"Look, darling, there's Harry—I'll introduce you," came the voice from behind them, but there was no escape. Their path was blocked by a waiter carrying a large tray of champagne, and both Harry and Fiona resignedly took a glass.
They turned around to see Gilderoy Lockhart and his companion, whom Harry knew by reputation but had never met. She was a very attractive witch "of a certain age," as Narcissa would say, and when she saw Harry she held out a bejewelled hand. "We meet at last, Mr Potter-Black. Or may I call you Harry?"
How the fuck do I answer that? he thought irritably. But Fiona had warned him to be polite, since she was a major donor to WORF, so he kissed the proffered hand. "Yes, of course—it's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Sheridan. And this is Fiona Dunning."
With that came what Fiona had dubbed "The Examination," and Harry was grateful she had a sense of humour about it. "They're trying to figure out why you're still interested," she joked. The Examination covered hair, dress, makeup, and jewellery—not necessarily in that order—and it always ended with some kind of assessment.
"Gilderoy, look at those earrings—that's exactly what I'm trying to find, only with rubies. Everyone sells pearl-drop earrings, but not with Tahitian pearls." Addressing Fiona, she said, "May I ask where you got them?"
"Don't tell her," said Lockhart. "We still have five more days of Christmas, and Ava is terribly hard to please."
"Nonsense, I love everything you've given me so far. But Fiona, are those a recent acquisition? If I'm not mistaken, that bracelet is vintage."
Fiona explained that the bracelet came from the Black family vault—and only on loan—but Harry had bought her the earrings. "Although I'm a terrible ingrate," she said. "They originally had diamonds on top, but I wanted emeralds to match his eyes, so we exchanged them. And it turned out the salesgirl suggested the same thing, but Harry didn't want to look egotistical."
"A fine impulse," declared Lockhart. "I assume you learnt that from my book?"
"No, you signed it for Hermione, remember?" Harry had actually purchased Lockhart's self-help book and asked him to sign it—a gift that drew howls of laughter when she unwrapped it at the Burrow.
Lockhart winked and said, "Yes, of course, for Hermione. But Fiona, just say the word if you want a copy for Harry. I consider it required reading for anyone as famous as we are. To avoid the pitfalls of excess adulation, you know."
Harry must have rolled his eyes, because Ava said, "You might laugh, but don't discard his advice. Gilderoy is a model of humility, and it makes him an exceptional partner. I never knew him in his previous incarnation, since I was still married and immersed in the Muggle world. But I'm sure I wouldn't have liked him—such an ego! Whereas now, he's simply lovely."
"I'll keep that in mind," said Harry, and Fiona deftly changed the subject. It was a skill they'd both acquired to protect the other's privacy, since strangers tended to pry. Fortunately, strangers were usually flattered when someone famous took an interest in them, which Harry and Fiona exploited shamelessly.
"Ava, what was it like coming back to the wizarding world after so much time away?" asked Fiona, and Ava took the bait. She'd been married to a wealthy Muggle for more than twenty years and had returned in a blaze of glory, thanks to a staggeringly large divorce settlement—or so went the rumours.
The two witches fell into conversation, and Lockhart took Harry aside. "So, about those earrings ... where did you get them? She really is hard to buy presents for, since she doesn't hesitate to buy things for herself."
Case in point, thought Harry, recalling how she'd won Lockhart in the WORF auction. "It was at a Muggle jeweller," he said, providing the name. "But I should warn you, they weren't cheap. I know your book is doing well, but–"
Lockhart chuckled and said, "Harry, I can't afford one tenth of what she wears just to a yoga class. But she doesn't need me for money—her ex-husband took care of that. What she wants is attention, which I provide in abundance. And her platinum card covers the rest."
Harry blinked. "You mean, you buy all her gifts with her own credit card?"
"Strictly speaking, it has my name on it. But yes, she pays all the bills. And it suits us perfectly; I hope you and Fiona are as compatible as we are."
Stifling the urge to laugh, Harry said, "Does that mean you've broken it off with your other ..." He trailed off, not wanting to say "sugar mummies."
"Yes, Ava and I have been dating exclusively since just after the auction. And I'm more than content, despite our age difference. To use a Muggle expression, she's had some work done, and thanks to magical healing she doesn't even have scars. I'm sure there's a fortune to be made in hybrid clinics, combining Muggle plastic surgery with healing potions, but I'm too busy launching my new career." He winked and said, "That's your Christmas gift, by the way—owl me if you decide to make a go of it, because I might be ready to invest."
Harry was mute with horror, and Lockhart said, "Oh, don't look at me like that. You're a born salesman, same as I am, and everyone knows how ambitious you are. But take care when you get married—Ava is living proof of why you'll want a rock-solid prenuptial agreement."
Fiona spit out her drink when Harry told her afterwards. "Oh my god, that's hilarious!" she choked. "You should call it the Harry Potter-Black Fuckability Clinic and appear in the adverts." Running a hand through her hair, she simulated the Look and said, "'For the low price of two thousand Galleons, we'll turn you into someone even I would shag!'"
Their laughter drew stares, but fortunately the only one to approach was Phil Routledge. It was the Ministry New Year's Ball, and the entire Puddlemere side had been invited, since they'd won the League Cup. "Are you actually having fun?" asked Phil. "I'm mostly here because of Daphne—not that we're allowed to be seen together."
"Surely you're allowed!" said Fiona.
"Yes, we chatted politely, as if we were barely acquainted. I'd love to dance with her, but it's all ballroom dancing and I've had exactly one lesson. Potter, can you call in a favour and get them to play some Fatboy Slim?"
Daphne and Phil's second date had been far more successful than their first, and they'd seen each other several times since. "I'm afraid not," said Harry. "Can you nip off somewhere private for a few minutes?"
"That's our plan for midnight," said Phil, with a gleam in his eye. "I'm definitely not used to moving this slowly, and it has some real drawbacks. But it's fun being the forbidden fruit—or maybe the serpent."
Clearly Daphne was enjoying it as well; when they saw her later, Harry was struck by her air of adventure. "If you'd told me even a fortnight ago that I'd be sneaking around with my illicit lover at the Ministry Ball, I'd never have believed you."
"Your lover?" said Harry. "Have I missed something?"
