Author's note:

I am pleased to announce that Loose Cannon is back! I've written eight new chapters since April, and my plan is to publish on alternate Wednesdays, same as before. I am still 100% committed to finishing it, and there are some very fun plot-lines in the works. The end is still on the distant horizon, but I have a semblance of a plan (with plenty of room for surprises, even to myself).

Thank you for your patience and kind words during my hiatus :)

The magical suitcase stood empty in Harry's dressing room. "Are you sure it's big enough?" asked Jamie, looking down from his frame.

"It expands to a full-sized wardrobe!" said Harry. "Of course it's big enough! It's not as if I'm bringing all my clothes to America."

"Don't you want the full selection while you're there?"

"No, because I don't want to look like a colossal ponce. That's how they see us, you know."

"Maybe the English in general, but we're a special case. Go on, pack everything—you'll thank me later."

Harry did not pack everything, but he followed the portrait's advice and brought more than originally planned. Sophie was an aspiring designer, after all, and she enjoyed public attention. And I don't want to let her down, he thought.

She'd dominated his thoughts for several days, which was better than brooding about Fiona. Indeed, he'd grown accustomed to the mental lurch from Fiona-themed grief to Sophie-themed desire, and he wasn't inclined to stop it. After all, imagining a torrid affair with a Parisian supermodel was far pleasanter than dwelling on his broken heart. He even dug out the catalogue for the London Underground women's collection, which he'd barely looked at the first time around, and made a much closer study of it.

He was leaving the next day, and his remaining engagement was Seekers' night out. "So, are you ready to torch a centuries-old tradition?" asked Isla Preston when he arrived.

"Do you mean, am I ready to be laughed out of the conference?" said Harry. "Why yes, yes I am."

"Then why are you doing it?" asked Andrew Gilstrap, his eyes narrow.

Wasn't he supposed to play in Australia this winter? thought Harry, annoyed. "Honestly, I have no idea. It started as a joke, but then Viktor Krum circulated a petition, and so did the team owners. And now we're presenting it to the International Quidditch Federation."

"Who are corrupt as sin," said Selden Puttick. "I salute you for trying, but you haven't the slightest hope of success."

"Bloody wizards," Harry grumbled. "Even though it's a clear improvement?"

"Is it?" asked Kieran Shepard. "It'll change our jobs immensely."

"Not really—they'll just release another Snitch if the first one's caught too early. The only difference is that the Snitch will be worth fifty points."

"But it's not going to happen at all," said Puttick. "Really, Potter, you're wasting your time, although it'll be interesting to see what they make of you. Routledge, we're counting on you for the full report."

"I'm sure I'll have better things to do than follow the Light Lord around," said Phil, rolling his eyes.

"And by 'better things' he means American witches," said Carl Wainwright. "Or Muggles, even—the choice is yours."

Phil kept his expression neutral, since his relationship with Daphne wasn't public. "I was referring to my contract with Firebolt, and getting to know the other players," he said "And I'll only be there a few nights, so I want to make the most of it."

To Harry's relief, no one made insinuations about how he himself might behave in America. People expressed sympathy for the sudden end of his relationship with Fiona, and if they expected him to start sleeping around again, they kept it to themselves.

Even Gilstrap offered his sympathy, as Harry was preparing to leave. "I know we're not exactly mates," he began. "But I'm sorry you had to lose your girlfriend like that. You really have more than your share of bad luck."

Harry was momentarily dumbstruck. "Cheers, yeah," he said. "It was definitely a shock."

But Gilstrap wasn't finished. "I won't taunt you about it."

"My arse you won't," retorted Harry, who'd drunk several pints that night. Gilstrap blinked, and Harry said, "Sorry, are you serious? You've taunted me about much worse than that." Like claiming your dad was tortured to insanity, he thought bitterly.

"I have done, but you were right, I need to stop burning bridges."

Harry recalled a rumour he'd heard from Gemma, that Gilstrap was crushed not to be picked for the national team. As she'd told Harry, "If it had been you and Routledge, that would have been one thing, but when he heard it was me, he completely lost his shit."

Feeling a stir of compassion, Harry said, "I'm sure you can pull it off—you're a decent flyer, certainly."

"Your praise overwhelms me. But trust me, I'm using the off-season to advantage. And I'm not leaving off taunting altogether—not even close."

Harry suspected that by the time the season started, Gilstrap would go back on his word—or so he hoped, since he didn't fancy being an object of pity. Admittedly, he didn't like being envied either, but he liked having an enviable life, which would happen if he started dating Sophie again.

Portkeys aren't so bad, he mused, while preparing for bed that night. He'd grown accustomed to spending several nights a week at Fiona's house, which was a long trip by Floo, and it would be worth the inconvenience to see Sophie more often. Or perhaps he could use the passage to the Boudoir, and then Apparate from there to Sophie's flat. He was dimly aware that was against the rules, but perhaps Madame LaLouche could be persuaded.

He hadn't owled Sophie yet, not wanting to seem overeager, but he'd imagined their reunion in detail. They were to meet in Chicago for a London Underground publicity event, then travel to San Francisco by wizarding train. A photographer would accompany them the entire way, snapping pictures for the press, and Randall had dropped hints about an impromptu photo shoot. He wrote, "I know it's very soon after your unfortunate split from Fiona, but if you and Sophie happen to reconnect, we'll make the most of it."

