pelvis. Will I see you tomorrow?' he asked, referring to the next team practice.

'Yeah, I'll be cleared to fly tonight. Three cheers for Skele-Gro!'

Harry's next stop was Pratt's. It was early for lunch, so he went to the lounge and was greeted with applause. 'Well done, Potter,' said Reginald Baxter, rising from his chair. 'Missing the Snitch was just bad luck, but you showed everyone there's nothing like a Hogwarts-trained Seeker.'

'Actually, I was mostly trained by Owen Barrowmaker, who went to Blockhurst.'

'But you learnt the fundamentals at Hogwarts. And your father was a Chaser as well. He could have gone professional, from what I hear.'

'Maybe,' said Harry uncertainly. 'Did you attend the match?'

'No, but I was glued to the radio—during your shifts anyway. And Oliver Wood's one of ours as well, right?'

'Yes, and my teammate Gary Wisenborn. Hufflepuff, five years ahead of me.'

'Wisenborn?' said a wizard. 'Not a name I'm familiar with.'

'No, he's Muggle-born, and an excellent Beater.'

'Yes, of course. I'm Crispin Rowle, by the way,' said the wizard, extending his hand. 'Tremendous flying out there—a real credit to the Blacks.'

'Will you fly for England?' asked a wizard Harry recognised from the Ministry. 'I know Stebbins is trying to reach you.'

'Er, I haven't heard from him yet, but that's not surprising, since my home address is protected. But I'm sure my secretary will forward any letters.'

'If I know Stebbins, he'll use any means necessary to track you down. He's bound and determined to bring home the World Cup, and he knows you can't beat a Hogwarts wizard!'

'Or the head of an ancient house,' said Rowle. 'And yes, I know Routledge outpaced you in the end, but that was your broomstick more than anything. Incidentally, Games and Sports is ready to exert pressure on Spudmore to craft you a broom you can use.'

'I thought that was against league rules,' said Harry, but Rowle shook his head.

'I'm sure they'll work something out. And your teammate can use it as well—Jenna something.'

'Gemma Rees.'

'Right. Shame about her injury, but I suppose she's less experienced than you are.'

'She joined the Cannons less than two months after I did, and she played far more consistently in school. Not to mention she completed her seventh year.'

'Forget Rees,' said Baxter. 'It's you we're talking about, and how you're going to remind the world where Quidditch was born.'

'And really, Potter, it's the least you can do after skewering lordships,' said Rowle. 'To have someone of your stature representing England on the world stage would really make a statement.'

Harry suspected Rowle wasn't referring to his status as a war hero. 'Maybe, but I'm worried about the time commitment. Not to mention the observational magic problem: I'd be putting my teammates at risk of extra-long matches.'

'You'd be doing them a favour,' said Baxter. 'All of the Cannons and Puddlemere players are household names now—even the reserves.'

'That would be a more convincing argument if Rowle hadn't just forgotten Gemma's name,' said Harry dryly.

'He was making a point,' said Romulus Wynter, who was previously hidden within an armchair. 'And like it or not, new names don't carry the same weight as old ones.'

Harry wanted to point out that every name was new at some point, but he didn't want to alienate Davina's father. 'I'll keep that in mind,' he said. 'But I haven't even been offered the slot, so I'd rather not get ahead of myself.'

He stayed for lunch and received accolades from all sides, along with the wish that he fly for England. Growing suspicious, Harry finally asked Oscar Abbott whether it was an attempt to keep him out of politics for the next few years.

'Of course it is,' said Abbott. 'But they also think you're our best chance to win. Consider what you've done for the Chudley Cannons: they were a national joke until you turned up, and now they're every bit as good as Puddlemere. People are already betting you'll take next year's cup.'

'Are they?' said Harry, with an unexpected flare of pride. 'That's flattering, but I'll be honest—all this pressure is making me realise how much I want a break. I've been going nonstop for the last year and a half, first with Auror training and then the Cannons. And before that was the war, which admittedly had boring stretches, but it was hardly relaxing.'

Abbott just shrugged. 'Then don't do it. It's your life, after all.'

God, when will I ever get that through my head? Harry wondered. 'But will people hold it against me if I don't take the slot? Assuming I'm offered it, that is.'

'Are you asking whether it'll hurt your agenda? Probably not. They'll be cross with you, but they all understand the concept of wizardly leisure.'

'Right, hard work is for Muggles,' said Harry. 'Thanks—that actually helps. I'm still torn, but at least you've taken off some of the pressure.'