"No, I haven't rejected my entire upbringing just yet. But you were right about finding someone who knows what he's doing." Her cheeks flushed, and she said, "We've hardly even talked yet tonight, but when he catches my eye ..." She trailed off, with a look of pleasure.
"Good lord, you've got it bad," said Fiona, smiling. "This what Harry and I were like at the WORF gala, and it was fantastic."
"It is, isn't it? The hard part is hiding it from my parents, but I'd rather not give them a heart attack until we're dating more seriously."
"They wouldn't disown you, would they?"
"No, they're not vindictive like that. And the rules are changing quickly. Take Lydia Travers," she said, glancing across the room. "Everyone thought she'd be a pariah, but she's the belle of the ball. And she doesn't even try to fit in anymore."
"Is that your future?" asked Harry, knowing how she'd react.
"Hardly!" cried Daphne, looking prim again. "Although people are bound to make comparisons, since Phil's also a Seeker with a reputation."
"But he can't dance," said Fiona, nudging Harry forwards. "Go on, make Phil jealous."
Harry enjoyed hearing Daphne gush about Phil as they danced, although he couldn't resist taunting his rival by steering Daphne past him. "Turn me so I can see him again," she ordered.
"No, he's making rude gestures and I don't want to reward him."
"He is not!"
"Yes, he is," said Harry, deliberately not turning her around. "I'll grant you, they're discreet, but he's holding his wineglass between two fingers, which are pointing up. And I'm not much of a lip-reader, but 'Fuck you, Potter,' is fairly unambiguous." Grinning, he said, "Shall I dip you?"
She agreed on the condition he bring her near Phil, and he lowered her into an extravagant dip. "Did you do that on purpose?" she asked.
"Dip you?"
"No, let him look down my dress. You aimed me perfectly!" Harry denied the accusation and apologised, but she only laughed. "I've never been naughty before. And Merlin knows he'd be looking down my dress if we were dancing together. So this is the next best thing."
He also danced with Hermione, who had fully embraced her new look. "For once my hair is more untidy than yours," she said. "It's probably a good thing you and I aren't a couple, because our kids would never forgive us."
"Oi!" said Harry, feigning offence. "Louisa says my hair is a joy to paint with, and she's disappointed she can't keep using it."
"Unbelievable! Those paintbrushes are another product you could sell, since your hair grows so quickly," mused Hermione. "Genuine Harry Potter-Black art supplies!"
"Right, because nothing could go wrong with people buying my hair."
"Oh, good point. Although you could charge a lot more that way ... or maybe we could modify it somehow to prevent people from making Polyjuice with it. For example, soaking it in butterweed extract would render it useless for potions, although that might interact with the paint. I'm sure there's a solution, though."
"We are not selling my hair," said Harry emphatically. "But I see you've unlocked your creativity."
"Except for the part where most of my ideas are complete crap," she said with a grimace. "But apparently that's a good first step, or so says Lucinda."
Harry's next partner was Narcissa, which gave them a chance to catch up—he hadn't seen her since her last visit with Lucius. "Do you want to talk about it, or would you rather wait until I'm next at the Manor?"
"No, now is fine," she said, her public veneer firmly in place. "He was willing to see us, at least. I think he realised he hurt himself more than anyone by turning us away."
Lucius had refused to see Narcissa the first week after receiving her letter, and he stormed out when Draco said he wouldn't bar Harry from the Manor. But they returned a week later, and he apologised for being so petulant.
"That's good, right?" said Harry, surprised Lucius was so mature.
"No, it's just a new tactic. This time he appealed to Draco's pride and commended him for being so clever. He said he'd been too quick to judge, and that Draco actually had the right idea about how to handle the situation."
"And how's that?"
"To use my delusion as bait. As long as I've taken leave of my senses, it's an opportunity to lure you deeper into our web."
"Right. And what did Draco say?"
"He humoured him—I don't think he wants to disappoint his father completely just yet."
Harry understood, although he'd have preferred for Draco to tell Lucius off. "And what did he say to you?"
"He behaved as if I'd never sent the letter at all. Which was conspicuous in its own way, since he normally criticises you by name. But this time he only referred to the threat of blood traitors and other radicals."
"Does this mean I've been promoted to blood traitor?" asked Harry, batting his eyelashes. "Or am I still just the wrong kind of half-blood?"
"For Merlin's sake, try to behave!" she scolded, but the corners of her mouth hinted upwards.
"All right, change of subject: What did you think of Fiona's earrings?"
She sniffed and said, "Completely inappropriate for someone you're merely dating, along with the jewels from the vault. "
"And?"
"Very becoming," said Narcissa, and her smile reached her eyes. "I still don't know why she tolerates you, but she's a lovely young witch."
This wasn't the first time Narcissa had praised Fiona; Harry suspected her blood status played a role, but he still enjoyed hearing it. Sweet Merlin, I'm hooked on praise from Narcissa Malfoy, he thought. If Sirius had a grave, he'd be spinning in it.
Fiona was Harry's primary dance partner that night, and by the time midnight drew near they were inseparable. During the final minutes, the band leader shone a light on the large clock above the stage, and everyone counted down the last seconds. "Happy New Year!" came the cry, and Harry and Fiona kissed as fireworks went off.
"Happy New Year," she murmured when they pulled apart. "You're free."
Harry smiled—the first of January marked the end of his relentless social season. "I am never doing that again," he declared. "Goblins be hanged."
"Nonsense, I'm sure you'll have more robes by then."
"Very funny," he said, a little hurt. "But seriously, that's my New Year's resolution: stop buying clothes. It's become a bad habit."
"What? No! The tailors of Britain are counting on you! And for all we know, your clothing habit is what's driving all the positive changes in magical society. Something about finding common ground with traditional wizards, right?"
She was laughing, and it took her a moment to notice he wasn't. "I'm sorry," she said, taking his hand. "I think you're perfectly brilliant, whatever you wear. Or don't wear, as the case may be."
His mood passed as quickly as it began. "This cravat is a bit tight," he said, gently pulling at it. "And I'm sure you'd like to get out of those shoes. Is it too early to leave?"
"No, it's past midnight. In fact, it's a whole new millennium—we should definitely go home."
They didn't bother with goodbyes, which would delay them half an hour or more, and went straight to the row of fireplaces. A gauntlet of reporters and photographers met them with questions and camera flashes, which they largely ignored.
