"You don't need to do this," said Fiona, as Harry picked nervously at his lunch. "It's within your rights never to set foot in the DOM for as long as you live."
"I can't back out now," he said, nudging a carrot with his fork. "Not after pulling so many strings just to get the meeting. And really, I'll be fine."
Fiona glared at him and said, "I might believe you if we hadn't slept in the same bed last night. And I use the word 'sleep' loosely, given how many nightmares you had."
"I'm sorry," he began, but she cut him off.
"I'm not upset—I just hate seeing you like this."
"Really, it's all right. I'm not the same person I was back then, and it'll probably be good for me to rip off the plaster. And at least Hermione will be there."
When Harry first told Ron and Hermione he was going to back to the DOM to investigate Rob Dunning's death, they exchanged a nervous look. Ron said, "Mate, I'm not sure that's a good idea," and Hermione blurted, "Are you mad!?" They both wanted to accompany him, but Harry was reluctant to bring two guests, so they agreed Hermione should do it.
"She'll ask better questions," said Ron. "And honestly, I could do without ever seeing those brains again."
After lunch in Muggle London with Fiona, Harry went home and changed into robes. Jamie was absent, so there was no one to comment until he met Hermione in the Ministry Atrium.
"Interesting choice," she said, observing his outfit. "Did you wear battle robes on purpose?"
"What? These aren't battle robes!" he said, looking down at them.
She rolled her eyes and said, "I sometimes despair of your education. Look at that embroidery—those are protective sigils. And the number of buttons: seven down the front and three at each cuff."
"That hardly constitutes battle robes!"
"Then what about the dragon hide waistcoat? And your Lucius Malfoy boots?"
"They're comfortable," he said primly. "And besides, you're not exactly dressed for a garden party." Hermione's hair was in a wild cloud, and she wore all black, including platform-heeled boots he'd never seen before. "Are those new?" he asked.
"My cousin made me buy them," she said, clearly embarrassed. "I suppose I wanted to feel taller."
They took the lift down to level nine, and Harry braced himself as the grilles slid open. But instead of the torchlit corridor that still haunted his dreams, they emerged into a sun-filled room with a desk and a disconcertingly friendly-looking witch.
"Good afternoon, Mr Potter-Black, Miss Granger," she said brightly. "And yes, you're on the right floor."
"Wow, you've really fixed the place up," said Harry, admiring the large floral arrangement in front of the window. "Not on our account, I hope."
"Actually, yes," said the witch. "Your breach in '96 triggered a thorough audit of DOM security, which I'm sure you'll recall was rather lax. Admittedly, there was a deliberate effort to lure you here, and several key security measures were bypassed, but we've made things much tighter than before." She indicated a large book on the desk. "For example, I'm sure you didn't sign the register."
Hermione let out a hollow laugh. "No, certainly not. Do you want us to sign it now?"
"Yes, if you please. In fact, it's required, since there are multiple enchantments on it." She offered Hermione a quill and said, "Use this."
Harry raised his arm to stop her. "What kind of quill is that?" he asked, frowning.
"It's a modified blood quill. But don't worry, it won't hurt."
"I'm not worried it'll hurt," said Harry, still suspicious. "Why do you need my blood?"
"To confirm your identity. It's either that or a Thief's Downfall, which I assume you'd rather avoid."
Harry glanced down at his robes, which he didn't fancy getting drenched. "Will you retain his blood?" asked Hermione.
"No, it's consumed in the verification process. All that remains in the register are traces of iron and albumin," said the witch, showing them a page full of pale grey signatures.
"Hermione, what do you think?"
Predictably, she had questions about the verification process, and after several minutes she was satisfied. "It's very thorough," she admitted, signing her name. "I almost wish it could be used more widely, to root out people under the Imperius Curse, but of course it's a terrible violation of civil liberties. Although I can't help wondering what effect it might have had during the war," she said, examining the quill. "We could never have Polyjuiced our way into the Ministry, but it probably wouldn't have fallen in the first place."
"This week, if you don't mind," he said, taking the quill and signing the register.
"Yes, of course, sorry."
They watched their signatures fade from a deep red to the same grey as all the others. "That's you sorted," said the witch, closing the register. "You can go in now."
An ominous black door appeared behind her, looking very unlike the rest of the room. "Now that's the DOM I remember," said Harry uncomfortably. "Will we know which way to go?"
"Yes, just wait for the chamber to finish rotating, then go straight ahead."
Harry and Hermione thanked her and walked slowly to the door. "Are you ready?" Hermione asked quietly.
"I guess so. And thanks for coming—I'd have turned tail as soon I saw that quill."
He opened the door, and they entered the black, circular room lit by eerie blue flames. "I wonder who keeps it clean," Hermione mused, looking down at the marble floor. "Dark floors tend to show dirt, and rubber-soled shoes are bound to leave marks."
"Nervous, are we? That's a lot of overthinking, even for you."
Before she could reply, the room began to spin, and she grabbed his hand. "Oh lord, this," she groaned.
Harry held her hand tightly, not letting go until after the spinning stopped. "Onwards," he said, walking straight ahead.
He pushed the door open and they entered what looked like a study. "Come in," said a wizard, who was seated at a small round table. "Mr Potter-Black, Miss Granger, please have a seat. My name's Oberon Tate, and this is Bentley," he said, indicating the grey-haired, steely-eyed witch at his side.
Tate was a portly wizard in late middle age, with grizzled hair and a deep brown complexion. Harry and Hermione sat down, and he waited for Bentley to say something—her first name, perhaps—but she remained silent.
"Thank you for allowing us to come," said Harry. "I know this isn't the usual protocol."
