CW: Brief racist comment

Harry no longer stumbled when travelling by Portkey, and the sharp tug behind his navel no longer reminded him of being abducted by fake Professor Moody—and returning with Cedric's dead body. But while crossing the Atlantic on Tuesday, he realised he still had room for improvement, at least compared to one of his fellow travellers. The rough-looking, middle-aged wizard didn't even wobble when they landed, and during the final leg he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, wandlessly lit it, and began to smoke. The gate agent scolded him on arrival, but the wizard took a long, deep inhale and blew smoke at him before wordlessly Vanishing it.

"Velcome to America," he growled in a heavy accent, and even though Harry had no desire to start smoking, he resolved to become an expert at Portkey travel. For Merlin's sake, I'm a professional athlete, he thought, and while waiting in the immigration queue he asked the wizard how he did it.

The wizard glanced at Harry's scar, then looked him in the eye. "Dark magic," he said, his voice thick with contempt.

Harry's Occlumency shields arose in an instant, along with his obnoxious Seeker persona. "That's unfortunate," he said, not looking away. "So much less pleasant than the alternative."

Sneering, the wizard said, "Go sell your undervear, Potter."

Harry just laughed and turned around—this was nothing compared to Seeker taunting. And he knew in his very bones that if the wizard tried pulling a wand, his Light Magic would snap it.

He was therefore determined to master Portkey travel, starting with his trip to Chicago the next day. But waiting in the terminal that morning, he wasn't sure how to begin. Am I supposed to generate love? he wondered. Perhaps his wish to see Sophie more often would work; if travelling by Portkey were as easy as Apparating, he could visit her all the time. Or maybe he could impress the other travellers. Everyone knew he had Light magic, and if he could cross an ocean without turning a hair, it would inspire respect for the Light Arts.

Perfect, that's it, he thought, and blissful energy rushed through his body. I'm Harry Potter-Black, and I can Portkey with the best of them. Indeed, the first leg went shockingly well, and he landed in Cleveland with scarcely a wobble. It was almost like a fugue state, with heightened senses, and he had high hopes for the next one.

But moments before the Portkey activated, he heard people talking about Fiona. "And he didn't say a word about her on the radio," the witch whispered, "so you know it has to be bad."

"Either that, or he was glad to be rid of her," said her companion. "It's one thing to date a Black chick, but I doubt he'd marry one."

Harry's head snapped towards them, but before he could express his fury, he felt the tug of the Portkey. His stomach lurched, breakfast threatening to come up, and any hope of a graceful landing was lost. He nevertheless managed to glare at the wizard, and when they landed, Harry tore into him.

"You don't know the first thing about who I'd marry, you racist prick," he spat. "So shut your fucking gob, capisce?"

The wizard paled and backed away, and several onlookers asked what he'd said. "He insulted Potter's ex-girlfriend," someone explained.

"The one whose husband came back from the dead?" came the response, but Harry stalked off. Welcome to Chicago, he thought bitterly, and he was glad he didn't have to hang about for his luggage.

But when he reached the arrivals hall, a crowd was waiting, same as the day before. Bloody buggering fuck, he thought, wishing he could vanish, or at least raise his "Leave me the fuck alone" wards. He reminded himself how much he earned from London Underground, but it was no use—all he wanted was solitude and a hot cup of tea.

Inspiration struck. Kreacher! he called silently. Can you get me out of here? Witches were already thronging him, and his Light magic was nowhere to be found. But Kreacher popped into Harry's mind, and without saying a word, he whisked him away.

In a dizzying instant, Harry found himself on a roof, freezing cold, and surrounded by pigeons. "What the fuck!" he cried, raising his wand.

"Master is safe," announced Kreacher, standing before him. But Harry barely noticed—there were buildings in all directions, each one taller than the next, and he stood in open-mouthed astonishment. This is nothing like Boston! he thought, craning his head. Boston was more like London, with a smattering of skyscrapers, but this was insane!

"Where are we?" he stammered, not even looking at the elf.

"The top of the Colossus," said Kreacher, over the din of pigeons. "It's the tallest magical building Kreacher could find. But perhaps Master would like to go higher?"

"No, I'm good," said Harry, tentatively approaching the edge. The pigeons parted to let him though, and he dimly recalled that Americans used them to deliver post. He also recalled what Alex had said about the Colossus: it was twenty-five storeys high, and laughably short by Muggle standards. She was right, he thought, still looking around.