She might be aloof at first, considering how things had ended in October, but he wasn't above playing on her sympathy over the Rob Dunning fiasco. "Mon pauvre petit," she would say, and he'd deploy his most poignant version of the Look. He also knew her turn-ons, and hopefully her free-spirited nature would take care of the rest.

But first he was going to Boston. He was scheduled to go on the radio with Chad Brewer for an entire hour, but Nikki had sent him a very sweet letter giving him permission to cancel. "You can drop in for ten minutes, or not at all—it's entirely up to you. But I'd still love to see you, if only to give you a big hug and introduce you to the healing magic of American ice cream."

Harry thought he could handle ten minutes, and he trusted Chad and Nikki not to open raw wounds. London Underground was paying for the trip, after all, and he didn't want to disappoint them, considering how many dowries they'd already covered. Furthermore, he'd promised to reveal his tattoo, which the Brew Crew had urged him to get in the first place.

In the hours before their departure, Kreacher pelted Harry with last-minute questions. "Will Ron Weasley require the sitting room sofa? Kreacher would like to bring it to America, for Master's comfort whilst travelling."

"No, you can't bring the sofa!" said Harry, already regretting his decision to let Kreacher accompany him. "I'm sure I'll be fine with whatever they have in the hotel."

"It's an American hotel," said Kreacher ominously.

"I've been to America, and both hotels I stayed at were lovely. Just bring yourself, and whatever you require for your own comfort."

Kreacher was frowning, but he bowed and resumed bossing Lodie around. He was to travel by the mysterious "elfway" and convey Master's suitcase, and Harry hoped the elf's assistance would be worth the inevitable headaches.

Harry went to the Portkey Terminal wearing Muggle clothes and a winter coat, along with his "Leave me the fuck alone" wards. He'd grown tired of sympathetic looks from strangers, which only reminded him of his heartache. All the more reason to take up with Sophie as soon as possible.

He sat apart in the terminal, reading the Chicago guidebook Alex had sent him, and people left him alone. The travel-sickness potion tasted vile, same as last time, but at least he knew it was worth taking. He was haunted, however, by memories of Fiona, and he hoped she wouldn't overshadow his stay in Boston.

Last time he'd been greeted by Virginia Holloway, their sales partner in women's undergarments, but he told her not to bother since he knew his way around. He therefore expected a quiet arrival, unburdened even by luggage, and he planned to visit a Muggle museum Simon had told him about. But when the immigration officer stamped Harry's papers, he smirked and said, "Good luck out there."

"Er, thanks?" said Harry, unsure what he meant.

"There's a fire exit all the way to the left, but it may be blocked as well. So, you might want to have your broom handy," he said with a chuckle.

"Are you saying there's a crowd?"

"That's putting it mildly. They're calling it 'Beatlemania 2000.'"

Harry inhaled sharply, recalling "A Hard Day's Night," which Brett and Douglas had shown him. "Oh dear. Were you serious about the broom thing?"

"No, you can't fly indoors. But you have an Invisibility Cloak, right?"

"I do," said Harry, reaching for his pouch. But he stopped short, remembering this was a publicity stop. "No, I need to man up and get through it," he said, mostly to himself. "I'm being paid to appear in public, after all."

He didn't bother casting a Shield Charm, knowing Kreacher's spells and his own Light magic would protect him, and he stepped through the large doorway. "Oh my god, it's him!" came the cry, along with flashing cameras and a chorus of squeals. At first he felt panic—and the urge to flee—but energy surged through his body and he was suddenly at ease. Invisible armour seemed to surround him, and even though he didn't glow, he knew he was radiating charisma.

There was a considerable crowd, but it wasn't as bad as actual Beatlemania, since there weren't any schoolgirls. Thank Merlin it's all boarding schools in America, Harry thought, noting the preponderance of witches his own age. Many were attractive, and in the crush of young women he saw a few he wouldn't mind seeing more of.

"I can't say I was expecting this kind of reception," he said, running a hand through his hair, and several witches nearly swooned. Everyone wanted his autograph, or to take a picture with him, and he was happy to oblige. A similar crowd in England would have felt oppressive, but he'd apparently grown fond of Americans on his last trip, and their wide-eyed admiration was just what he needed.

Judging from what people gave him to sign, his solo advert was popular, and more than one witch had blown it up to life-size. There were also magazine covers, with articles written by Rita. He'd read them already, since she'd sent him typewritten copies, but seeing his photo on half a dozen American magazines made a different impression. This must be what Narcissa was talking about, he thought, recalling her warning.

He was also given bras and knickers to sign, which was common in Britain as well, but he drew the line at signing them in situ. "My reputation is bad enough," he joked, to universal delight. People asked to see his tattoo, but he put them off, claiming Nikki had first priority. "It was her idea, you know," he said, suddenly more excited about his radio appearance. Maybe I'll stay the whole hour after all.

After extricating himself, he spent the day in Muggle Boston, avoiding the spots he'd seen with Fiona. But he still missed her, since they'd explored the city together—and they'd even had sex there the first time. All through their relationship, "Boston" was their code word for a pleasure deferred, and it smarted to know he'd never use that meaning again. And even though he appreciated his anonymity amongst Muggles, he also felt uncomfortably alone, as he'd felt as a child.

It was therefore a relief to return to Underhill, the wizarding district, and check into his hotel. "I'm sure you'll be comfortable, Mr Potter," said the clerk, handing him a key. "Your house-elf arrived several hours ago and coordinated with our staff to prepare your suite exactly as you like it."