"It certainly isn't," said Tate. "And I hope you understand this is all classified. We can't have DOM secrets announced on the radio, after all."
"Of course not," said Harry, embarrassed by the suggestion. "But may I tell Fiona what I learn today? The whole reason I'm here is to get her some answers."
"You won't learn much. And I'd advise you to keep things vague, lest you give her false hope. Because trust me, there's none to be had."
Hermione was frowning. "Then why are you afraid that knowing the truth would give her her false hope?"
Tate looked at Bentley and gave a curt nod. "Not that he isn't actually dead, because he definitely is," she said. "But the circumstances were unusual, which might lead her to believe he's … retrievable."
"Retrievable!" Hermione blurted, and Harry's heart began to race. No, that's impossible! he thought, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.
"He isn't," said Tate firmly. "We did a full investigation at the time, and there was no bringing him back."
"At the time, like during the war?" said Hermione. "Couldn't someone have hindered it?"
"Yes, and they did. Augustus Rookwood, in fact. But we reopened the case last year and reached the same conclusion. Rob Dunning is gone for good."
Harry's throat was too dry for him to speak, but apparently Hermione's wasn't. "Bentley used the word 'dead,' but I notice you're saying 'gone.' Which is it?"
"Both," said Tate. He turned to Harry and said, "I understand you've been inside the Death Chamber."
Spots clouded Harry's field of vision, and he grabbed Hermione's hand beneath the table. Help me! he thought, fearing a full-blown panic attack. But her hand was comforting, and somehow he expanded into awareness.
"Yes, I've been there," he rasped. "Is that where he ... died?"
Tate nodded. "There were no witnesses, but we know he was pulled through the Veil."
"How can you know that?" asked Hermione.
"His wand. He must have dropped it when he fell through."
"I still can't believe he fell," said Bentley. "He wasn't clumsy like that."
"He mightn't have literally fallen," said Tate. "As you know, the Veil can be very compelling."
Harry sighed, recalling the voices drawing him closer. Luna had heard them too, and only Hermione's warning pulled them back.
"Yes, and Dunning knew that as well," countered Bentley. "For Merlin's sake, that's basic training! If you want my opinion–"
Tate cut her off. "Rookwood was cleared. No one pushed him."
"I know that," said Bentley, rubbing her forehead. "I was going to say, I think his research somehow played a role."
"That's pure conjecture," said Tate. "By all appearances, it was a dead end. Literally, in his case."
Harry's panic had receded, and he asked, "What was his research about? And Bentley, why do you think it played a role?"
"Light magic," she said. "Specifically love, and whether it could help end the war."
"Not officially," said Tate. "He was nominally researching something else, which gave him access to certain DOM resources. We only learnt the real nature of his research after he died."
There was silence as Harry and Hermione took it in. It was a good idea, he thought, and he wondered if Rob was secretly a Light wizard. Fiona had never mentioned it, but if it was part of Rob's work he might have been forbidden from telling her.
Hermione finally spoke. "Did he work in the Love Room?" she asked, referring to the locked chamber they'd encountered during their visit. Both Unspeakables nodded, and Hermione said, "Can we see it?"
Harry was shocked she even asked, but his entire body hummed with the longing to go there. Pure love, he thought, barely able to hide his pleasure.
"That's not the protocol," said Tate. "I'm afraid the answer is no."
"But we're Light Arts practitioners," Hermione persisted. "And Harry ... he's practically the living embodiment of love. I don't know if anyone's currently researching it, but surely they'd want to get readings or something."
"What about Jester?" said Bentley, and Tate frowned. Indicating Harry, she said, "Oh come on, look at him. He's clearly a Light Arts prodigy—Jester would give her eyeteeth to study him, even for a few hours."
The words "study him" shook Harry from his trance; Owen had frequently taunted him for being a freak and suggested the DOM lock him up for study. "As much as I'd like to see the Love Room," Harry began, "I'm here to get answers for Fiona. All I've learned so far is that Rob was researching Light magic and that he fell through the Veil, just like Sirius Black. Only no one cursed him first," he added, thinking of Bellatrix Lestrange.
"But why did you warn us about false hope?" asked Hermione.
"I saw two avenues for false hope," said Tate. "One is the Light Arts connection. Forgive me for being blunt, but it's a bit overhyped these days. As far as I know, it's never brought anyone back from the dead."
Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, but neither of them spoke. My case was probably unique, thought Harry, and he was relieved Tate didn't know the details.
"And the other avenue?" Hermione prompted.
"Fishing him out of the Veil somehow. Sirius Black wasn't the first person to cross through—not even close. But everyone seems to think you can just pull them back."
"Why not?" said Harry defiantly. "No one could ever explain why—they just said he was gone, full stop. But we don't even know what curse she used on him, or whether it was fatal."
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione explained. "She cursed him, then he fell through."
Harry's heart was racing again, and he said, "I wanted to go after him, but they held me back. I still think I could have rescued him."
"No, you'd have fallen in too," said Tate. "No one escapes from the Veil—not without defying death entirely. Which can't be done."
I did it, thought Harry, setting his jaw. Maybe I could have retrieved him, thanks to Voldemort taking my blood.
"Where does that leave us, then?" asked Hermione. "It sounds like there's nothing more to know about how Rob Dunning died, but perhaps there's some value in having Harry and me visit the Love Room."
Harry's emotions were in chaos, but he felt a deep pull on his Light magic. "That might be nice," he admitted.
"Not today," said Tate. "We'll need to see what Jester thinks, since it's her domain. And we're not in the habit of giving tours."
By the time they left, Harry had ceded the conversation entirely to Hermione—between the revelations about Rob and the reminders of Sirius, he was ready for a stiff drink. If Hermione hadn't insisted on staying with him he'd have gone straight to Pratt's, or even to Malfoy Manor. But they went back to Grimmauld Place instead.