He let the cold air settle his brain, and he quickly got his bearings. Below, he could see the wizarding district—known as the Zero Block—and it looked nothing like the rest of downtown. The buildings were far smaller, for one thing, yet it seemed to receive more sunlight than its towering neighbours. Lake Michigan was only a short distance away, and Harry couldn't believe it was considered a lake, since the opposite shore was nowhere in sight.

Still dazzled by the view, he said, "Have you been to our hotel?"

"Yes, Master," the elf grumbled.

Harry looked down and saw Kreacher scowling. "What's the matter with it?" he asked, expecting some new drama around his room.

Averting his eyes, Kreacher said, "It is not Master's concern."

Sounds like my room is all right, Harry thought. "Are the elf quarters okay?" Kreacher's answer was inaudible over the cooing pigeons. "I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"Kreacher's wife is there," growled the elf.

"Your wife! I thought she lived at Beauxbatons!"

"She does, Master. But she's serving the Beauxbatons flying mistress, who's in America for the World Quidditch Conference."

"And you ran into her at the hotel? How did that go?"

The elf's grizzled brows drew together. "Poorly, Master."

Harry wasn't shocked, given Kreacher's prior comments about his wife. "Right ... when was the last time you saw her?"

Another mumbled reply, in which the only word Harry could make out was "Grindelwald."

"Not since Grindelwald died?" asked Harry. Couldn't you just have said, "two years ago?" he wondered.

"No, Master. Not since Grindelwald's War."

"Not since Grindelwald's War! Are you joking? That was more than fifty years ago!"

Kreacher mumbled again—something like "Not long enough"—and Harry wanted to ask more questions. But Chicago was proving rather cold, particularly atop a skyscraper in winter, so he asked if they could go indoors.

Within moments they were inside a very pleasant hotel room. After confirming it was free from purloined silver, Harry asked, "So, what happens now? Can you avoid her?"

"Unclear, Master. Kreacher had certain plans for Chicago, and she may try to thwart them."

Oh my god, he's afraid she'll cockblock him, Harry realised. "Er, would you rather stay in another hotel?" he asked, not knowing what the alternatives were.

Kreacher's ears shot out in alarm. "No, Master! Kreacher should never have mentioned it! Bad Kreacher!"

Harry had to stop him from punishing himself, which effectively ended the conversation, and soon he was alone sipping tea. He was tempted to go back to sleep, after the morning he'd had, but it was a crisp, sunny day, perfect for sightseeing. The architectural boat tour wasn't an option, due to the season, but Alex had provided a map with detailed instructions, which he carefully followed.

Wrapped in warm clothes, including a beanie and scarf, he passed incognito through the lobby and stepped outside. So, this is the Zero Block, he thought, as the chaotic reality replaced his prior mental image. Alex had described the dense square of buildings, comprising a single city block, but she'd omitted the massive courtyard. And unlike Diagon Alley, there were shops on at least ten levels, connected by walkways, escalators, and multiple lifts.

He was keen to explore, but Muggle Chicago beckoned, so he crossed the busy street. The Zero Block vanished from view, and suddenly everything was much darker, the sky blocked by tall buildings. The lake is always east, but where's the bloody lake? he wondered, looking around. But at the next corner he saw it, off to the right, and he walked the short distance to Michigan Avenue. It was a relief to see the sky again, and he resolved never to take it for granted.

Alex had told him to walk north for roughly a mile, through a dazzling commercial district, and then go to the top of the Hancock Building. You'll have to buy tickets, she wrote, but the real challenge will be the elevator—hopefully your Light magic will get you through it.

He was grateful for the tip, since the lift was crowded and alarmingly fast. But the view was worth it, and he was glad he'd brought his camera, which could pass for an ordinary Muggle device. After taking too many photos, he left in search of lunch—specifically, a Vienna Beef hot dog. Doesn't matter where, Alex had said, just don't eat it with ketchup. She also promised him pizza that night, at a Muggle restaurant with Rocky, and she warned him to save room. You probably don't have sweatpants, or anything else with an elastic band, but definitely don't wear your tightest trousers.

Harry still felt competitive towards Rocky, so he deliberately went to a museum that afternoon, not wanting to feel like an idiot again. But instead of the Art Institute, which he hoped to visit with Sophie, he went to the Museum of Science and Industry. The taxi ride was expensive, but the view along Lake Shore Drive was fantastic, and his driver enjoyed pointing things out.