"Fiona, will you turn around for us?" called a wizard holding a camera. "Show off that gorgeous dress!"
Harry nearly had his wand out, anticipating a different end to that sentence, but Fiona just laughed.
"There it is!" said another photographer. "Go on, Fiona, give us a smile!"
She didn't engage, but the reporters persisted. "Is that new jewellery? Was that a gift, or a little something from the vault?"
More camera flashes, and someone said, "Oi, Harry, any surprises lined up for 2000? You gave us a hell of a 1999!"
"Show us some Light magic!" called a reporter. "Come on, Harry—be a sport."
"Nice try," he said, escorting Fiona into a fireplace. "Happy New Year."
It was a long Floo voyage to her house, and they flopped onto the sofa when they arrived. "Back to privacy," she said. "And normalcy."
"Sorry about all that. You'd have had much quieter holidays without me."
"And much lonelier. Believe me, I'd rather deal with reporters than relive my last New Year's Eve." He put his arm around her, and she said, "I seem to recall silent sobs at the stroke of midnight. Which sounds poetic, but was actually just miserable."
They relaxed on the sofa for a while, even though they had to be awake at nine to collect Matthew from Fiona's parents. "Forgive me, but I don't want to move right now," he said. "Don't let the press find out."
"That you're not shagging me senseless within thirty seconds of getting home? Oh, the scandal!" she laughed. "But does that mean you just want to go to sleep?"
"No, I just need a few minutes. God, that was exhausting. So many sodding parties!"
"And no anonymity," said Fiona. "If Rob and I had been there, we'd have known only a handful of people. But absolutely everyone knows you."
"And you," he said. "I was ready to hex that photographer, by the way."
"For praising my dress instead of my arse? I'm all for chivalry, but that seems excessive." After a silence, she said, "I'm sorry I teased you about your robes. You know I love how dashing you are, right?"
"Yeah," he said, not meeting her eyes. "Although I've definitely gone overboard. I really should make a New Year's resolution not to buy more clothes."
"Is that what you want? Or is it because you think you ought to?"
"I'm only nineteen," he argued. "It's bad enough I'm getting a portrait and all the rest—maybe I should try being normal for once."
"If that's what you want, go ahead. But really, you have nothing to be ashamed of. And I like to think I know you pretty well by now."
"You do. I mean, there are still things I don't talk about, but I don't have secrets like I used to." He sighed, "I'm actually a bit nervous about getting the portrait. I'm supposed to tell him everything, if I want him to be a true representation."
Her smile was kind, and she said, "There's no need to rush. Just get to know Jamie in your own time. You're still planning to call him that, right?"
"It's either that or Snitchbottom," he joked.
"What about Lord Silvercock? I still like that one."
"Oh god, no! Can you imagine?"
Her hand strayed to the region in question. "Yes. I definitely can." She lowered her voice and said, "Are you ready to ring in the new year?"
He was, and they went upstairs. The next morning, normal life resumed, and by Monday the holidays were solidly behind them. Harry returned to practice, and Tuttle worked them extra hard.
"You've had two weeks off, and something tells me you weren't in bed by ten every night," she said, glowering. "I know we're still on a winter schedule, but the harder you train now, the less I'll have to torture you come spring."
By noon everyone was knackered, and they taunted Ryan and Gemma, who still had another practice session that afternoon. "I bet you're wishing you pulled a Snitchbottom and told the national team they could sod off," said Janet as they walked back to the lockers.
"Are you kidding? Flying for England is brilliant!" said Gemma. "I mean yeah, it's exhausting, but we're, like, the pride of the nation. Not to mention I get free drinks all the time now."
"It's true," said Ryan. "Not the drinks, but everyone in England backs the national team. And Gemma is definitely the most popular player."
"I am not!" she said, but her expression said otherwise.
Harry called her on it when they had lunch together, at a Muggle pizzeria. "So, how's fame treating you. Are you sick of it yet?"
"Not in the slightest," she admitted. "I might feel differently if I had to deal with paparazzi, but so far it's just Quidditch fans. Which, I'll grant you, is half the wizarding population, but they're protective of me somehow. Like, if anyone starts hassling me in a pub, there's an army of geezers ready to defend me."
"Does that happen often?"
"Nah, only a couple of times. Some wanker decides to make a crack about my blood status, or how I got my Light magic by sucking you off." Harry expressed outrage, and she said, "Relax, Toffer—no one gets away with it. The last one who tried got hexed from three different sides ... he wound up with feathers, boils, and some kind of snout."
"Long-lasting, I hope?"
"I don't think so, although he had to go to Saint Mungo's. They sent someone from law enforcement an hour later—standard procedure—and when she heard what happened she said she was tempted to go hex him herself."
Harry laughed and said, "You're clearly a folk hero. And how was your New Year's? What did you end up doing?"
"Nothing major," she said, averting her eyes. "Just a pub crawl with mates."
"Oh? Where'd you go?"
"Here and there. Nowhere special."
She was biting her lip, and Harry couldn't tell if she was upset—he only knew she was hiding something. "Was it all right?" he asked, trying to read her expression.
He was merely curious, but she squirmed as if under interrogation. "Fine, I hooked up," she blurted. "Are you happy?"
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he smirked.
Gemma closed her eyes, clearly embarrassed. "I was pissed, all right. I mean, it was fine—I knew what I was getting into. Although I don't think I'd have made the same choice sober."
"Beer goggles?" asked Harry.
"More like foofy drinks goggles." She grimaced and said, "I met him at Penumbra."
Harry couldn't help laughing. "Oh my god, Penumbra on New Year's. I can hardly imagine!"
"No, you can definitely imagine. It was Tyler's idea—he was still cross about that naff countdown party we went to at the end of your celibacy vow, and this time he wanted to get it right."
"Did he?"
"Oh yeah, the place was wall-to-wall pheromones. And foofy drinks—I think mine kept replenishing or something. Which meant I was completely trolleyed when midnight rolled around."
Her embarrassment was gone, and she seemed keen to share the details. "He'd been hovering since about half-eleven, and I didn't mind because he never asked about you, which still happens a lot. But I was more interested this other bloke, who actually did ask about you—more than once, which should have clued me in he was gay. Only I didn't realise it until maybe two minutes to midnight, so I was a bit frantic."