He flopped onto one of the drawing room sofas. "Care for some Firewhisky?" he asked. "Personally, I could use a good, long swig right about now."
"It's awfully early," said Hermione, with a glance at the window.
Without sitting up, Harry flicked his wand towards the pallid beam of sunlight, swallowing it into darkness. "Mischief managed," he said. "Can I drink now?"
She laughed and said, "I see you've finally found a use for the Black family magic. And yes, go ahead."
Within minutes his throat was pleasantly aflame, and Harry felt himself relax. "Light magic is brilliant, but it has its limits."
"Does it?" she asked. "I thought you handled yourself well today, all things considered."
Harry let out a hollow laugh. "Clearly you were at a different meeting than I was. All I remember is wanting to jump through the Veil to see if Sirius was still alive, only I didn't in case Rob Dunning popped out instead."
"That won't happen," said Hermione. "You heard them—no one survives the Veil."
"Yeah, and no one survives the Killing Curse," Harry muttered. "God, what if I were still Master of Death? Not that we ever figured out what that meant."
She stared at him in shock. "You can't be suggesting what I think you are!"
"I don't know—what am I suggesting?"
"Rescuing Sirius? Or Rob? I honestly don't know, but something completely daft and Gryffindor."
"Relax, I'm a Slytherin," said Harry, pouring another drink. "The real question is: what do I tell Fiona?"
"That Rob fell through the Veil, same as Sirius. And that he was researching Light magic, to try to end the war."
"But should I tell her we're going back? We agreed to go back, right? I can scarcely remember."
"That all depends on Jester, whoever that is," said Hermione. "But do you want to go back?"
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the Love Room. "Yes, absolutely," he said, feeling a pleasure that eclipsed the Firewhisky. "But won't that be weird for Fiona? Me retracing her husband's steps? I'm already sleeping in his bed and shagging his widow."
"Harry, I can say with confidence you've never retraced anyone else's steps," said Hermione, and she patiently eased his fears. By the time she left, Harry had stopped drinking and decided what to tell Fiona: what he'd learned about Rob's death, that he would visit the Love Room if invited, and nothing about his minor breakdown regarding Sirius.
When Harry saw her after his lesson with Simon—a trip to a jazz club—he was perfectly calm and collected. Which was fortunate, since Fiona was upset by the news about Rob.
"He fell through a stone arch?" she exclaimed.
"Or got drawn into it. It has that effect on some people."
"And he knew it was dangerous?"
"Well, yeah. Apparently they warn you about it in Unspeakable training."
A storm seemed to gather around her, and for a moment Harry feared accidental magic. "Robert Dunning, you bloody imbecile!" she cried out. "You got sucked through a stone arch they fucking warned you about?"
"Er, I'm sure he wasn't being careless," said Harry, hoping to calm her down.
"Of course he was being careless! He was born with his nose in a book, for Merlin's sake!"
"Er, should I cast a muffling charm?" he said, with a glance upstairs. "I'd hate for Matthew to wake up."
"Good point," said Fiona, lowering her voice. "He might be dreaming about his father, which is the only way he'll ever interact with him. Since he fell through a bloody arch," she spat out.
Harry did his best to soothe her, and she eventually burst into tears. "It's all so pointless," she said between sobs. "In spite of everything, I still wanted to believe he died for something important, or that his death threw the balance somehow. I mean, I knew it didn't, and that it was all a stupid waste, but to have it confirmed ..."
"Hush," said Harry, holding her close. "You can't know that."
"Yes, I can. Let's face it, you're the only reason the war ended. You and Ron and Hermione."
"That's not true," Harry said sharply. "Over the last I-don't-know-how-many months, I've heard story after story from people who wanted to help us but didn't know how. Some of them found huge ways to help, like Marcus Waite infiltrating the MBRC. Or tiny ways, like Gemma, just trying to stay alive. But I know now that every last one of them made a difference, and I definitely couldn't have done it without them."
Fiona scoffed and said, "That's just your Light magic talking."
"Yes, and that's why I know it's true. We're all connected, and everything counts." He spoke forcefully, and Fiona looked startled. "I don't know why Rob had to die, or Sirius, or so many others. But we can't pick and choose our reality, and their deaths are a part of it. That doesn't make it good, but there it is. And if Rob's death was pointless, then that's meaningful too. Maybe a pointless death was exactly what needed to happen."
He continued to hold her as she wept, and he felt his own tears as well. It's all love, he thought, and he remembered the song lyric his tutor had played him: If I never loved, I never would have cried.
"We won because of love," he said. "We're crying because of love."
They eventually went upstairs, and only later did he tell her he might return to the DOM. "Of course they'll want to study you," she said tenderly. "You're love personified. Someday they'll probably hang your portrait there as well."
"Do you think Jamie would go there now? At least they'd keep him a secret—I'm scared to let people into the house with him running around."
"Harry, just give up. He won't stay a secret, and you can't let him keep you from living your life."
"I could bribe him," Harry mused, ignoring her. "He's been asking for a sword."
"Give up!" she laughed. "Besides, isn't your cousin coming over tomorrow?"
"Ugh, you're right." Lisa's brother Seth had just turned seventeen, and Harry was bringing him to Pratt's. "Lisa made me promise to lend him something to wear, and I'm sure Jamie will ambush us."
According to Lisa, Seth was an aspiring dandy who idolised his famous cousin, which made Harry nervous. But Jamie took it in stride—when Harry was getting ready, the portrait said, "We are the coolest cousin ever, taking Seth to the Boudoir. Not even Sirius was that cool."