"And the University of Chicago is a few blocks that way," he said, when they'd nearly arrived.

"In Hyde Park!" said Harry excitedly. He told the driver how he'd lied to Penelope months earlier about attending the University of Chicago, and that she'd asked if he fancied living in Hyde Park. "I'd never heard of it, of course, and I made a complete arse of myself." The driver laughed and drove him through campus—he even switched off the meter—which Harry more than made up for with the tip.

The museum itself was massive, and utterly engrossing. Matthew would have loved it, Harry realised, and his heart ached for the family he'd lost. Maybe someday I'll bring my own kids, he thought, unable to picture it. Or Teddy, if he ever gets his magic under control.

After several hours, which wasn't enough, he discreetly Apparated to the hotel. The lounge was much more crowded than before, presumably with people who'd come for the conference. Unsurprisingly, as soon as Harry pulled off his hat, someone approached him.

"Did I really have to come all the way to America to talk to Harry Potter?" said the man, a reporter Harry recognised from home. "You've left us high and dry since the season ended."

Harry was used to complaints that he didn't give interviews, other than post-match question and answer sessions. "There's been nothing to say about Quidditch since the season ended," he argued.

"Rubbish—I could pelt you with questions for the next hour and still not run out. I tried pressing Malfoy for access, but the ungrateful twerp refused."

The reporter was Jasper Fleet, who'd given Draco his big break by quoting him during the three-day match against Puddlemere. "May I point out that Draco doesn't interview me either?" said Harry.

"Yes, but his niche is Quidditch minutiae, whereas I cover the overall drama and pageantry. Which is why I'm here—I still can't believe you're proposing to change the rules of a centuries-old sport!"

"Everyone wants it," said Harry. "And yes, I realise it probably won't go through, since we're not the first to propose it."

"But you're the best organised. In the past it was just random groups of disgruntled Chasers, or some academic who'd written a tome about the Arithmantic benefits of a fifty-point Snitch. But by imposing a minimum match length, you got the team owners interested, and that's where the gold is."

The International Quidditch Federation was notoriously corrupt, and the more Harry learnt about them, the worse he felt about Quidditch in general. "Can't they just make a decision on its own merits?" he asked. "Or does it have to be bribes?"

Fleet laughed out loud. "Harry, the bastards running the IQF don't decide which socks to wear without taking a bribe. For Merlin's sake, why do you think we're in Chicago of all places?"

"Er, I heard it was because they couldn't agree on a location, and this was mutually disadvantageous," said Harry, belatedly realising how naive that sounded.

"That's true, but you've omitted a step." Fleet looked at him appraisingly and said, "Tell me, what did you know about Chicago before coming here?"

Harry suspected he wasn't referring to Michael Jordan, or the bit where Hyde Park was a neighbourhood and not a park. "Er, I knew about Muggle gangsters in the thirties," he admitted.

"Not just Muggles, and not just in the thirties," said Fleet. "There's a wizarding mob as well, and an event this size brings in plenty of gold. And I can guarantee the IQF Council is getting a healthy kickback. I mean really, a Quidditch conference in Chicago? In the dead of winter?"

"All right, you've made your point," said Harry. "And I assume you're saying the team owners will bribe the IQF, since they're the ones who'll benefit from a minimum match length."

"Yes, although there's a risk as well. It's possible fans won't like the rules change, which could mean reduced ticket sales. I doubt the Cannons need to worry, since you're such a draw, but the other owners might be left holding the baby." Fleet indicated the crowded lounge and said, "I suspect calculations are being made as we speak."

"And if the bribes aren't big enough, the IQF won't bite?"

"Exactly. I'm sure everyone could agree on a minimum match length, but the problem's the Snitch. You were right to propose launching a second Snitch if the first one's caught too early, but how much is it worth? A hundred and fifty points times two just makes the scoring problem worse."

Harry weighed what he'd just heard. "So, what do you think should happen?"

"I'm hoping they go for it," said Fleet. "It would be Quidditch history, and I live for this stuff." In an abrupt change of topic, he said, "By the way, you hacked off a lot of locals this morning."

"At the Portkey terminal, you mean?"

"Yes, it's been all over the radio. Between telling off that Yank and vanishing from the arrivals hall, you've made quite an impression already. And unlike at home, Rita's not here to clean up after you."