"I have a suite?" said Harry, surprised. "Last time I only had a room—which was lovely, I might add."

"Technically you still have a room, but your elf insisted it was too small, so we altered the wards to let him enlarge it. Normally that's an extra charge, but we waived it in your case." The clerk winked and said, "A little VIP perk."

"Erm, thanks," said Harry, disturbed both by the wink and the news that Kreacher was already causing trouble. He signed the guest register, rode the lift upstairs, and, with great trepidation, entered his room.

Instead of the handsome chamber he recalled from his last visit, Harry found a palatial suite bedecked with the Black family crest, Slytherin-green hangings, and—to his horror—gleaming silver objects nearly everywhere he looked.

"Kreacher!" cried Harry aloud, too agitated for silent communication.

Crack! "Yes, Master!"

"What in Merlin's name have you done to this place? And where did you get all the silver!"

"This is how Kreacher always prepared rooms for Master Sirius Apollo," said the elf proudly. "The silver is from Boston."

"Don't tell me you bought it!"

"No, Master. Kreacher is very thrifty! The candelabra and tea set are from a wizarding shop," he said, pointing them out. Beneath the candelabra was a printed card that said, "On loan from Frobisher & Sons."

His dread increasing, Harry asked, "But what about all the other pieces?"

With a loud crack, Kreacher Apparated into the bedroom, where a silver dressing set sat atop the chest of drawers. "Kreacher found these in a Muggle shop," he said, indicating the antique hairbrush, mirror, and comb. Next he Apparated to the bedside table, laden with a silver tray, two goblets, and an elaborate sort of pitcher. "And these are from a Muggle museum."

Before Harry caught up with him, Kreacher vanished again and reappeared in the sitting room. "And this samovar–"

"Stop!" cried Harry, still running after him. "Kreacher, you can't steal silver! For Merlin's sake, all the family's silver was stolen—why would you do that to someone else?"

"Kreacher will return it," said the elf, as if no problem existed.

"My god, there's probably a warrant out for us," Harry muttered. "Kreacher, return these items at once!" He examined the samovar and said, "Bloody hell, you've put the family crest on it!"

"It looks very elegant—does it not? And Kreacher conjured replicas, so Master needn't worry."

Harry sighed, realising he was probably stuck with the silver until his departure the next day. Fiona would have found this hilarious, he thought sadly, although he was relieved Sophie wasn't there.

A horrifying realisation dawned. "Oh my god, has anyone else seen this?" he asked. The last thing he wanted was for the American press to portray him as outrageously spoilt. It was bad enough that several of the magazines had referred to him as "the Light Lord."

"Only the steward, two housemaids, and the florist," said Kreacher proudly.

Bloody buggering hell, I'll have to explain it on the radio, thought Harry, kneading his forehead. "Kreacher, I appreciate the effort, and I won't make you return the silver tonight—you can wait until tomorrow when we leave. But for Merlin's sake, don't do this again in Chicago, or anywhere else we go. Please, just leave the hotel rooms as they are."

Kreacher's ears drooped. "But it was unfit for the head of House Black."

"I believe I'm the judge of that," said Harry firmly. "Are your accommodations all right?" he asked, by way of changing the subject.

"Yes, Master. The other elves treat Kreacher with respect." With a gleam in his eye, he said, "They are impressed by Kreacher's accent."

Harry suddenly pictured Kreacher giving his version of the Look to an awestruck American house-elf, while lightly caressing her hand. "Er, I'm glad you'll be comfortable," he said, trying desperately to dispel the mental image.

"Yes, Master! Will Master need a shave before his broadcast this afternoon?"

He did, and also a shower, which he took without Kreacher's assistance. At half past four he met Virginia Holloway in the hotel lobby, and she enthusiastically welcomed him to America.

"I'm so sorry about the thing back at home, with your girlfriend," she said, gesturing vaguely. "You're an absolute doll to do this—I'm sure it'll be worth your while."

"I made a commitment, and I'm glad for the change of scene," he said, grateful for her lack of exaggerated sympathy. "How are things in the world of women's undergarments?" he asked, hoping to hear about Sophie.

"Going gangbusters, thanks to you. In fact, Randall may have mentioned we'd like to shoot more photos on the train, if you're willing. I assume you're not in the middle of another celibacy vow."

"I am not. What do you have in mind?"

As they walked to the radio station, she described a highly provocative campaign involving Harry and multiple lingerie-clad models. "We'll have Sophie, of course, and I'm hoping we'll have Marina as well—we'll know for sure end-of-day tomorrow. We want to capture the feel of that photo of you in your bathrobe sipping tea, only with a lot more T and A. And the product, of course."

It took a moment for Harry work out what "T and A" meant, and he happily approved the plan. I wouldn't say no to a threesome, he thought, increasingly pleased he'd come to America.

There was another crowd outside the station, but Virginia whisked him indoors. "Chad and Nikki want to touch base before you go on the air," she said. "Just wait in the green room, and they'll pop in during a commercial break."

Feeling much more at ease than the first time he was there, Harry entered the waiting room next to the studio and listened to the live broadcast. Unlike the previous time, they weren't talking about him, which Harry suspected was in case he wanted to back out. Meanwhile, he noticed a kettle, a box of PG Tips, and even a bottle of milk. They remembered my tea tirade, he thought fondly.