"So, the first wizard's strategy paid off, eh?"
"It did," said Gemma, "and he admitted later that he was hanging about just in case. He thought I was cute when they first ran my picture in the Prophet, right after your Glowpox thing, and he's been following my career ever since. Which was flattering while I was still pissed, but when I woke up—and there he was, all big and hairy—it kinda gave me the creeps."
"Ouch," said Harry, picturing Greg Goyle for some reason. "Were you at his place or yours?"
"Mine, which was a bit of a mixed bag. On the one hand, it was home and the sheets were clean and it didn't have that guy smell. But on the other hand, if I'd gone to his place, I could have just scarpered."
"You're really obsessed with that guy smell. Are you sure it's men you fancy?"
"Yes, and bite me," she said, raising two fingers. "I just don't fancy the aroma of their unwashed pants. Which reminds me, he was wearing your pants."
"I'm sorry?" said Harry, confused.
"Those boxer briefs from your adverts. I even checked the label while he was asleep, in case it was some Muggle brand, but it was the genuine article."
"Er, all right. Do you think you'll see him again?"
Gemma made a face. "I doubt it. He wants to, but I don't think I'm interested."
"Why not? Is he too big and hairy?"
"No, he's not the missing link or anything. But he's just ... not my type."
Harry had hoped she was over her crush on him—more than two months had passed since his drag party—but as far as he knew she hadn't dated anyone. She'd never even mentioned a previous boyfriend, which made him wonder if she'd ever had one.
"Might I ask what you're looking for? Or would that be, er, tiresome?"
She sighed and said, "No, I'm the one who brought it up. And don't worry—I've broadened my criteria beyond people who've survived the Killing Curse." A smile briefly appeared, then vanished. "I guess I want someone ... exciting. Hard to get, maybe. Probably explains why I liked that gay bloke."
"And New Year's guy wasn't exciting?"
"Well, he certainly wasn't gay," said Gemma, and her smile returned. "It's probably a self-esteem thing—if someone fancies me, there must be something wrong with them."
"Sounds like a job for Doctor Niffler," joked Harry. "I can introduce you if you like."
After lunch she left for practice, and Harry was glad yet again he wasn't playing for England. He loved having so much free time—which he even admitted to Draco that afternoon at Pratt's.
"I know I'll have to shape up when the Cannons start in earnest," he said, sipping his elderflower pressé, "but I'm starting to reconsider the 'mildly employed gentleman of leisure' path. I think that's where my father was headed, and maybe Sirius too."
"It's a wizarding tradition," said Draco. "Even the ones who work for the Ministry—what do you think all those 'meetings' are about anyway?"
"Not in the DMLE," said Harry bitterly. "God, what if I'd spent my whole career there?"
"I doubt you'd have flogged underwear, which would probably be a vast improvement."
"Maybe, but no condom scheme either," said Harry, knowing they were protected by a privacy charm. "How is phase two going, by the way? Or don't I want to know?"
Phase two referred to the bribes, which Draco was in charge of. "You don't want to know," said Draco. "And well. Extremely well."
"Cheers, well done. Although I suppose this is what you were trained for."
"Yes, Father would be terribly proud," said Draco, his voice thick with sarcasm. "He thinks Mother's taken leave of her senses—he blames you, of course."
"And here I thought he was warming up to me," Harry said, consulting his pocket watch. "Bugger, I need to go soon. Meeting at the Ministry."
Draco looked affronted. "Without your most trusted advisor? How will you know who to bribe?"
"I don't think Kingsley would appreciate that," said Harry dryly.
"Shacklebolt? Surely not about Goblin legislation!"
"No, he's powerless in that respect—remember?"
Draco sneered and said, "Merlin, what an idiot. He could have been Minister for years—and lined his vault—but he threw it all away just to ram through the Light agenda."
"He voted to free you, Draco. But I'll tell him you think he's an idiot."
"No, that's quite all right. Why are you seeing him?"
"I'm trying to learn more about how Fiona's husband died. She never got any real answers. Or a body, even."
Draco's eyes shot open. "She never got a body?"
"No, just his wand and a few possessions."
For a moment, Draco was silent. "Are you sure you want to investigate?" he asked, his voice low and serious.
A knot formed in the pit of Harry's stomach. "What are you implying?"
"The Department of Mysteries, from what I understand, has more than one ... portal. Have you considered that Rob mightn't be dead, but merely gone?"
Harry's chest clenched, and he was flooded with memories of how Sirius had died. "No," he rasped. "You can't come back. I wanted to follow, but–" Harry's breath grew ragged, and he looked desperately at his empty glass.
"Elf!" cried Draco, snapping his fingers. An elf appeared, and Draco said, "Firewhisky?" with a questioning look at Harry. A nod, and moments later the elf returned with two glasses of amber liquid. "Go on," said Draco. "You're welcome to mine as well."
Harry tossed back his own but refused Draco's. "No, I need to leave for the Ministry in a minute," he said, his throat still burning. "And he can't still be alive. They investigated."
"Rob Dunning or Sirius Black?"
"Both. I mean, I think they did. Christ, I don't know." He kneaded his forehead, then ran a hand through his hair. "I have to go."
Harry stood up, but so did Draco, and he grasped Harry's arm. "Are you doing this for her? Did she ask you to investigate?"
"No. She doesn't mind that I'm trying, but she doesn't expect any answers. And certainly not ... what you're suggesting."
"Then consider not doing it," said Draco. "Maybe things happened this way for a reason."
Harry pulled his arm free. "I have to go," he repeated. "Bye."
Indeed, he was running late, so he rushed from the lounge and literally ran down the corridor to the club entrance. He tried saving time by Flooing straight to the DMLE, but it no longer admitted him, so he went to the Atrium instead. The lift was crowded, and the witch next to him audibly sniffed, then glared at him. Fuck, I smell like Firewhisky, he thought, and when he exited he cast a discreet breath-freshening charm.
When he arrived, he was greeted by Kingsley's secretary, Agnes. "He'll just be a moment—you weren't here, so Mr Bode popped in for a question," she said, referring to the head of the DMLE.