When Harry passed the front desk on his way out, the clerk got his attention. 'You received a letter, Mr Potter-Black,' he said, holding out an envelope. Harry took it from him, then went home to Grimmauld Place and sat down to read:

Dear Mr Potter-Black,

Forgive me for contacting you this way, but I asked my colleague to leave this for you at Pratt's, in the hope you'd receive it sooner.

As you probably know, I'm the new coach for the English national team, and I'd like to meet at your earliest convenience. You can Floo-call to make an appointment, or just turn up at the Department of Magical Games and Sports anytime before five.

Please also accept my congratulations on the match. Your performance was truly exceptional.

Yours sincerely,
Buzz Stebbins

Harry took a deep breath. No time like the present, he thought, knowing the Ministry Atrium would be quiet after lunch. A short Floo voyage brought him there, and after a flurry of congratulations he went up to the Games and Sports department.

'Good afternoon, Mr Potter,' said the secretary. 'I assume you're here to see Mr Stebbins?'

'Yes, if he's available.'

He was, and after asking how Harry took his tea, the secretary directed him to a conference room. Harry entered to find not one but two wizards, who rose to greet him. 'Potter,' said the older of the pair, 'I'm Nestor MacMillan, head of the Department—it's a pleasure to meet you at last.'

As Harry shook his hand, he noticed a board covered with scraps of parchment, each with a different name. Many were off to the side, but a few had clearly made the cut. 'Ryan Bellamy' was at the centre, annotated with a star, and 'Phil Routledge' was next to it. And Harry's own name was on top, with a large question mark.

'I'm Buzz Stebbins,' said the other wizard. 'Please, have a seat. And thanks for coming so quickly. Which of my letters found you?'

'So far just the one at Pratt's,' said Harry. 'How many more should I expect?'

'Two, but you can disregard them. Now that the season's over, I'm eager to finalise the national team, and let's just say you're a bit of a sticking point.'

'Oh?' Harry's tea had appeared in front of him, along with a plate of biscuits. 'How do you mean?'

'I'll be blunt—we want you to fly for England. The effect you've had on the Cannons is nothing short of miraculous, and that's just what the English team needs. But not everyone is keen to share the spotlight.'

Harry frowned, and MacMillan said, 'Not to say they're prima donnas. But they're the stars of their respective teams, and there could be tension if you're the main focus.'

'It's never been a problem on the Cannons,' began Harry, unsure how to respond.

'No, and you might notice that star next to Ryan Bellamy's name,' said Stebbins, indicating the parchment-covered board. 'We want him for captain. He was the most popular Cannon before you turned up, and I've never heard a peep about him resenting you.'

Harry was still adjusting to what he'd just heard. 'And Phil Routledge?' he asked.

'He'll be the other Seeker. I'm not naming starters and reserves straight away—my plan is to gather the fourteen best players in the league and see how you fit together.' He chuckled and said, 'And if observational magic holds, you'll all get plenty of flying time.'

'Right, but aren't you worried about that?' asked Harry. 'We got off easy with only three days, but a World Cup match could last weeks.'

'It's a risk,' admitted Stebbins. 'But before we go any further, I want to hear what you think. Are you even interested?'

'Honestly, I'm torn. I'm flattered by what you said about my effect on the Cannons, and I'd certainly love to help England win the cup. But I'm worried about the time commitment—can you say more about that?'

Stebbins outlined a practice schedule which, when combined with the Cannons winter schedule, would keep Harry just as busy as he'd been during the season, except for Saturdays. There would be several trips abroad in the next few months, including a stint in America surrounding the World Quidditch Conference. And during the regular season he'd occasionally miss Cannons practice to train with the group.

'So, what do you think?' asked Stebbins. 'Can you make that work with your other responsibilities?'

Harry took a long sip of tea as he thought about it. On the one hand, he loved Quidditch, and he was gratified they wanted him so badly. But he'd also been looking forward to more time with Fiona, Teddy, and everyone else he cared about.

'What about my broom?' he asked, in an effort to stall. 'Nothing against Phil, but I'd probably have won on the Firebolt. And I'd hate to cost England a win like that.'

'Yes, I'm glad you brought that up,' said MacMillan. 'We're planning to approach Randolph Spudmore this week, to see how the Ministry might help with his next broom.'

Unable to hide his skepticism, Harry said, 'Do you think he'll go for it? When we talked to him last month, he wasn't interested.'

'It's all in the timing,' said MacMillan knowingly. 'I'm sure he's thrilled about the match—the Firebolt was decisive, after all. But everyone knows the Ultra is defective where Light magic is concerned, and I'm sure he wants to get it right.'