Brilliant, thought Harry, and he considered asking Chad or Nikki for advice. But when he saw Alex that evening, she put him entirely at ease.

"Did you do that on purpose?" she asked, when they were seated in the Muggle pizzeria. "Because the only thing missing from your reputation in America was the 'bad boy' thing, since you were never a wanted criminal over here."

"No, that was definitely not on purpose. I lost my temper, full stop."

"Is that why you vanished? Because that was also fantastic! Everyone's wondering how you did it, since you can't Apparate from the terminal, and no one heard you call Kreacher."

"Telepathic bond, remember?"

"How could I forget?" she said, grinning. But her fiancé scowled.

"Excuse me, I'm right here," said Rocky. "And I don't need to hear about breakfast in bed."

Alex and Rocky were seated next to each other in the cramped wooden booth, and she affectionately nudged him with her shoulder. "Oh come on, you were just as pleased as I was." Harry was puzzled, and she said, "Guess who was at the terminal this morning. Go on, guess!"

At first he had no idea, but her gleeful expression spoke volumes. "Not Jodi and Heidi?" he said, referring to her former school bullies.

"Oh yes! According to my sources, they got all tarted up hoping to catch your eye. And they were near the front, which means you might have actually seen them, only you got the hell out of there."

"Er, what exactly were they expecting to happen? It's not like I was going to bring someone back to the hotel for a quick morning shag."

"No, but I'm sure you could have used a tour guide." This led to a discussion of his sightseeing that day, and what else he should do while in town.

"Go see some improv," said Rocky. "No-Maj Chicago is famous for it—tons of big stars got their start here. But there's wizarding improv as well. Which I prefer, honestly, since I get more of the references."

Unfortunately, the best wizarding troupe only performed on weekends, and Harry wasn't sure if Sophie would like it, since fast-paced American humour might be hard for her to follow. So he filed the idea away, perhaps for his next visit.

Their pizza eventually arrived, and it scarcely resembled the version he'd eaten at home. "Don't tell me that's all cheese," he said, looking at the alarmingly deep pie.

"No, there's spinach and a whole other crust inside," said Alex. "And that one has sausage."

"I think she deliberately brought us here to prevent a second Battle of the Dandies," said Rocky, who was nevertheless well dressed. And so was Harry—not in tracksuit bottoms, as Alex had suggested, but a soft woollen jumper and a relatively loose pair of trousers.

Even so, he was tempted to undo the top button after eating, since the pizza was surprisingly good. And so was the conversation—there were no hard feelings between the two wizards, in spite of their complicated past. Rocky expressed sympathy over Fiona, and he spent a suspiciously long time in the the loo, to give Harry and Alex privacy.

"So, how are you actually doing?" she asked when they were alone.

Harry sighed. "Honestly? It varies. Sometimes I'm all right. But then later it all comes back, and it feels like I'll never be happy again."

"I'm not surprised," she said fondly. "More than anyone I know, you live almost entirely in the present moment. Which has to amplify whatever you're going through at a given time."

"Maybe. Although I'm not sure I agree about the present moment thing, because the hardest part is losing our future together. Like, I'm fine now, but when I think about the life we were supposed to have ..." He trailed off and took a long sip of beer.

"I know, that has to be brutal." Alex paused, then said, "Forgive me for asking, but how long did it take you to get over me? I know it was just a pocket romance and doesn't compare to what you and Fiona had, but I'm curious. And please, be honest."

Harry took a moment to think, swirling the beer still remaining in his glass. "A few days? Sorry, I know that sounds shitty–"

"No, that's perfect. I never wanted you to fall in love. But I think you do it almost automatically, because you're so present. Which I hope means you'll get over Fiona sooner than later. Again, I know it's not the same, since you and she were much more serious than you and I were."

He took another sip of beer, considering her words. "No, you may be right. Although maybe I'm just shallow, and easily distracted." He let out a hollow laugh and said, "Show me a new pair of tits and I'm good to go!"

"That's not true and you know it."

"Good point, I needed two sets of tits the weekend you were away," he said, referring to the two C-squareds he'd slept with. "But no, I need a connection as well."

"Which you're good at finding. Really, Harry—just live in the present, same as always, and give yourself permission to be okay."