Harry had seen Merrick Bode several times over the holidays, and it was always awkward, since Bode had a knack for appearing at the worst possible moment. At the Fawley soirée, for example, all the guests arrived through the front door, and Bode turned up just as Harry was helping Narcissa remove her sumptuous fur-trimmed cloak. "Oh look, it's House Black," said Bode coolly. "Brought together by shared values." Or at the Ministry Ball, when he walked in on Harry and several friends in a side chamber, joking around. He and Hermione were making a game of glowing and sparking, and Bode said, "Light magic … I feel safer already."
Bode emerged from Kingsley's office a few minutes later, and his eyes narrowed when he saw Harry. "Come to ask a favour, have we? He certainly has a blind spot where you're concerned."
"Good afternoon," said Harry, not smiling. "And yes, perhaps he does." If Harry had really wanted to needle him, he could have mentioned his own long history with Kingsley—an oblique reference to Bode's absence from the Battle of Hogwarts. But he didn't want to burn more bridges, and Agnes broke the tension by sending him in.
"He's definitely not your biggest fan," said Kingsley, with a glance at the closed door.
"No, but he has a good reason not to like the Malfoys." Lucius had Imperiused Bode's brother to collect the prophecy orb—which rendered him insane—and then had him murdered when he began to recover.
Kingsley motioned for Harry to sit down, and they began with small talk. "I've said it before, but you're shockingly adept at politics. Are you sure you don't want to return to the Ministry after you're done with Quidditch?"
"May I remind you that I've posed for underwear adverts? I think I've pretty well torched my political career. My formal one, anyway."
"And your informal one?" asked Kingsley, tenting his fingers.
"I think you know the answer already."
Kingsley nodded. "I do. And I can't say I blame you—I didn't want to be Minister either. Although I don't have the ..." He hesitated, searching for the word. "The temperament for the backroom approach."
"I think you meant 'stomach,'" said Harry, with a wry smile.
"That too. And I suppose it's good one of us does." He glanced again at the door and said, "But Bode's not the only one at the Ministry who's tired of all the interference from Pratt's. And I should warn you, he's not pleased with your goblin campaign."
"So I've gathered," said Harry, who'd heard rumblings to that effect. "Do you know why?"
"He thinks you're being manipulated, and that Lucius Malfoy is behind it." Harry rolled his eyes, and Kingsley said, "He also thinks you have too much influence, and that you need to earn it first."
I sacrificed my bloody life—what more do you want? thought Harry, but he also knew Bode had a point. "This is about House Black, isn't it? And the fact that I quit the department."
"It is," said Kingsley. "And now Ron Weasley—he blames you for that as well."
"He's not entirely wrong. But for Merlin's sake, Ron'll still be helping the Ministry, and he's much more likely to develop Light magic this way. And unlike me, he's willing to come back and help with missions."
"Do you think that's likely? Hermione turned us down, and you've said you can't imagine using Light magic in combat."
"No, I can't. But Ron's his own man, and if anyone comes back, it'll be him."
They continued chatting until Kingsley said, "So, what's this favour you need? Oh, don't look at me like that—I really don't mind. Honestly, you haven't asked for much since you left."
"Right," said Harry, still embarrassed. "It's about Rob Dunning." He described what he knew about Rob's death and asked if Kingsley knew more. "Fiona never got closure, and I'm sure her son will want answers someday."
Kingsley frowned. "Rob Dunning ... I don't think I ever heard the details. There were so many investigations after the war, you know, and I didn't ask for a report unless it was important."
Mortified, Harry drew back. "I'm sorry, you're right—this is a waste of time, and I really shouldn't bother you. To be honest, Fiona didn't even ask—this is just me being nosy."
"Harry, no. Clearly this matters to you, and I'll be glad to enquire. And really, it's no bother." Harry began to protest, and Kingsley said, "Harry, don't let people like Bode convince you you're not helping anymore. You've put a stake through the Dark Arts in Britain—and abroad—and if your instinct tells you this is worth looking into, then I'll do it."
There was no dissuading him, and by the time Harry left, he wished he'd never come. Draco was right, he thought. I'd be better off not knowing. Kingsley was weirdly reverent about Harry's intuition, while Harry mostly felt confused. He brought it up with Davina that night, during their Light Arts lesson, and to his surprise she agreed with Kingsley.
"What exactly prompted you to enquire?" she asked.
"I don't know. I guess it just seemed like an opportunity to help, since I have so much pull at the Ministry. Although maybe not anymore," he said, thinking of Bode.
"Yes, you do," said Hermione. "And there's nothing wrong with wanting to help, if you're able."
"Right, but Fiona never even asked. Maybe I was just, I dunno, showing off."
"Maybe you were," said Davina. "Or maybe there's a deeper wisdom at work. Remember, almost nothing we do is decided in the moment. We're guided almost entirely by unconscious thought processes."
Harry glanced at Hermione, wondering if this was a good time to bring up the situation between Davina and her parents. "Er, that reminds me," he said, "I've been asked to deliver a message from Maisie LaDue."
Davina looked surprised. "You really got around during the holidays, didn't you?"
"You have no idea," he said wearily. "Anyway, she's worried that–" He paused, not wanting to accuse Davina of being a bad daughter. "She says your mum really wishes she had grandchildren, only she'll never contact you herself because she doesn't want to cross your dad. Something about their marriage bond."
Harry trailed off, reluctant to say more. But it was clear Davina understood, judging from her expression. She closed her eyes, and she suddenly looked much older. "She told you about it?"
"Yes. Apparently it forces your mum to agree with your dad about everything important. And she can't go behind his back, even if she wanted to."
Davina was silent, and Harry felt terrible for bringing it up. He glanced again at Hermione, who looked equally uncomfortable. After nearly a minute, Davina said, "I told you teachers aren't perfect, right?"
"Yes, more than once," said Hermione, obviously trying to reassure her.
Another long silence, and Davina said, "And we've talked about bypassing difficult emotions?"
Harry nodded. He still used sex that way, although not as much as before his celibacy vow. She'd told them bypassing was dangerous, because it allowed bad behaviour to flourish unchecked, but it was also an escape from trauma.
"You're lucky to have each other," she said. "I have wonderful friends in the Light Arts community. Peers, which are essential. But they're mainly abroad, and none of them know my family. My parents, that is."