'And that's not illegal? I was told I couldn't have a custom-charmed broom.'

'Gemma Rees solved that problem for you. It might take a year or two, but with Ministry backing, we're confident he'll have something you can fly for the 2002 World Cup.'

Harry recalled his old dreams of World Cup glory, and he felt a wave of excitement. He looked again at the board and said, 'So, me and Phil?'

'You'd be a deadly combination,' said Stebbins. 'You're the two most aggressive flyers in the league, and together you'd turn England into a must-see team.'

'More than that,' said MacMillan. 'England's reputation has taken a real beating, thanks to the war. So to have a player of your stature on the team ... you'd not only fill stadiums, you'd also make both sides happy.'

'Er, which sides are you talking about?' asked Harry uneasily.

'The sides here in Britain. On the one hand, you're a hero to half-bloods and that whole sector. But the more established families are keen to see one of our own—Hogwarts, you know. So as strange as it sounds, you'd be a unifying figure for the national team, and that's just what England needs.'

MacMillan looked pleased with his own assessment, but Harry was deeply uncomfortable. 'Furthermore,' continued MacMillan, 'this would only add to your legend. You're not yet twenty, and you've been awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class. Not to mention you're world-famous for any number of reasons. So really, flying for England is the next logical step.'

For a megalomaniac, thought Harry with distaste, and his decision became clear. 'That's just it,' he said, 'I don't need more attention. Yes, I love flying, but I get to do that eight months a year already. And you have a terrific Seeker in Routledge. Might I ask who you'd pick if I don't take the spot?'

An uncomfortable glance between MacMillan and Stebbins. 'We haven't decided,' said MacMillan, but Stebbins spoke over him.

'Rees,' he declared. 'Clearly she has the talent, and she's been trained by Barrowmaker, same as you. Her only problem is the Firebolt, but at her size it's less of an issue.'

MacMillan sighed, as if he knew he'd lost. 'That's not set in stone,' he argued. 'We still need to consider the bigger picture.'

Two Muggle-born Seekers, thought Harry, knowing the Pratt's crowd would have a fit. 'I think she'd be great,' he said cheerfully, 'and I know she'd be dedicated.'

'You should sleep on it,' said MacMillan. 'Maybe ask for advice. It can only enhance your political standing, after all.'

But Harry was already pleased with his decision, which had the same sort of rightness he'd felt that morning with Fiona. 'I have thought about it,' he said. 'Over the last three days, in fact. Remember, my goal is to make wizarding Britain more egalitarian, and hogging every opportunity for myself would be the exact opposite.'

Both wizards were frowning, but Stebbins at least seemed to accept it. 'Can I at least persuade you to be a backup?' he asked. 'We're only permitted fourteen players, as you're well aware, but in case one of the other Seekers is injured?'

Harry perked with interest. 'How would that work, if you're playing abroad somewhere?'

'You'd have a few hours notice, certainly. We'd simply ask you to wear an amulet, which would vibrate if we need you to play. You'd Floo right here and someone would have a portkey ready.'

'And that travel-sickness potion?' asked Harry.

'Yes, that too,' said Stebbins with a chuckle. 'So you're interested?'

'I am, as a backup. Hopefully you won't need me, but I'd be honoured to step in if needed.'

Fiona was hugely relieved when he told her the news. 'Oh, thank Merlin!' she cried, embracing him.

'What?' exclaimed Harry. 'Last night you said you were fine either way!'

'I was lying! Well, not lying exactly, but I didn't want to pressure you to turn it down. I mean yes, I'd miss you, but I didn't want to stifle your dreams.'

'You're my dream,' he said earnestly, but she just laughed.

'You are a hopeless romantic! Has anyone told you that?'

'Yes, Hermione does all the time. But honestly, I don't need to fly for England. In that letter from Sirius, he told me to choose happiness, wherever it might find me. And I've found it right here, with you.'

'You shameless flatterer,' said Fiona, smiling. 'I'll have to reward you later tonight. And perhaps during a series of naughty luncheons in your newly abundant free time.'

Matthew ran into the room, saw Harry, and said, 'Can we play toy Quidditch?'

Both males looked to Fiona for permission, and she nodded. 'Yes, but get to it—dinner's in an hour.'

When Matthew ran to start setting up, she kissed Harry one last time. 'I could get used to having you around,' she said fondly.

'So could I,' he said, feeling more at home than he could ever recall.