He was sipping tea when they entered, and Nikki said, "Was that the right brand? We asked around."

"Absolutely—full marks," he said, setting down his cup to greet her.

She pulled him into a hug, and Chad said, "Careful, I think she's ready to adopt you. But let's get right to business—we only have a couple minutes." They sat down, and he said, "First off, are you sure you want to go through with this? You're allowed to say no."

"Thanks, but I'm all right. In fact, I think I'm up for doing the entire hour. Although maybe you shouldn't announce that up front, in case it's too much."

"Harry, are you sure?" said Nikki with concern. "Remember our conversation last time about keeping some things private?"

"I don't want to talk about Fiona," he clarified, "but I'm sure there's lots else we can discuss."

"That's what we were thinking," said Chad, and he showed Harry a notepad. Together they reviewed a list of topics, and Harry felt certain he could stay the full hour.

"We're on just after this spot," said Nikki, referring to the advert that was playing. "Just wait here, and come in when we announce you."

She and Chad returned to the studio, and Harry took a deep breath. You've got this, Snitchbottom, he thought, taking another sip of tea.

"Some of you may recall our next guest," Chad began. "Or not—he's a bit obscure. Plays this weird sport no one follows, and arguably his biggest claim to fame is just being alive, which I think describes all our guests."

"Not all of them," said one of the crew members. "Remember the dude with the worms?"

A droning voice said, "And now, the incantation. But not with words—in Vermimancy we use vibrations, as you'll hear." It was followed by gentle tapping noises, and Harry laughed, realising this was a recorded soundbite.

"Good point," said Chad. "Those worms were a train wreck."

"No, a train wreck would have been interesting," said Paul, the crew member who'd arranged Harry's tattoo.

"Excuse me," said Nikki, "there's a certain international heartthrob waiting to join us. Unless you'd rather keep playing worm clips."

"Let's ask our studio audience," said Chad. "Wands up for worms ... hmm, all right. Now, wands up for Harry Potter-Black ... hang on, this is close."

"Cut the crap, Brewer," said Nikki. "Harry, get in here!"

Laughing, Harry entered the studio, teacup in hand. The audience went wild, and Harry took a seat. "I'm actually a little curious about the worms," he said. "What happened when he cast the spell?"

"Nada," said Chad. "The worm just sat there. Worm dude claimed there was too much interference from all the broadcasting charms, which sounded like BS to me–"

"Harry, that's American for 'bollocks,'" Paul explained.

"Cheers, got it," said Harry.

"You most certainly do!" said Nikki, her voice flirtatious. "In fact, you've got the most famous bollocks in the wizarding world." A discussion ensued about Harry's adverts, which had taken America by storm.

"Have you seen any billboards yet?" asked Chad. "I think there's one in Old Market Square."

Nods from the audience, and Harry said, "Are you serious? No, I haven't seen one yet—I spent most of the day in Muggle Boston."

"Oh, honey, you need to see it," said Nikki. "Although you might start a riot—do you still have that Invisibility Cloak?" She explained that his billboard was at ground level, which meant people could pose next to it, and frequently did.

"Er, how big is it?" he asked nervously.

"Blow job height," said Chad. A blue light flashed, and he added, "Yes, that was bleeped, but I'm sure our listeners will figure it out. And any parents who complain should really know better than to let their kids listen to Harry Potter-Black."

Horrified, Harry said, "Is my reputation here that bad? Admittedly it's not great at home, but at least the Quidditch part is respectable."

Nikki laughed and said, "Sorry, babe, but as far as America is concerned, you're basically sex on a stick. Which reminds me, I seem to recall talk of a tattoo—Paul claims you got one, the very same night you were on the show. But I'm gonna need proof."

They'd discussed this in advance, and Chad had advised him to drag it out. "Is that all I am to you, Nikki?" said Harry plaintively. "Someone you can order to undress in front of an audience?"

"Well, you won't marry me, so I guess this'll have to do. Just be grateful we're not making you drop trou. Unless that's where your tattoo is."

"If by 'trou' you mean 'trousers,' the answer is no. It's on my arm, which means you won't even get my vest off."

After more back and forth, Harry stripped to his vest and pulled up the sleeve. "Whoa, you really went for it!" said Chad. He described the tattoo for their listeners, and Harry explained all the symbols: the Black family crest, the three Marauders, and lilies for his mum.

"Harry, you are truly a man of your word," said Chad. "Assuming it's not just a glamour."

"No, I was there," said Paul. "It's the real deal."

Nikki looked affronted. "Chad, did you just accuse Harry of lying? How dare you!"

"I'm not offended," said Harry. "Although I should be—I was accused of lying for years."

"Is that why you took Veritaserum on the radio back at home?" asked Chad. "That was epic, by the way."

"Cheers. And yes, that's why I did it—I wanted to clear my name once and for all. Mind you, I'll never do that again, so don't get any ideas," he said, confident they wouldn't.

"We're pretty sure Chad takes Veritaserum with his coffee," said Nikki, indicating his mug.

"That's not true," said Chad. "Before the show, you asked if that skirt made you look slutty, and I said it didn't. But it totally does."

This led to an exchange about white lies, and whether they actually counted. "No, they're just good manners," said Nikki. "Harry, you're the English lord—what's the etiquette about white lies?"

Before Harry could protest, several crew members said, "Lordships are bollocks!"