She gave Harry and Hermione a long look and said, "I've known about my parents' marriage bond since I was a child, but I still don't fully understand how it affects them—my mum in particular. I only know what I've seen, which is that she always agrees with him. Not slavishly, like someone under the Imperius Curse," she said, noting Harry and Hermione's obvious horror. "No, it always seemed genuine, which is why I tend to forget she has opinions of her own."
Davina paused, then said, "She's very happy with him. In that respect the marriage bond is a tremendous success. And yes, I know she'd like grandchildren, but he feels so strongly about magic. I've always given them the opportunity to reach out, which they've never done. And I've apologised more than once for the tongue-lashing I gave him all those years ago."
"Not enough, according to Maisie," said Harry, and Davina sighed. It felt weird to rebuke her, like when he'd confronted Professor McGonagall about leaving him with the Dursleys. But Maisie had begged him to intervene on behalf of Davina's mum, and he'd agreed to help.
After another silence, Davina said, "I'm glad you're seeing this. And thank you for speaking up—when I started teaching, I swore I'd let my students criticise me."
"I'm not criticising," said Harry quickly, but Davina shook her head.
"No, this is good. But you need to understand that in some Light Arts circles, they don't question the teacher. And there's a value to that—some students cross the threshold into Light magic through total surrender. But it's a dangerous practice, for the teacher in particular, and I swore I'd avoid it."
Harry and Hermione looked nervously at each other again, and Hermione said, "What will you do about your parents, then?"
"I guess I need to apologise. Although I won't let my father insult my children or grandchildren—it's not their fault I rejected my birthright and married a Muggle." She let out a hollow laugh. "This is what pockets of unaddressed trauma look like, by the way. Shall we make it a teaching moment?"
The mood lightened, and she explained how to work with painful triggers. "It's a lifelong process, as you can see, and Light magic can make it a bit too easy to bury emotional pain. So, it's a balance. And Harry, you have a good opportunity with that portrait of yours, since you can slowly revisit painful memories together. I think you'll find it very therapeutic." Chuckling, she added, "Maybe I should get a portrait. I never did get my dowry, after all."
A few days later, Harry was pacing in front of Banthora, awaiting the delivery of his own portrait. "My dear, you have nothing to be nervous about," she assured him.
"So you claim. But wasn't it weird meeting the real Banthora the first time?"
"No, it was perfectly natural. I was born from her blood and magic—and the artist's hand, of course—and meeting her was like fitting together. We were two parts of the same whole."
"I hope Jamie sees me that way," said Harry. "I have to admit, I'm looking forward to having a new confidant. I know I have several already, including you, but ..."
Banthora smiled and said, "I understand. It's a special relationship, and over the years she and I grew even closer. And at the end, when she died, we were finally one. I don't know what her experience was, but mine was lovely."
Harry kept checking his watch—Louisa was coming at four, which Harry knew was a busy time at the joke shop. The last thing he wanted was for Ron to find out he had a portrait, and his plan was to hang it in his dressing room. There was even a special alcove with a panel to conceal it, and Harry was confident the portrait would be well hidden. As Hermione had said, "I can guarantee that no one who enters your wardrobe will look at that panel, with all those clothes to admire."
Louisa arrived on time, emerging awkwardly from the reception hall fireplace holding a large, cloth-covered frame. "Here, let me help you with that," said Harry, taking it from her and setting it on a stand.
"Thank you," said Louisa, cleaning the ashes from her robes. "Floo travel with a portrait is never easy, but I hate to shrink them when they're new."
The portrait was still covered in cloth, and Harry was impatient to see it. "Thanks for bringing it. Are you happy with how it came out?"
"I'm delighted!" she said. "I'll really miss using those brushes! It was like he painted himself—I'm convinced he'll be a true representation, once you fully imbue him."
Harry gestured towards the cloth and said, "Is there any reason to wait?"
"No, do the honours," she said, smiling.
Using his wand, he lifted the cloth away and vaguely folded it over a chair, but his eyes never left the sleeping portrait. Jamie was standing, just as Harry had posed, but his eyes were closed and his chest softly rose and fell. "Will he be comfortable like that?" Harry asked.
"Yes, he'll be fine. And if he isn't, there's a chair off to the side—out of view, along with his wardrobe. As you requested, I've given him a lot of leeway over his surroundings."
Harry had paid for the deluxe package, not wanting to relegate Jamie to cramped quarters. He was still embarrassed about the cost, but Fiona and Hermione had both insisted he do it. He was likely to have multiple portraits, they argued, and this would provide a comfortable home base.
"Shall I cast the voice charm?" he asked, still holding his wand.
"By all means!" She showed him the motion again, and he paused, allowing Light magic to fill him.
He pressed the wand to his throat, and with an exhale he said, "Vocem dare." His wand grew warm and glowed with a reddish light, then he pressed it to Jamie's throat. "Tibi orationem dono," he said, and the red light sank into the portrait.
Jamie blinked, and his eyes glanced about before resting on Harry. "Hello," he said, in a slightly unfamiliar voice. "Nice to meet you."
"It's nice to meet you," said Harry. "I'd like to call you Jamie, if that's all right."
Ignoring the question, Jamie studied Harry's robes. "I like those," he said. "Are they in the wardrobe?"
"They will be when you cast the acclimation charms," said Louisa to Harry. "Unless you want me to do them?"
"No, that's quite all right," said Harry, not wanting her to see either his wardrobe or his bed. "They seemed pretty straightforward."
Jamie was already peeking off to the side. "Which way to the other portraits?"
"Not yet, dear," said Louisa. "But don't worry, you'll get your turn—hopefully in a good long time."
"Wait, so I'm trapped?" asked Jamie, frowning.
Harry gave Louisa a panicked look, and she said, "This is normal—younger subjects are sometimes a bit antsy. But he'll settle down once you hang him somewhere private."
Both Harry and Jamie looked sceptical. "Are you sure? I can't have him running all over the place," said Harry, thinking of Ron.
"No, that never happens," she said. "He's bound to your will and your magic, which means he'll stay put."
Her confidence reassured him, and after reviewing the acclimation charms, he paid her the balance and she left. "So, upstairs?" he asked Jamie, as if the portrait had a choice.