"He was a fugitive!" Harry argued. "And can you really see him at Pratt's? I'm sure he hated the place."
"True, but he could have taken us somewhere Muggle, or at least given us dating advice. But he didn't even teach us to charm our trousers! That was straight up negligence, if you ask me."
This wasn't the first time Jamie had criticised Sirius, which Harry found unsettling. Not that anything he said was untrue, but it felt wrong to complain. "May I point out you wouldn't even exist if Sirius hadn't made us Head of House?" said Harry. "That's the only reason I was painted this young."
"The family magic chose us," said Jamie, flourishing his wand. "And even if we weren't Head of House, we'd have been painted young regardless. We defeated Voldemort, remember?"
"Yes, I was there. And unlike you, I know what it felt like."
Jamie huffed in frustration. "Then tell me about it! How do you expect me to act more like you when you won't even share your thoughts?"
"Because you don't listen! I've told you any number of times I'm in love with Fiona, but you just shrug it off and keep shagging the other paintings."
"Oh, come off it—you know full well there's a part of you that still wants to sleep around."
"Yes, and apparently he's hanging on the wall," Harry grumbled. "How long do I have to date Fiona before you finally catch on I'm not a manwhore anymore?"
"Talk to me in six months. Although I make no promises—apparently I'm unique amongst portraits. Potter hair, you know."
"Don't remind me," said Harry, looking in the mirror. "At least Seth isn't cursed with it. Speaking of Seth, can I persuade you to lay low for the night?" Harry's tone was casual, but he desperately hoped Jamie would keep out of the way.
"Yeah, that's fine. I have a date with that wood nymph I was telling you about. And let me tell you, she lives up to the name. Five seconds and bam—I'm ready!"
On his way downstairs, Harry reviewed his plans for the evening: First we'll have dinner at Pratt's, then a tour through the lounge to meet the regulars, then I'll show him the door to the Boudoir. Harry didn't plan to accompany him, not wanting a repeat of his disastrous first visit, so he'd paid for Seth's night in advance, and Madame LaLouche knew he was coming. "Do not worry for your young cousin," she wrote. "My girls are experts in the art of initiation, and by morning he will be well-schooled in the ways of love."
Lucky kid, Harry thought, remembering his own seventeenth birthday. Hedwig and Moody had just died, and he couldn't even seek comfort with Ginny, since they'd nominally broken up. And after the war, his own "initiation" was clouded by grief, with the Battle of Hogwarts scarcely a week behind them. But Seth was coming of age during peacetime, and Harry renewed his wish to prevent the next war.
His cousin arrived right on time, looking decidedly nervous. "I'm still not convinced this isn't a prank," he said, looking around the corner. "Lisa, you can come out now!"
"It's not a prank," said Harry. "Er, happy birthday."
Still unconvinced, Seth said, "But the club's not really called Pratt's, right? Surely Lisa invented that bit."
Harry told him it was all true, and Seth took a long, deep breath. "You're really paying for the entire night?" he asked, almost reverently.
"Yes. It's what I would have wanted my first time."
Seth's jaw tightened. "It's not my first time. I mean, not entirely."
"No, of course not," said Harry, stifling a smirk. "Is that what you're wearing, or do you still want to borrow robes?"
Seth was delighted to borrow robes, and he took his time choosing. "Are we going anywhere else tonight?" he asked casually. "Somewhere public?"
"Er, did you have somewhere in mind?"
"Penumbra? I thought it might be cool to meet Alistair."
"God, no!" Harry exclaimed. "It's bad enough I'm taking you to Pratt's, but your parents would kill me if I introduced you to a vampire."
"They wouldn't have to know," Seth argued. "Maybe Kreacher could disguise me?"
"I'm sorry, but no. I really can't bring you there."
"Oh well, worth a try," said Seth, pulling out a set of robes. "May I wear these?"
They weren't Harry's most formal robes, but near to it, and Kreacher lengthened them to fit. Bugger, he looks better than I do, thought Harry sourly—Seth was still a bit gawky, but he had elegant features and resembled the Blacks of yore. And after tonight he'll have more of a swagger.
Harry introduced Seth to Banthora on their way out, and they left through the fireplace. Seth was afraid he'd start laughing when he said "Pratt's," but they arrived without incident and signed the register at the front desk.
"I'm probably the first Wipperham student ever to set foot here," he said, returning the quill to its stand. "I'm surprised I haven't caught fire yet."
The clerk was too professional to laugh, but Harry saw the amusement in his eyes. "I hope you'll enjoy your visit, Mr Black," he said.
"I'm sure I will." Seth turned to Harry and said, "So, where to?"
Harry proposed eating dinner first, knowing Seth would appreciate not feeling stuffed when he went to the Boudoir. "I can introduce you to any number of geezers," he said quietly as they walked to the dining room, "or we can save that for later, in the lounge."
"Let's save it for later. I still have questions for you, if you don't mind."
"Er, all right," said Harry uncertainly, and they found a table and sat down.
Fearing questions about sex, Harry was almost relieved when Seth asked him about the war. "I know you survived the first Killing Curse because of your mum, but what exactly happened the second time? How come you didn't actually die?"
Harry gave his usual vague answer about how Voldemort had stolen his blood, which preserved his mother's sacrifice. It didn't cover the Horcrux, but most people were satisfied by it.
Seth, however, was not. "That can't be the whole story," he said. "What about the Elder Wand?"
"Well, yes, that played a role as well. It turned out I was its true master, so it was unwilling to kill me."
Leaning closer, Seth said, "What about your Invisibility Cloak? That's also a Deathly Hallow, right?"
Harry had never announced his Cloak was a Hallow, but it was common knowledge he owned an Invisibility Cloak and that it was old and exceptionally powerful. "Yes, but it wasn't actually created by Death," he said, anticipating the next question. "Just by a very clever wizard."