"I guess. But doesn't that make me a dick, getting over her that quickly? Like, I could have married her. I could have raised her son as my own. And then one week later I'm fine?" Frowning, he added, "God help my future wife, if I'm that inconsistent."

"I'm really not worried. And I'm sure Fiona wasn't either."

"That's true, she wasn't. And neither was Ginny." Harry closed his eyes and tried to imagine letting go of his grief. It's all right for you to be happy. That's what Sirius wanted, and Fiona does too. "Thanks," he said aloud, looking at her again. "And yes, I'll try."

After dinner he returned to the hotel, and he'd barely set foot in the lounge when Darius Sprott called his name. "Harry!" boomed the Cannons team manager. "Get over here!"

Darius introduced his companions, who were all team owners. "You just live to shake things up, don't you?" said Lester Padgett, owner and manager of the Appleby Arrows. "Because last season wasn't crazy enough."

Harry tried to protest, but the owners just laughed, and it was clear they were drunk. "To the end of the ten-minute match!" said one of the others, raising his glass. "Assuming we can get the Germans on board."

"No, I had dinner with Müller—we've got them. It's the subcontinent we need to worry about. You'd think they were the ones who invented Quidditch!"

"The colonies are like that—more British than we are," said another owner, and Harry slowly backed away.

"Look, there's Routledge, I should go," he said, but the group barely noticed—a waitress had arrived and they were ordering more drinks.

He made his escape, and Phil seemed glad to see him. "Hey Potter, are you having a good time? I heard about the Portkey thing this morning—I hope you're all right."

"Cheers, I'm fine. What about you? Did you do any sightseeing?"

"Yeah, I figured I should get to know the place, after convincing more than one Muggle I lived here."

Harry laughed—it was Phil who'd advised him to tell Muggles he was visiting from Chicago. "At least you didn't have to use that on Daphne. By the way, how are you two doing?"

Phil's smile faded, and he let out a sigh. "We're still together, and I'm sure she'd say things are great. But I don't think it'll work in the long run."

"Really? Why not?"

"Our backgrounds are just too different. Her family's had magic for more than a thousand years, and mine is all Muggles—even my siblings. So, there's practically no one I could easily stay connected with. And if we had kids? They'd be from another universe. They wouldn't even have my name—how am I supposed to explain that?"

"Have you and Daphne talked about this?"

"Yes, but I don't think she gets it. Which is a shame because she's a great girl, and a lot less inhibited than you'd think. Not that we've actually had sex yet." Harry expressed surprise, and Phil said, "At this point I'm the one who's stalling. I can't very well pop her cherry and then say, 'Thanks, but no thanks.'"

"Mate, you need to tell her. You can't leave her hanging like that."

"I know, I know. I'll do it when I get home." Phil glanced around the crowded lounge, then said, "Can I trust you not to tell her about ... whatever might happen here?"

"Oh, hell," said Harry, rubbing his forehead. "I'm not going to lie."

"I'm not asking you to lie. Just don't rat me out, okay?"

"Fine. But for Merlin's sake, don't get caught! The last thing she needs is to read about it in the paper."

"You're the international celebrity, not me," said Phil. "And I swear, I'll end things as soon as I get home."

Harry's next conversation was with Viktor Krum, whom he spotted in the drinks queue. Krum asked about mutual friends, like Hermione and Fleur, but they mostly talked about Quidditch.

"I was disappointed you will not play for England. I would have liked to fly against you."

"Likewise," said Harry. "But I'm sure we'll get the chance one of these days."

A nearby wizard laughed out loud. "That could last for months!" he said in accented English. "Observational magic, you know."

"It's not consistent," said another onlooker. "And the new scoring might change things, if the Snitch is no longer decisive."

"We can only hope," said Harry. "I mean, three days was fine, but three months? No thanks!"

They got their drinks, and Krum introduced Harry to more Seekers. Routledge joined them as well, and everyone looked forward to flying together during the conference. "The organisers promised a huge indoor space," said a Seeker from Kenya. "It's not a full pitch, so we can't have a proper match, but there should be enough space for a free-for-all."

Bets were made, and there was talk of an obstacle course, which sounded brilliant. "When can we start?" asked Harry. "Maybe I should turn in now."

"No, there's entertainment," said another Seeker. "Some kind of performance, here in the lounge. Starts around nine, I think."

"Improvised comedy," someone said. "Apparently it's a big deal here in Chicago."