"Thank you!" said Harry. "Although I'm ashamed to say I have learnt a lot about etiquette lately. And yes, white lies are rampant—which is hard, since I'm trying not to lie at all. It's harmful to Light magic, and I'd rather not run the risk."

Nikki looked a little uncomfortable, and Harry recalled how her radio persona was largely an act. Bugger, I hope I haven't offended her!

"But that's my own weirdness," he blundered on. "And I'd never look down on someone else for white lies. Like you said, they're mainly to be polite."

Nikki held his gaze for a moment, then said, "Harry, you're an angel. Listeners, whatever you've heard about Harry, never forget he's an absolute sweetheart. Chad, hit me with some Veritaserum so I can say it again."

"No, you'd reveal your twisted plan to make him your love slave, and the Aurors would haul you off. Which, come to think of it, would probably make us all a lot safer. But you'd be hard to replace."

"Er, can I put my clothes back on?" Harry asked, sensing the need for a change of topic. "It's a little cold in the studio."

"You poor thing, you have goosebumps!" exclaimed Nikki. "But, hang on, what's with the arm hair? In your ads you're as smooth as a baby's bottom."

"Oh, blast—they made me shave." The entire crew laughed, and a discussion ensued about "manscaping"—and how Harry's adverts had suddenly made it popular.

"I swear, that wasn't my goal," he said, buttoning his shirt. "I just did what they told me—they didn't even give me a choice."

"Did you at least use a potion, or did you do it the old-fashioned way?" asked Chad.

Harry's mouth fell open. "There's a potion?"

"Didn't you know?" said Nikki, laughing. "That's what witches mostly use. Don't tell me you used a razor everywhere! Or did you get waxed?"

"No, I used a razor," he said weakly. Fuck, that's not strictly true, he thought, and his cheeks grew warm. "Oh hell, I can't lie—not after what I just said."

Chad's eyes lit up. "Oh really?" he said, leaning back in his chair. "Go on—this should be good."

Harry took a deep breath, mostly to stall, and Nikki said, "Out with it, loverboy."

"Er, strictly speaking, I'm not the one who used the razor. It was my house-elf, Kreacher."

The entire crew burst out laughing, and Chad said, "You made your house-elf shave you? You kinky devil!"

"No, it wasn't like that," said Harry, mortified. He explained his relationship with Kreacher, and how the elf was growing ever more demanding. "Well, not quite demanding," he stammered, "but insistent about how things should be done."

"That's what 'demanding' means," said Chad, still laughing. "What else does he make you do?"

Harry told them about the hotel room and the borrowed silver, mostly to dispel rumours about his own extravagance. "I realise I'm on thin ice, with the way I dress, but I swear I'm not that high-maintenance."

Chad studied him a moment. "I actually believe you. And not just because we dosed you with Veritaserum. I also heard something about a Quidditch match ... a very long Quidditch match," he prompted.

Grateful for Chad's skill as a host, Harry described the match against Puddlemere, to general astonishment.

"You know about clocks, right?" said Chad. "Because that's what most sports use."

"Yes, and I'm even advocating for one in Quidditch—that's why I've come to America, for the World Quidditch Conference. But we're only proposing a minimum match length, and not a maximum."

"Even though you might end up playing a match that lasts weeks? Because that's bound to happen sooner or later, if observational magic is legit."

"I know, and it genuinely gives me pause. If I ever fly for England, I'd be putting my teammates at risk—and the opposing team as well. Which is a shame, since I'd love to play in the World Cup someday."

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," said Chad, shaking his head. "But screw 'em—they'll live. And they can tell their grandchildren they got to play against Harry Potter-Black."

"I guess," said Harry dubiously. He still wasn't comfortable talking about his fame, even though he was capitalising on it more and more.

"And by the sound of it, you're no slouch on a broom," Chad continued. "Nikki, do you have that magazine?"

She opened a folder and revealed the issue of Quidditch Digest that featured Harry on the cover. "You mean this magazine? The one that refers to my future love slave as Europe's Best Seeker?"

"No, it says 'Europe's Best Seekers,'" Harry said, emphasising the plural. "And it's complete bollocks—I haven't even played a whole season yet."

"But you've caught the little golden ball nearly every time, right?" said Chad.

"I have done. And yeah, I'm a good Seeker, otherwise I wouldn't do it, but it's premature to put me on the cover like that. My mate Draco says I'm overrated and they only did it to sell magazines."

After a comical exchange about Draco's name, Chad said, "But you've raised an important point: that they put you on the cover to boost circulation. Hell, we did the same thing—I think we're charging our sponsors an extra twenty-five percent during your segment. Speaking of which ..."

He signalled to Paul, who cut to an advert. The "on air" light went off, and Chad said, "Harry, is it okay to talk about this? It wasn't on the list."

Harry realised his heart was racing, and he took a deep breath. "My fame, you mean?"

"Babe, you're not just famous," said Nikki. "You're probably the best-known wizard in the world, which has to be weird."

"It is weird," he said, looking down at his teacup. "And no, I've never talked about it in public."

"We don't have to talk about it now," she said, her voice gentle. "Just say the word and Chad can change the topic—no one will even notice."

Harry didn't know if it was her accent or her simple, open countenance—shared by so many Americans—but he felt oddly comfortable. "No, I think it's all right. You and Chad can at least relate–"

Chad laughed out loud. "Not even close, pal. They're never putting this on a billboard," he said, indicating his less-than-photogenic face. "But don't worry—I won't push you farther than you want to go. Just kick me under the table when you've had enough."