"Still, you had two of the three." In a whisper, he added, "And the Stone too, right?" Harry was silent, and Seth said, "You're Master of Death."
"There's no such thing," he said, knowing it was too late to cast a privacy charm. If someone's eavesdropping, casting a charm right now would only prove their suspicions.
"Are you sure? Surviving the Killing Curse sounds pretty 'Master of Death' to me. And what about how lucky you've been since the war ended?"
"I don't have the Stone, and I destroyed the Wand," said Harry, but his mind latched onto Seth's theory. I'm not still Master of Death, am I? And what does that even mean?
"But you used to have the Stone, right?"
Harry was starting to wish Seth would just ask him about sex. "The Stone is useless," he said, dodging the question. "I can see why someone would want the Wand, and obviously I'm fond of the Cloak, but the Stone is a trap." Harry described the Mirror of Erised, in a ploy to change the subject, and fortunately it worked.
"You saw your parents?" said Seth, visibly moved.
"And grandparents, and other relations. Obviously I didn't know I had cousins, or maybe the Mirror didn't think fifth cousins were close enough to count." Harry smirked, imagining if the Mirror had shown him a beaming Draco Malfoy.
"I wonder what I would have seen," Seth mused. "When I was eleven it would probably have been a full set of Chocolate Frog Cards, or maybe a racing broom."
"And now?"
Seth didn't blush, but his expression spoke volumes. "Probably what'll happen later tonight," he admitted. "Although it'll just be one witch, right?"
"That's right," said Harry, laughing. "And yes, I know I'm a hypocrite, but I'm sure one will be plenty."
After dinner, Harry took Seth to the lounge, and the members shared tales of their own first visit to the Boudoir. "It was during Grindelwald's War," said Reginald Baxter, "and the place was packed with Germans. I was shocked, although not enough to leave. But when we were alone, Lucette—I'll never forget her name—said she was a proud citoyenne and was helping the resistance by prying secrets from her clients."
"I'm sure she told her German clients the same thing, only the other way round," said Silas Yawton, sipping a glass of wine.
"You're probably right, but, oh, she was a master of her craft! She could have uncovered all my secrets, if I'd had any." He closed his eyes a moment, then said, "I looked for her after the war, when I was twenty-one, but she wasn't there anymore. They told me she'd married and gone to America, but that's what they say about all the witches there."
Some of the wizards nodded, and one raised his glass to "Chantal," which launched a series of similar toasts. "You're a lucky wizard, Black," said Xanthus Fawley, "with Potter footing the bill even though you're only distantly related."
"Anything to make wizarding Britain more egalitarian," said Harry dryly, glancing at the clock. "Seth, are you ready?"
Seth drained the glass of wine someone had offered him. "I think so," he squeaked, and everyone laughed. "Yes, definitely," he said in a deeper voice.
Harry escorted him to the doorway leading to the Boudoir. "There's nothing to be nervous about," he said. "And I'll meet you here in the morning, to lead you back through the club."
Stammering his thanks, Seth opened the door and stepped through it. Now what? thought Harry. He wasn't seeing Fiona that night, to give Matthew a break, but he didn't want to go home yet either.
You could visit Alistair, came the thought. Seth had planted the idea, first by asking to go to Penumbra, and then with his questions about the Deathly Hallows. If anyone knows what it means to be Master of Death, it'll be Alistair.
Not wanting to draw a crowd, Harry donned his Invisibility Cloak before travelling by Floo to Diagon Alley, and he didn't remove it until he entered the decadent bar. The hostess was haughty as usual and warned him he'd have to wait, but Alistair was before him in an instant.
"Harry, how nice to see you. Please, come join me. You are here alone?"
"Yes, I was hoping to talk. I take it you knew I was coming?"
"I felt your approach. Our bond is powerful, after all." Alistair was referring to the bond that had formed when he offered Harry a favour, to be redeemed at a later date. Harry followed him to a table, where Alistair sandwiched himself between two thralls. "I hope you're not in a hurry," he said. "We can have privacy later, and I'd love to drink in your Light magic for a while. Figuratively, of course."
They spoke freely on a variety of topics, and Harry allowed his Light magic to flow. It's ironic I'm safer this way, Harry thought, knowing his intense feelings of love made him practically invulnerable. All he lacked was Fiona by his side, but distance hardly mattered in that state. He didn't even mind when Alistair and his thralls engaged in public displays of affection, since it mirrored his own sense of wholeness.
He had no idea how much time had passed when Alistair dismissed the thralls and asked why he'd come. "I assume you have questions. Or perhaps you wish to claim your favour."
"No, just questions." Without further preamble, he said, "What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?"
The vampire smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. "You're not the first person to ask me that. But I'll wager you know a lot more than they did. And you almost certainly won't ask where to find them."
"You're right, I won't. Although they're no longer united."
Alistair's eyes darkened with longing. "The only one that tempts me is the Stone. My dead are many, after all."
"What would you do with it?" asked Harry, unsure whether Alistair's "dead" referred to those he'd killed or those he'd loved.
"Lose my mind, most likely. And possibly die, if the desire to see them were stronger than my compulsion for blood." He glanced out at his thralls, who couldn't see him through the privacy wards. "For someone like me, it's safer to love the living."
Harry thought of Fiona, who'd languished for more than a year after Rob died. "I'd have been lost without Matthew," she'd told him more than once, and he shuddered to imagine how the Resurrection Stone would have affected her.
"All right, no Stone for you," said Harry, and Alistair laughed. "But what else do you know about the Hallows?"
"Only the legends. I've heard speculation about what it means to be Master of Death, but I've no reason to believe there's anything to it."