Jamie shrugged and simply looked around, clearly interested in his new vantage point. "It's an odd way to travel," he said, as Harry levitated him from the room. "Oh look, there's Padfoot! Can I see him?"
"Er, all right," said Harry, freezing the painting in mid-air. The dog started barking and pressed his paws against the front of the canvas, and Jamie waved at him.
"Hello Padfoot! I can't wait to get in and pet you! I know Harry's been longing to do it, but it's not possible for him, since he's flesh and blood. But he had me painted, and I'll come see you later tonight. Do we have a deal?"
Padfoot barked again, wagging his tail, and Harry felt bad they wouldn't actually get to meet. Maybe in a hundred years, he thought, still amazed he might have a normal lifespan.
They continued upstairs, and Harry was relieved to reach the bedroom without Ron getting home. Mischief managed, he thought, but then he realised he could speak out loud—should do, in fact.
"Mischief managed," he said, closing the bedroom door. "I assume you know why I don't want Ron getting wind of you."
"Not really," said Jamie. "I know he used to be jealous of us, but he seems to be over it. I mean, come on, he's figured out by now that we're not poor, and I'm sure he'll get a portrait too someday."
"Yeah, but he'll definitely take the piss. And Merlin help me if Janet finds out."
"Janet is a riot," said Jamie with another shrug. "I hope she finds out."
This isn't the perfect fit Banthora was describing, Harry thought. "Er, here's your alcove," he said, levitating the painting into his dressing room.
Jamie glanced about the room and looked satisfied. "I'm so glad we have the bigger wardrobe now. The old one was so cramped and depressing."
"I wouldn't call it depressing," said Harry. "And it had plenty of room for my clothes. Er, our clothes," he said, mindful of how Jamie spoke. "But Kreacher insisted we use this one, and at least it's no longer a shrine to Walburga."
"Oh right, can you bring me to the joke shop? I want to tell her off in person. And when can I go on the radio? Can Padfoot come too?"
Time to nip this in the bud, thought Harry, pulling out the parchment Louisa had given him. "First, let's get you into your alcove," he said, raising the panel. It resized to accommodate the frame, and Harry was pleased by how well it fit.
"Cheers," said Jamie. "Now give me access to the clothes. After all, why should you have all the fun?"
Jamie's tone was more playful than demanding, but it still made Harry uneasy. "Er, all right," he said, casting the appropriate charm. Ghostly versions of all his clothes and accessories floated into the portrait, where they disappeared from the frame.
"Brilliant!" said Jamie. "You should see the wardrobe in here—she gave us plenty of room. So don't be shy about replenishing!"
"Actually, I made a New Year's resolution not to buy new clothes for a while," said Harry.
"Are you joking? That's complete bollocks! I mean, face it, we look good in fitted robes, and women love the whole dandy thing."
"That's true—Fiona certainly does," said Harry, emphasising her name.
"And others too," said Jamie, with a knowing look. "You know as well as I do they'll hang our portrait all over Britain: Hogwarts, the Ministry, you name it. So we'll have pretty much unlimited access."
"I'm not sure how our wife will feel about that," said Harry, growing more worried by the moment. He hastened to perform the acclimation charms, and the final step was to put Jamie to sleep, with the same charm they used on Walburga.
Jamie's eyes fell shut and he stood in place, fast asleep. Mischief managed, thought Harry again, not saying it aloud. He lowered the panel covering the portrait, then turned towards the mirror to tidy his appearance.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" came a muffled voice behind him.
Harry spun around, his wand raised. "What?"
"Oi, in here! Are you seriously locking me in a cupboard?"
You were supposed to be asleep! he thought in a panic, then raised the panel. "What's going on? Why are you awake?"
"Because it's half four and I'm not a hundred," retorted Jamie. "Why are you awake?"
Because it's half four and I'm not a hundred. "Because I'm flesh and blood, and not a portrait who just got put to sleep."
Harry realised too late that "put to sleep" was not the best choice of words. "Brilliant," said Jamie, rolling his eyes. "You're going to euthanise me before locking me in a cupboard. I'm surprised Uncle Vernon never thought of that."
It was strange talking to someone who shared his memories of the Dursleys. "I'm sorry, I really don't want to treat you that way. It's just ... portraits are supposed to sleep until the subject dies, except when I specifically want to talk to you."
"Maybe, but people are supposed to die when they're hit with the Killing Curse. Only we didn't get the memo, did we?"
"Are you complaining?" asked Harry, staring at him.
"God no! The past six months have been fantastic! But now you're asking me to hole myself up for the next hundred years? No thanks, mate."
"But you're a portrait! Obviously I wouldn't do that to a real person—and yes, I know you're sentient. But even Banthora didn't mind waiting for the original Banthora to die."
"Right, but let's just compare Banthora's life to ours," said Jamie. "It's not like she was having much fun in the first place—not until we turned up, anyway." He wandered out of the frame and said, "What's the point of having all these outfits if I can't go anywhere?"
"They're for later!" stammered Harry. "So you don't have to wear the same robes for the next thousand years."
"But aren't you planning to age me up?"
"Well, yeah, that's the plan." Louisa had explained how an artist could touch up Jamie to match Harry's appearance as he matured.
"So, they mightn't even fit," argued Jamie. "Because let's face it, you're not always going to play for the Cannons, and you're bound to put on weight after you retire. At least you get to wear all those robes and be seen in them, while I'm just waiting around this whole time. And then you'll have some artist fatten me up and make me bald just to match you."
"But you'll have all my memories! You were painted with my blood, so we'll stay in sync."
"Memories aren't the same," said Jamie, folding his arms. "Take Lydia. What was it like, dating her?"
Harry was flooded with images and sensations, mostly pleasant, but also twinged with guilt. "We had some good times," he said. "Remember taking her to meet Walburga? Or that letter we wrote to her dad? Or when we proposed never to marry her?"
"Yeah, but I also remember turning up an hour late with our robes buttoned wrong, and how angry she was. And I don't know what it's like for you, but for me it's all ... theoretical. Like something I read in a book."
Louisa had warned Harry that the portrait would have his memories but not the emotional context, and that he'd have to impart it over time. "Hang on," said Harry. "Then why did you describe the last six months as fantastic, if it's all theoretical to you?"
"Because I've spent the last few weeks with Louisa, and she's given me her impressions, remember?"