When the broadcast resumed, Chad said, "Harry, I'd like to come back to something we brushed on before the break. You are—to put it bluntly—insanely famous. Even before your underwear ads, I suspect nearly everyone in the Magical USA had at least heard of you."

"And now they've seen the outline of his junk," Paul interjected.

"True, but that's not what I'm getting at."

"Because Nikki has dibs on it," said another crew member.

"My point," said Chad emphatically, "is that we have a unique opportunity to ask Harry what it's like to be the world's most famous wizard." He looked around the booth and said, "Can we agree that's an accurate description? Or am I forgetting someone?"

"Worm dude," said Paul, and the others chimed their agreement.

"Okay, second-most famous. But Harry, that's got to be pretty weird, right? Or does it just feel normal?"

"Bit of both, really," said Harry. "Part of me can't imagine the alternative, at least in the magical world—although the Muggle world is a different story." He spoke somewhat haltingly about his eleventh birthday, and what a shock it had been. "No one had ever looked at me twice before that, and suddenly people are crowding around me and asking to shake my hand."

"But it wasn't all hero-worship," said Chad. "You had enemies too."

"Actually, that part was easier to get used to. My cousin hated me growing up—and vice versa—so I was at least ready for that bit." Harry described how public opinion had gone back and forth over the years, with almost no way to know whom he could trust. "I suppose that's why I had only a small group of friends until recently."

"What changed?" asked Nikki. "Was it because the war ended?"

"No, it was more than a year later, when I joined the Chudley Cannons." Harry closed his eyes for a moment, then said, "I was so nervous my first day. I don't think I'd ever met anyone in the wizarding world who didn't already have their own ideas about me, and here I was meeting all my new teammates at once."

"Did you have to win them over?"

"Honestly, no. Our coach, who I've decided is some kind of genius, started slagging me straight away. She accused me of joining the Cannons because I wanted to faff about on a broom all day and get my wand polished."

The crew laughed, and Chad said, "I assume that's Britspeak for getting laid. In which case, I'm guessing you already had it covered."

"You're probably right, although I didn't realise it at the time. My girlfriend Ginny had recently dumped me, and I didn't know how to approach witches. But that first weekend, my teammates gave me a pep talk and took me to a rather notorious bar ..." He paused, unsure how to describe Penumbra.

"A meat market?" suggested Nikki.

Harry was about to reply when he realised he was at a crossroads. For months he'd been devoted to Fiona, his roué persona a distant memory. But the talk of Penumbra—and hungry looks from the audience—reawakened the power he'd felt when he effortlessly brought Elizabeth home that first night. "Yeah, a meat market," he admitted, smoothly shifting into what he'd come to identify as "seduction mode."

It wasn't aimed at Nikki, who was in a committed relationship, or even at Sophie, who may well have been listening somewhere. In fact, there wasn't a target at all. But Harry felt a surge of his own power: a heady blend of Light magic, sexual prowess, and even the invisible ring on his finger.

"Hang on—I wanna break this down," said Chad, leaning forwards. "And feel free not to answer, because I know this is personal. But would you say that night marked a shift for you? Kind of a 'before and after' moment? I assume you had no trouble getting laid."

"No, it was a piece of piss."

The crew started laughing again, and Chad said, "I sincerely hope that's British slang."

"Oh my god, yes—it means piece of cake." When the laughter died down, he said, "And yes, I suppose it was a turning point, since I'd never had casual sex before."

"Not even at school? You'd think a boarding school during wartime would be one giant orgy."

"I've heard the final year of the war was like that, but I wasn't there. And before that, I had too many distractions."

"Like a Dark Lord trying to kill you?"

"For example."

Chad studied him again. "You really didn't expect to survive, did you?"

The studio went silent and, after a pause, Harry said, "Honestly, I tried not to think about it, since it was hard to imagine a good outcome. Merlin knows I never could have predicted this."

"Coming to America to peddle underwear and teach the Quidditch overlords about clocks?"

"More than that—to not feel so isolated anymore. I swear, it was like we were all alone, with almost no one to help us. I have to say, our enemies did a brilliant job cutting us off from any help."

"And yet you succeeded."

"Yes, but at a cost." For a moment, Harry felt surrounded by ghosts: Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred, Colin, and heaps of others. "When I think about everyone who didn't make it ... it's overwhelming sometimes."

Chad nodded soberly and said, "You know about survivor's guilt, right?"

Harry was unfamiliar with the term, but he knew exactly what Chad meant. "So that's a thing, then? I should probably read up on that, or maybe ask my tutor."

Nikki squeezed his shoulder and said, "Harry, you have nothing to feel guilty about. I mean, really—you offered your life before you'd even begun to live it."

"She's right," said Chad. "And in my book, that entitles you to all the nookie you want—capisce?"

"Cheers," said Harry. "Although I have no idea what 'kapeesh' means."

They told him it meant "do you understand," and Nikki surprised him with a stream of what sounded like fluent Italian. "By the way, if that were English I'd get bleeped," she admitted. "And that's pretty much all the Italian I know."

Harry was still impressed, and the conversation turned to foreign languages. Everyone but Harry had studied a second language in school, although only one crew member was fluent, and that was because he'd learnt Spanish at home. "All I know is a little French," said Harry, thinking of Sophie. He was tempted to say he wanted to learn more, but he knew that was too indiscreet.