"What do people say?"
"A lot of rubbish about immortality, as you can imagine. Wizards are terrified of death, after all."
I'm not, thought Harry, although he knew that was unusual. Dumbledore had called him the true Master of Death, because he did not run away from it. "He accepts that he must die, and understands that there are far worse things in the world than dying."
"I'm not exactly keen to die," Harry admitted, "but I certainly wouldn't mutilate my soul to stick around, or become a vampire. No offence."
"None taken—I didn't choose it myself. But it's given me access to the spaces between life and death. Which are odd, to say the least."
Harry was stunned. "Hang on, have you been through the Veil?"
"Not the one in the Ministry. But I explored such a space in Macedonia, more than a century ago."
"What was it like?"
"I'm told they're all unique. For example, that one was used for executions, only it turned out some of the victims emerged from a similar opening in Peru." Harry was dumbstruck, and Alistair said, "But I think they were the exception, since I felt the distinct pull of death."
A mad idea was forming in Harry's mind, but he was afraid to suggest it. "Were you at risk?"
"Of dying? No—the blood I consume anchors me. But spaces like that can be disorientating, and a vampire with a shredded soul could get trapped."
Harry recalled Alistair's strict code of honesty, and how it kept his soul intact. Other vampires, by contrast, squandered their sanity with lies and seldom lived more than a century.
"Does that mean you'd be able to enter the Veil at the Ministry? And come back out again?"
"I believe I would." Alistair studied Harry a moment, then asked, "What are you hoping I'll find?"
Embarrassed, Harry looked down at his drink. "Buggered if I know. I doubt Sirius is alive in there, and I think we'd have heard by now if he'd popped out in Peru."
"No, a human couldn't survive it. Not unless they had a Horcrux, or something else to tether them."
"I suppose a wife and kid wouldn't count," said Harry, mostly to himself.
Another probing look, and Alistair said, "You're not talking about Sirius Black anymore, are you?"
"No, Rob Dunning—Fiona's husband. It turns out that's how he died. Oh, and I probably shouldn't have told you that, but I'm sure you can keep a secret."
Alistair waved his hand dismissively. "Of course. But you still haven't answered my question: What are you hoping to find?"
Harry shrugged. "Answers? Closure?" He took a sip of his drink and said, "Merlin help me, but if Rob is actually alive somewhere–"
"He isn't," said Alistair. "The Veil was used for executions here too, and no one ever escaped. So I mightn't be able to retrieve more than a body."
"No, I could never ask you to go there," said Harry, shaking his head. "And besides, they have no reason to allow it."
"Don't they? I'm sure they'd love to study you."
"Yes, it's been suggested. And honestly, I'm keen to visit the Love Room."
"Now that I've seen!" said Alistair, looking very content. "And it's well worth the visit." He explained how he'd used his charisma to compel his way in, early in his career as a vampire. "I knew that Light magic was my only hope to stay sane, so I availed myself of every possible resource."
"What was it like? I wouldn't fall to pieces, would I?"
"You might, but in a good way. I can't make any predictions, though, since it affects everyone differently. Or not at all, if you've mangled your inner body with too much Dark magic."
They spoke of Light magic for a while, then Harry said, "I don't know whether they'll invite me back, but if they do, could I redeem that favour?"
"Yes, although I may contrive to offer you another. As I've told you already, I rather enjoy our connection."
It wasn't until Harry went home that the implications sank in. Blimey, we might have to bury Sirius, he realised, and he asked Banthora where the family plot was.
"We're buried all over England," she said. "We're a very old family, after all. There were tombs at the manor, but after it was lost we've mostly been interred at Westminster Abbey."
"Westminster Abbey! But that's absurd!" Harry had visited the famous Muggle church back in primary school, and he still remembered the carved effigies atop the Royal tombs.
"Most of the graves are hidden, of course," said Banthora. "At least the ones after the Statute of Secrecy—an entire crypt is concealed behind Typhon's statue."
"But why would the Blacks, of all people, want to be buried amongst Muggles?"
"It's a magically powerful spot," she explained. "That's why the Muggles built a church there."
"Are you buried there? Er, the original Banthora, that is."
"So I'm told—I never saw it myself. And no, I have no desire to go there."
It's not high on my list either, he thought. "What about Walburga? Is she there too?" Banthora said she was, and Harry said, "That settles it—I can't possibly bury Sirius there. Assuming we even find his body."
Banthora heard the sadness in his voice, and she consoled him. "I'm so sorry, you must have been crushed when Alistair said no one survives the Veil."
"I knew he was gone," said Harry dully. "The tapestry said so, after all. But can I tell you the worst part?" He paused, reluctant to put it into words. "I'm relieved Rob is gone too."
The portrait's eyes shone with compassion. "My dear, that's perfectly understandable. Obviously you never wanted him to die—quite the opposite, I'm sure. But now that you and Fiona are together, of course you'd rather not be torn apart."
Jamie's reaction was more blunt. "Sweet Merlin, imagine if Rob Dunning popped back out! Personally I'd be fine, since I'm still a manwhore. But you'd be a proper mess!"
"Cheers," said Harry acidly. "Although I'm impressed you're even aware I'm in love."
Plainly annoyed, Jamie said, "What do you want from me? All I get are memories of Fiona, but you get the real thing! So of course I'm going to run around, unless you somehow convince me we're no longer interested in sex."
Harry realised Jamie had a point. "You're right, I can't. And it's not fair for me to doom you to celibacy until my wife's been painted too."
"I'm impressed you didn't just say 'Fiona,'" said Jamie. "Because even I know that's what you were thinking."
"It was," Harry admitted. "But I'm trying to stay true to my vow against proposing to anyone."