Some of the foreign Seekers groaned, saying it would be too hard to follow, and they opted for live music instead. Krum went with them, but Phil and several others remained. They gathered near a stage, which hadn't previously been visible, and a sign announced the name of the troupe.

"Oh, I've heard of them!" said Harry. "They're supposed to be really good. Well done, organisers!"

Nine o'clock rolled around, and seven people took the stage, all of them in their twenties. One stepped forwards and said, "Hi, welcome! We're Baby's First Bezoar, and we're here because someone thought it was a good idea to subject a bunch of foreigners to rapid-fire American comedy. Which probably explains the thin crowd right now, but we're glad you're here."

There was applause, and the host briefly explained how it would work. "Nothing is scripted, and we'll start with a one-word prompt from the audience. And I'll tell you right now, we don't know jack shit about Quidditch, so please, suggest something else."

Various shouts from the audience, but one stood out. "Clocks," repeated the host, and everyone laughed. The performers exchanged looks, and another young man began to speak.

He rambled for maybe a minute about the clock at his aunt's house, which he accidentally broke as a child. He and his sister tried fixing it, using their sleeping uncle's wand, causing water to spill out. The story seemed unfinished, but he stepped back and two of the others stepped forwards.

Together they improvised a scene, only loosely related to the monologue, and another scene followed. Different performers swapped in and out, and Harry was impressed by how well they adapted to new information. For example, one person started a scene by knocking on an imaginary door, then announcing he'd come to remove a ghoul. And the householder said, "Even though you're about to give birth?" The first person didn't even blink and began simulating labour, which was even funnier since he was male.

There were two witches in the group, one of whom kept drawing Harry's eye. She was petite, with long red hair—very pretty—but also outrageously funny. He'd have expected her to play the ingenue, but she chose wildly inappropriate roles, like a grizzled old dragon wrangler showing off his burns. And she made it work—he could almost forget what she looked like, although not entirely. Bugger, why is it always the redhead?

The monologue resumed, and it emerged that the clock had been broken several times before, and ineptly repaired. The next set of scenes, which reprised the first set, echoed the theme of trying to fix something but making it worse—and during the third act, everything started coming together. The story was utterly absurd, but the performers played it straight, which was much funnier than if they tried for laughs.

"Thank you, good night!" said the original host when it ended. "You've been a great audience—both of you!" There were, in fact, several dozen spectators, but when some of them approached the stage to chat with the players, Harry realised they were the performers' friends.

Phil turned to him and said, "Are you going to introduce yourself? Seems only fair, after they had to perform in front of the world's most famous wizard. Although they mightn't have recognised you with your clothes on."

"Very funny," said Harry. "Maybe you should do improv."

"Maybe I will. But come on, I'm sure the redhead's your type," he said, standing up.

Harry glared at him—yes, the redhead was pretty, but he still wanted to wait for Sophie. Although he also wanted to meet the performers, if only to thank them, so he accompanied Phil to the stage.

The group stopped talking when they arrived, which Harry was used to, and Phil broke the ice. "That was absolutely brilliant," he said. "Sorry you didn't get a proper turnout, but at least you got the Light Lord himself."

"You fucking bastard!" cried Harry, and everyone laughed. "But seriously, you guys were great. Can we buy you some drinks? Phil can get the first round."

"No one who does improv will ever turn down free beer," said the wizard who'd played the ghoul, and everyone introduced themselves. They gathered around several tables, and Phil bought a couple of pitchers.

At first, Harry was uncomfortable, since the performers' friends joined them, and he feared they'd come only to gawp. But everyone was really funny—the friends included—and he eventually started to relax.

"I thought my Quidditch teammates were clever," he said to his neighbours, "But you lot are on a whole other level."

"Maybe, but the tradeoff is we're all emotionally stunted," said one of the performers, a wizard named Jeff.

Harry glanced at Valerie—the red-haired witch—who was also seated nearby. "It's true, we're all train wrecks," she said. "Why else would we go on stage night after night making idiots of ourselves in a desperate bid for attention?"

"You make that sound like a bad thing," said a wizard named Jason, who clearly fancied her. "And didn't you hear? Doing improv teaches you to 'go with the flow' and 'live in the present moment,'" he said grandly.

"Yes, it's such a healthy lifestyle," said Jeff, refilling his beer.