"I'm sure you'll hear loads of languages at that Quidditch conference," said Chad. "Lord knows there won't be any Americans there."

"I hope you're wrong—I've discovered I rather like Americans," said Harry, and the audience went wild. "The ones I've met, anyway."

"We vary," said Chad dryly. "I'm sure you'll be ready to head home when the time comes."

Harry's spirits sank at the thought of going home—England seemed bleak without Fiona, and he knew Sophie wouldn't want to live there. But Chad must have read his expression, because he seamlessly changed the topic without waiting for a reply.

As the hour passed, Harry continued to admire Chad's skill as a host and Nikki's as a sidekick. Whenever he heard himself sounding egotistical, one of them said something to temper it, and whenever he started getting maudlin, they steered the conversation to safer ground. Nikki even made a point of mentioning his age, which he realised made him more sympathetic. "I still can't believe you're only nineteen," she said fondly. "Between your accent and your clothes, you seem older. But then out comes the little boy, and I just want to scoop you up. In a weirdly appropriate way."

The show concluded with another attempt at a dare. "Last time we made you get a tattoo," said Chad. "And I'm not sure we'll be able to top that, but let's try. Crew, any ideas?"

There was a range of suggestions, from piercings to bungee jumping, but Harry shook his head. "No, none of those grab me. I'd rather just play things by ear."

"I'll allow it," said Chad. "Believe me, you can coast on that tattoo for years."

But later, after the broadcast, Nikki revisited the topic. "Harry, what would you do this week in America if no one at home would find out?"

They were at Chad's house, eating a meal prepared by his wife, Kristina. Nikki's boyfriend was there as well, and Harry was enjoying the intimate setting.

"Good question, and I have no idea. What do you suggest? And no, I won't pierce my scar.'"

"But a little diamond hanging from tip would be so classy," she argued. "I'm sure all the other lords would do it too." Harry laughed, imagining a blinged-out Romulus Wynter, and Nikki said, "But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm asking what you'd do this week if you had full permission."

At first the question seemed absurd, since Harry didn't have parents or anyone else to restrict his behaviour. But I have the Weasleys, he thought. And Narcissa, and Owen, and Davina, and Hermione…

In an instant, he realised he'd been letting his fear of other people's opinions affect how he behaved. Sweet Merlin, has this been the inhibited version? he wondered with alarm. The crowd of judgmental onlookers grew in his mind: Andromeda, Ron, Gemma, Draco, Tuttle, his teammates, and nearly all the other Seekers. And Fiona, he thought sadly, imagining her with Rob. "I can't believe you dated such a manwhore," Rob would joke, and she'd laugh and lean into him.

But something deeper stirred within Harry, and he wondered just how adventurous Sophie might be. If I had Sophie for an emotional connection, but other witches as well ...

"Hey Potter, are you still with us?" said Chad, and Harry was startled back into the present. "Nikki, remind me never to ask a nineteen year-old Light wizard what he'd do if no one would find out. Or at least play some background music so we don't have dead air."

"Too right," said Harry, his cheeks burning. "I have to say, it's embarrassing being this transparent."

"You're adorable," said Nikki. "It's like watching a kid in a candy shop."

Only I want to fuck all the candy, Harry thought. "But it hasn't even been a week since Fiona and I broke up," he said weakly.

"Do you think she's been celibate?" asked Kristina. Harry grimaced, and she said, "I'm sorry—I know that sounds harsh. But you shouldn't let your lack of privacy prevent you from moving on."

"Yes, but there's a vast difference between reconnecting with Sophie—which is what I originally had in mind—and what you're proposing."

"I'm not proposing anything," she laughed. "Though I think your subconscious has a few ideas."

"Do it," said Nikki. "If anyone deserves to act like a sailor on shore leave, it's you. I'm sure Fiona won't be insulted, and anyone else can go take a flying leap."

Still worried, Harry said, "Right, but what would you say about me on the show? Or wouldn't it come up?"

"Oh, it would definitely come up," said Chad knowingly, and even Harry laughed. "I mean, we wouldn't spend a lot of time on it—not without you there to weigh in. But we might play a soundbite or two, and we'd definitely tease Nikki. Like, 'Hey Battisto, your future love slave is getting a little unruly. Is it time to rein him in?'"

Nikki instantly slid into her on-air persona. "Laugh all you like, Brewer, but I'm playing the long game. He's just waiting till his twenty-first birthday—it's already marked on my calendar."

Harry's smile faded. "I sometimes wish I'd never taken that bloody vow. I understand why it was a good idea, but it's like being in limbo for the next year and a half."

"Why exactly?" said Chad. "Are you really that desperate to walk down the aisle?"

"That's not it. It's more like I can't start building my life until I'm more settled."

Chad wasn't the only one who looked puzzled. "In what respect aren't you building your life already? You've got friends, a home, a career–"

"A wardrobe to die for," said Nikki.

"You're changing the rules of Quidditch," Chad continued.

"No, they'll probably laugh us out of the conference."

"But you're trying! Same with British politics—trust me, I've done my homework." Harry shrugged, and Chad said, "Most people your age still have their head up their ass, but not you."

"Fine, but wouldn't that mean I was more ready for a committed relationship than they are?" He sighed, then said, "Fiona never held my age against me. Which is ironic, since everyone else does."

Chad looked him in the eye and said, "Harry, I'm going to rephrase Nikki's question. What would you do if you were already with the love of your life? And for the sake of argument, she's your age and doesn't have a kid."