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and kneaded his brow. No wonder he's a flaming hedonist—that's what everyone thinks of me. "Right," he said, "I should go talk to her."
"What, so she can tell you how to trap me?" blurted Jamie, his eyes large with emotion. "I'd have thought you'd understand," he continued, blinking poignantly. Harry almost expected a tear to form, but it didn't, which somehow made things worse. "After all, you weren't allowed to live either. You were just someone else's tool, same as me."
For a moment Harry felt wretched, until realisation dawned. "You Slytherin bastard," he said, and the portrait laughed. "Look, I'll talk to Louisa and see if there's a solution that won't make you miserable, all right?"
"Fine. But don't expect me to stay put."
Harry left the wardrobe and dashed downstairs. "Banthora, are you there?" he called, running into the dining room.
"Yes, what is it? Are you all right?"
"It's Jamie," he said, catching his breath. "I don't think he's normal. When I put him to sleep and shut him away, he woke up and started complaining. And he's not content to wait until I'm dead—he wants to start running around now."
Banthora put a hand to her chest. "Great Salazar, are you serious? I've never heard of such a thing!"
"I know, neither have I. Anyway, I'm off to see Louisa—can you keep an eye on him?"
"I have no idea. Normally you can't enter a frame while the original subject is still living."
"Then maybe he can't get out?" said Harry hopefully. "But if he's so antsy, that would be torture. Ugh, I need to talk to Louisa—see you later!"
Harry was reluctant to barge into Louisa's studio, as he normally did for a sitting, so he poked his head through the fireplace instead. "Excuse me? Are you there?"
He heard footsteps, and moments later she appeared. "Harry, is everything all right?"
"Er, it's a little complicated. May I come through?"
She ushered him in, and after dusting off his robes he explained the problem. Her eyes widened in alarm, and he feebly concluded, "Have you ever seen this before?"
"No, I certainly haven't. Are you sure you cast the sleeping charm properly?"
"Yes, I've used it heaps of times on Walburga." He ran a hand through his hair and said, "This isn't a Light magic thing, is it? I thought you researched that."
"I did," said Louisa, deep lines etching her forehead. "They've painted scores of Light Arts practitioners, and no one's reported this kind of thing. When the living subject tells a portrait to sleep, it sleeps, full stop."
"So, they don't complain or put up a fight?"
"Maybe a little at first. And honestly, that's a sign of deep sentience, which was what we were going for. That's why I used your hair–"
"Bugger! My hair!" cried Harry. "That has to be it!"
"Oh my god," she exclaimed, hurrying towards her easel. "I was about to destroy them, just as we agreed," she said, opening the box with the paintbrushes she'd crafted.
Harry stared at the brushes as if they might attack him. "Is that a new technique?" he asked, wondering if any of his ancestors had had the same problem.
"Not in Italy," she said hoarsely. "But hardly anyone uses it in England." Gesturing weakly at his head, she said, "You called it Potter hair, right?"
He nodded, and for a moment they were both silent. Merlin forbid I could ever be normal, he thought sourly.
She lifted a brush from the box and studied it from several angles. "They were so easy to work with. They were positively eager to paint your portrait."
"Now we know why," said Harry with a hollow laugh. "So, what do we do?"
Louisa took a long breath. "He's sentient. Highly sentient, by the looks of things, otherwise he could never shake off your sleep charm. That's basically the portrait equivalent of throwing off the Imperius Curse."
I was able to throw off the Imperius Curse, Harry thought. Was that because of my hair?
"Is there at least some way to contain him?" he asked. "Confine him to only a few portraits?" It sounded wrong as he said it, and Louisa shook her head.
"Not unless you want to move house, or get rid of most of the portraits."
"No, Banthora's really popular now—I could never send away all her friends." Harry sighed again and said, "He's probably running around as we speak."
"That's unlikely—he's still locked in that frame, like we did with Walburga. In fact, he's probably very frustrated right now." She looked stricken. "Harry, I'm so sorry! I'm clearly the one at fault—at the very least I can refund you ..."
"Rubbish," he said. "You did all that work, and you had no reason to believe this would happen."
She persisted, and she even tried to give back his final payment, which he refused. "It's not your fault my life is completely mental," said Harry with finality. "I should go home and let him out."
He returned to Grimmauld Place and stopped first in the dining room, where Banthora's portrait hung. "How did it go?" she asked.
Harry grimaced and said, "I reckon you'll be meeting him soon. Although maybe he'll go see Padfoot first—would you care for a wager?"
"Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. I know you wanted to keep him private for a good many years."
"Since when have I had privacy?" he shrugged. "I'll live. Be nice to him, all right?"
She assured him she would, and as he went upstairs he realised how pleasant this would be for her. They can finally hug, thought Harry, a little envious.
"Hiya, Harry," called Ron, sprinting around him. "I won't be here a moment—just a quick change of clothes, then I'm off to see Janet."
"Right, have fun," he said, not bothering to ask whether Janet would stay the night. Of course she will. Sod's sodding law guarantees it.
As expected, Jamie was frantic when Harry returned. "You're going to let me out, right? You weren't lying just now, were you?"
Harry realised Jamie had already acquired his recent memories but couldn't read his thoughts. "Yes, just give me a moment," he said, and he belatedly called on his Light magic. It didn't entirely help—he still felt unsettled—but he knew he was doing the right thing.
"I won't share our secrets," said Jamie, and some of the tension in Harry's jaw relaxed. "What's left of them, anyway. I just want to have fun, same as you."
Harry's jaw tensed again, and he wondered whether paintings could get pregnant. "Er, just be careful," he said uneasily, and he cast the charm to unlock Jamie's frame. "By the way, Jamie ... welcome. I look forward to getting to know you."
"Oh, that reminds me," said the portrait. "It's all right if you call me Jamie, but I'm thinking of using another name when I'm out and about."
"Not Harry, I hope! That might get confusing."
A roguish smile crossed Jamie's lips, and he adjusted his cravat in an unseen mirror. "I was thinking Silvercock," he said. "Or Lord Silvercock, if I'm feeling cheeky. What better way to take the piss out of the lords, am I right?"
Sweet bloody Salazar, I am completely fucked, thought a horrified Harry, watching his painted counterpart dash from the frame.