"That's good, because it'll be awkward enough if Rob Dunning turns up."
"He won't turn up! You heard Alistair—there's no way he could survive the Veil without a Horcrux or something."
"Still, it'd be just our luck," said Jamie. "That's why I play it safe by sleeping around."
"Cheers, I'll keep that in mind."
In the morning, Harry returned to Pratt's and greeted a tired-looking Seth. Not wanting to embarrass him, he simply said, "Was everything all right?"
Seth nodded, clearly trying not to grin. "Er, thanks again," he said sheepishly. "I still can't believe that's a pure-blood tradition, but I'm definitely not complaining."
"Does this mean you'll stop teasing Lisa about her dowry?"
"Not a chance," he said with a laugh.
They began walking towards the entrance, but it was clear Seth wasn't ready to leave. "Do you fancy some breakfast before going home?" Harry asked.
The answer was yes, and soon they were seated in the dining room. After ordering, Seth said, "Can I ask you some dating advice?"
"Er, if you like," said Harry. Please, don't tell me you fell in love with a fille de joie, he implored silently.
But Seth's question had little to do with falling in love. "So, do you think it's all right, to, you know ... not date anyone seriously for a while? Like, just hang out? Well, not hang out, but ... you know."
"Sleep around?" Harry offered.
"Yeah, exactly. I mean, I know you used to be like that, but now you're in a real relationship with an actual adult, and I thought maybe you'd changed your mind."
Harry had no idea how to respond. "Er," he stalled, "I'm not sure my opinion matters, but there's nothing wrong with dating casually, as long as no one's getting hurt."
"Right, but how can you be sure? A few months ago I got involved with one of my classmates, and I didn't think I misled her—she knew about my vow. But she wound up getting angry and said I'd strung her along."
"Your vow?" asked Harry, even though he knew what Seth meant.
"Not to marry until I'm at least twenty-one. And I'm not the only one—my mates and I made a pact, and I heard some of the girls did too. But now that you're so serious with your girlfriend, people are saying your vow's just a technicality."
Harry could almost hear Jamie agreeing. "What's the point of a vow not to propose if you're practically married already?" the portrait would say.
"It's not a technicality," he said, knowing Jamie would hear it through their shared memories. "If I didn't have my vow, I'd probably propose this year, maybe on her birthday or our anniversary. But it's off the table, which gives us time just to be together."
"But you aren't seeing other people, right?"
"No."
"Yeah, that's not what I want," said Seth. "Not yet, anyway. You at least got to have some adventures first. Which reminds me, how did you manage the thing with the Muggle?"
Oh god, I've created a manwhore, Harry thought. Seth's a good-looking bloke, and after last night he'll know what he's doing. "Right, I'm not sure I'd do that again. I had to lie to her, which was hard, and she saw right through me."
"But she slept with you anyway?"
"Well, yeah," said Harry, trying not to sound smug. "It's honestly not hard with Muggles, particularly if you dress well. But the lying is a problem—I've since learned that it's harmful to Light magic."
To Harry's vast relief, Seth looked disappointed. "Oh, that's no good, cos I definitely want that as well." He grimaced, then added, "You won't go on the radio and talk up casual sex, will you? It's been a while."
Unsurprisingly, Jamie loved the idea. "Seth is spot on—you definitely need to promote manwhorishness on the radio again," the portrait said as soon as Harry got home. He was playing with Padfoot, which was the easiest place for an ambush. "We were just starting to pry things open, but now that you're so serious with Fiona, it's all snapping shut again."
"I can't be responsible for everything! I just want to live my life, and right now that includes Fiona."
"What about a threesome?" asked Jamie. "I bet she'd go for it. And then you could mention it on the radio. Which reminds me, I still want to go on the radio."
"Absolutely not. I want to keep you secret, remember?"
"But secrets just made us unhappy! Come on, introduce me to Rita."
"Are you mad!" cried Harry. "She'd just use you! Same as she uses me, only in my case it's mutual."
"What could she get out of me? She wants your innermost thoughts, which I don't have, and I won't tell her anything classified. Other than that, I don't have any secrets."
"Bollocks! What about how I removed Draco's Dark Mark? Or all the faerie rubbish I told Penelope? Or other people's secrets, like Narcissa's and Draco's?"
"Fine, point taken. I won't talk to Rita, although I'm sure I wouldn't have told her any of that." Jamie's mouth curled into a cheeky grin. "So, what's in it for me? How about that sword? Athena Black offered to teach me, and she was a master swordswoman."
Harry sighed in frustration. "At this rate, you'll be nothing like me by the time I'm dead. The whole reason I had you painted this young was so I'd have an accurate representation after I'm gone, but instead you'll be a sword-wielding manwhore who's shagged every witch in the house!"
"Just the pretty ones," said Jamie, clearly not insulted. "And not all of them—Annabel Black won't give me the time of day."
"Annabel Black? You mean the one who hides behind a veil because she's so beautiful?"
"The very same. But I'm sure I'll win her over eventually." He looked thoughtful a moment, then said, "Do you think the Black family prophecy might cover this? No, of course not ... anyway, it's just a matter of time."
Jamie was still playing with Padfoot, which saddened Harry somehow. Why would I mind? he wondered, but the answer came in an instant: It was like watching Dudley. He knew now that Dudley was spoilt—abused, even—but for years, Harry had envied him.
"Don't take this wrong way," said Harry, "but you remind me of Dudley right now."
Jamie stared at him. "Is there a right way to take that?"
Harry chuckled and said, "Good point, and no. I should have said that watching you play with Padfoot reminds me of how I felt around Dudley when we were little. He got all the toys, and I got nothing."