"We'd live together," said Harry without thinking.

"Where? Your current house, or somewhere else?"

"My house, if she could stand it. It's rather gloomy, but I kind of love it."

"All right, that's a good start. What would you and your live-in girlfriend do together? Besides the obvious, which you've already got covered."

"We'd have people over—her friends and mine. And we'd go out together, like to restaurants or the cinema. Or dancing, or to museums."

"And you can't do that with friends, or someone you're dating casually?"

"Maybe with Sophie, but she doesn't like London. Otherwise, I'm not very good at dating casually." Harry didn't want to mention dead-mum trauma, but he knew it played a role. "I like a sense of security in a relationship, but that's not there when I'm sleeping around."

Chad took a moment to think. "Right, here's what you need to do: come up with some activities you can do with friends. Honestly, most of what you already mentioned would work."

Harry felt a wave of guilt, thinking about all the friends he'd been neglecting. "Yeah, all right. Go on."

"You can still sleep around, if that's what you want, but I'd suggest lining up a fuckbuddy or two. I can't say I've ever had one myself—it was enough of a miracle I convinced Kristina to marry me. But I bet you could pull it off."

Nikki was frowning. "I don't know ... on top of everything else, he's the world's most eligible bachelor. Harry, do you think someone would be willing to sleep with you without hoping you'll propose when you turn twenty-one?"

"Someone who's already married would," noted Steve, Nikki's partner.

"No, I already tried that. Not recommended," said Harry glumly. "And besides, I wouldn't want to hurt someone else's marriage." But he found himself thinking about Draco's arrangement with Vicki, and wondering if he might be able to do something similar. No, I could never lie like that, and I'd want to be able to bring her to Grimmauld Place.

"There's bound to be someone who's up for some sweet Potter love without the headache of being married to a celebrity," said Kristina.

Chad looked affronted. "What are you implying?"

They joked about Chad's ludicrously public life, and Harry quietly considered their suggestion. Sophie could work, if we can figure out the travel. Although I'm at risk of falling in love with her. He was unable to think of anyone else, but there had to be someone in England who'd be interested.

Nikki insisted they go out for ice cream, to a non-magical shop. "The flavours are less whimsical, but frankly the ice cream is better," she said. "No-Majes really know their butterfat."

They apparated to Cambridge, and at first he was surprised there was such a long line on a cold and windy Tuesday night. But he quickly discovered the ice cream was worth it. "Oh my god, is all American ice cream this good?" he asked. "If so, I might have trouble fitting into my robes by the time I get home. And my coach will tear me a new one if my flying is slower."

"All the more reason to burn it off while you're here," said Kristina. "But no, Toscanini's is the best of the best," she said, referring to the shop.

After they finished eating, Nikki wrapped him in a hug. "I meant what I said on the air, that you're an absolute sweetheart."

"You are too," he said, with a catch in his throat. The others hugged him as well, which felt oddly normal after less than a day in America. "Go easy on me, all right?" he told Chad.

Chad assured him he would, and they ducked into an alley to Apparate home. Harry arrived in the hotel's designated Apparition lounge, but he realised he wanted to stretch his legs before going upstairs. Note to self: never order a "large" anything in America, he thought, stepping outside.

The wizarding district was less windy than Muggle Cambridge, and the streets bustled with activity. But it was dark, and between his hood and a Notice-Me-Not Charm, Harry was able to stroll unobserved. At first he walked aimlessly, but he found himself approaching the lively square at the heart of Underhill.

He'd seen it back in November, along with the Old Meeting House and other "historic" attractions. But this time he was drawn to a large, brightly illuminated billboard. "Harry Potter-Black," read the text at the bottom, along with the London Underground logo and a list of shops.

"Why does it have to be a No-Maj photo?" said the witch standing in front of it. "I'd love to interact with a larger-than-life Harry Potter, particularly dressed like that."

"Stop talking so I can get your picture," said her friend, holding a camera. "And then take mine."

The first witch pulled off her woollen beanie and shook out her hair. "God, he's good enough to eat. Between his eyes, his abs, and his accent, I could use a fresh pair of panties right about now." She extended her arms and smiled, and her friend took the picture. "All right, your turn," she said, putting her beanie back on and reaching for the camera.

Her friend took off her coat, revealing a scoop-neck jumper, and Harry admired the way her scarf set off her long, creamy neck. She was more demonstrative than her mate, rubbing poster-Harry's thigh and pouting her lips. "It's probably a good thing it's a No-Maj photo, or else they couldn't hang it in public. But oh, what I wouldn't do for the magical version!"

Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and part of Harry longed to warm her up. But he was stuffed full of ice cream, and he somehow felt honour-bound to begin with Sophie. He nevertheless ached for Fiona—a soul-deep, inexpressible loss—and he tried not to picture her sleeping next to Rob. They might be shagging right now, he thought, since Matthew was less likely to interrupt in the middle of the night.

The witch shimmied back into her coat with careless grace, and Harry swallowed. Women are brilliant, he thought, reluctantly tearing himself away. He walked alone to his hotel, distracted by visions of the coming week. He fully intended to follow Chad's advice when he got back to England, and he'd already made a mental list of the friends he wanted to reconnect with. His future fuckbuddy remained elusive, but he could worry about that later.

In the meantime, I'll give the witches what they want, he thought. And, great Merlin … they want me.