A light seemed to dawn in Jamie's eyes. "That's true," he said, as if he hadn't previously considered it. "Remember the Nintendo? You must have wanted to use it too."
"Desperately. I never got to play even once."
Stricken, Jamie said, "I'm so sorry. For me it's just a memory. But now that I think about it, you must have been so unhappy." His face clouded over. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I'm telling you now. And, no offence, but you probably could have worked it out yourself."
"Don't be an arse," said Jamie. "You know full well that this is how portraits work. It's all abstract until you connect the dots."
"I know," Harry admitted. "And you're right, I should be more open. It's just ... I usually don't want to talk about this sort of thing. I don't even talk to Fiona about it, except in passing."
"Yeah, I get it. But I already know the details, so it's not like you need to be embarrassed."
Harry suddenly recalled a particularly heartbreaking memory. "Like, the blanket?" he said hoarsely.
When he was very small, he'd treasured his baby blanket, believing his parents had given it to him. In hindsight, Dumbledore had probably conjured it, which explained why it didn't last longer—by the time he was six, it was nearly threadbare. Aunt Petunia threw it out it one day while Harry was at school, and when he looked for it in the bin it had already been taken away.
That was bad enough, but the embarrassing part was how Harry had replaced it. "Lint from the tumble dryer," said Jamie fondly. "At least it was soft."
"It was," said Harry, looking down. "But talk about pathetic! And when Aunt Petunia found out ..."
"Was that embarrassing? I know she was angry, but if anyone was embarrassed it should have been her."
"Well, she wasn't—I was," snapped Harry.
"But why? I mean, I believe you, but you were just a kid who wanted something soft. She really should have recognised that—I think our blanket in the cupboard was army surplus."
"I think so too," said Harry, still upset. "But why didn't I do anything about it?"
"What would you have done?" countered Jamie. "If you'd taken a real blanket she'd have noticed."
"I don't know. Dudley had so many extras—maybe I could have nicked one."
"You'd have been caught! Seriously, mate, you did nothing wrong."
Harry felt odd—normally he was the mature one, not Jamie. "I suppose you're right," he admitted. "And thanks."
"You're welcome," said Jamie cheerfully. "And I was serious about having another threesome and announcing it on the radio. See what Fiona thinks."
Fiona laughed when he told her. "Is that what you want?" she said, amused. "It wouldn't be your first, certainly."
"No, but it's really not where I'm at right now. The first time—with Helena—I was completely plastered, which probably made it less weird. But the second time was a bit awkward in the end," he said, referring to his night with Jocelyn and Maryann.
"Strictly speaking, wasn't that a foursome?" she smirked.
"We used privacy charms!"
"I know—you're just too easy to provoke. But it sounds like you're not up for a threesome right now, which means you'll need to lead the wizarding youth astray some other way."
"I thought you didn't want me to do the broadcast," he said. It had been a long time, and he'd fallen completely out of the habit.
"All I said was that I'd never go on the radio, and I won't. But as long as you don't talk about me and Matthew, I don't mind if you do it."
"What would I even say? You're the biggest thing in my life right now."
"I'm sure you'll have plenty to say after the trip to America. And no, I won't go on the radio there either."
Harry smiled, pleased she'd agreed to accompany him. He was going first to Boston alone, but then Fiona and Matthew would join him in Chicago for the World Quidditch Conference. And they would travel together by wizarding train to San Francisco.
"All right, I'm sure I'll have plenty of stories by then," he said. "And something's bound to be scandalous enough to prove I haven't gone all traditional." Fiona just looked at him, and Harry said, "What?" a trifle indignantly.
"Forgive me, my dear, but you're no longer the libertine you were a few months ago."
"I prefer roué," he said stiffly. "And are you complaining?"
"No, of course not. But Seth is right about your vow seeming more like a technicality."
"I'm not forbidden from getting serious with a witch, or even moving in with her," he argued. "The only rule is that I can't propose marriage."
"I know, and I'm not saying we're a foregone conclusion. But to all appearances we are, and you might want to think about that. And I should as well—sometimes I forget just how young you are."
Harry's face fell. "What are you getting at?"
"Nothing negative, certainly. Obviously you're mature enough for me, or else I wouldn't have fallen for you this hard."
They were on the sofa, and he twined his fingers through hers. "I've fallen hard too. And I don't think I'm being untrue to my vow. After all, if we're still going strong in a year and a half, it may well be time to propose. You want more kids, right?"
"I do. And you don't have much choice in the matter, do you?"
"Not really." He gave her the Look and said, "Shall we go upstairs and practise?"
"Yes, but–" She pulled away for a moment. "Let's promise to keep our eyes open."
"During sex?"
"No, during the next year and a half. I don't want you tying yourself to me for the wrong reasons."
"And what would those be?"
"I don't know—a sense of home, or stability. I know you don't see me as a mum, but maybe part of the attraction is that I'm so settled."
"Or painfully attractive," he said, drawing close again.
"Or you liked rescuing a widow," she continued. "Hermione said you had a thing about saving people."
"Fiona, I don't see Voldemort coming after you, and I definitely wouldn't marry someone I didn't fancy."
She wagged a finger at him. "Careful, you have a vow," she said. "I don't want to hear a peep about marriage until your twenty-first birthday. Marital relations, on the other hand ..."
Later that night, he told her about his visit with Alistair but omitted the part about the Veil. She'd been so upset when he revealed how Rob had died, and even though Alistair said it was hopeless, he didn't want to give her false hope.
Because if Harry was being honest, he'd have to admit he still hoped Sirius was alive. His own status would dip, since he'd no longer be Head of House or have a seat on the Wizengamot, and Kreacher would probably explode. But it would all be worth it, just to play with Padfoot once more.