But Harry was intrigued. "Could you say more about that? Living in the moment, that is." He wasn't addressing anyone in particular, but his eyes kept finding Valerie, so she spoke first.

"Jason's right, actually—improv itself is great. It gets you out of your own head, and you have to be totally open." She explained a core practice called "Yes, and," whereby you agree to whatever your scene partner introduces. "So, in the scene when Todd said he'd come to remove a ghoul, Jason immediately agrees to it—that's the 'yes.' But he also raises the stakes by telling Todd he's about to give birth. That's the 'and.'

"Now imagine if he hadn't done that," she continued, "but instead just shot him down. For example, if Todd says, 'I'm here to remove a ghoul,' and Jason says, 'No, you're not. I ordered a pizza.' Or, worse yet, he doesn't even mention the pizza. Bam, the scene dies."

"New people do that sometimes," said Jason. "They want to look cool by shooting the other guy down, which might work somewhere else, but definitely not in improv."

"Sounds like Quidditch taunting," said Harry. "The whole point is to throw your rival off balance."

"Yeah, but improv is about teams, not rivals," said Valerie, who'd turned her chair to face Harry's. "You can't build a decent scene if it's every man for himself."

"No, of course not. That's partly why I gave up Quidditch taunting, because I didn't like how it was affecting me."

Phil was talking to a pretty blonde witch—one of the friends who'd come to watch—but he suddenly joined the conversation. "You mean because you were acting like the world's biggest berk up there?" He turned to the group and said, "You have never heard anything like Harry Potter engaging in Quidditch taunting. Although it really wasn't taunting—he skipped straight to bragging."

Harry's face was burning, and everyone laughed. "In his defence," said Jeff, "he's Harry fucking Potter. I think he's allowed to brag."

"No, it wasn't good for my mind," said Harry awkwardly. "And it's deadly for Light magic."

"Also deadly for Basilisks, when he was twelve," said Phil, ignoring Harry's discomfort. "Did you know he slew a Basilisk when he was only twelve? Because that came up during the match against Wither, didn't it?"

Harry wasn't smiling. "Shall I send Daphne a post-card tomorrow?" he said through gritted teeth. "I'm sure she'd love to hear what you're up to."

Phil got the hint. Addressing the others, he said, "I'm just giving him a hard time. Harry's been a brilliant addition to the league, and he's also a great guy. Not to mention, if it weren't for him, I'd either be dead or in exile." His companion expressed shock, and she asked Phil how the war had affected him, which pulled him away from the group.

"Sorry about that," said Harry, still embarrassed. "Phil and I are mates, but we're also arch-rivals over the pitch."

"That has to be weird," said Valerie. "At least in improv we're allowed to just be friends."

"Story of my life," said Jason, sighing.

Hoping to change the topic, Harry said, "Can you say more about the positive parts of improv?"

"One of my favourite rules is 'Follow the fear,'" said Jeff. "If you're in a scene and something makes you uncomfortable, do it more. I'm not sure that's good advice in life-threatening situations, although I suppose you're the expert on that."

Harry paused to consider it. I definitely wouldn't follow Dementors, he thought. But breaking into Gringotts was clearly the right move, and so was sacrificing my life. Although in that case I wasn't actually scared.

"No, I think it's good advice, at least under normal circumstances. I didn't realise it at the time, but I let my fear of public attention keep me from playing Quidditch, even though I knew I was good at it."

"You're afraid of public attention?" said Jason, incredulous. "Dude, I have some really bad news for you."

More laughter, and Valerie said, "Actually, I get it. I love doing improv in front of an audience, but part of me is relieved you can't get famous that way—at least not in the magical world. It's possible in No-Maj improv, although it's still a long shot."

"That could change, actually, if wizarding movies take off," said Jeff. "And you'd be perfect for that."

"Wizarding movies?" said Harry. "Is that even possible?"

"Yeah, apparently the goblins have some new device that allows No-Maj technology to work around magic. Which means wizards want to start making movies, although it's not clear whether the government will allow it."

"Why not?"

"Secrecy," said Valerie. "We take it seriously here, remember?"

"But why would wizarding films be a bigger secrecy risk than anything else?" asked Harry, unable to keep saying "movies."

"They wouldn't be, but MACUSA is super cautious. So, it might take a while, or maybe it won't happen at all. Which means if I want to be famous, my best shot is still radio."

"You definitely don't have a face for radio," said Harry automatically. Valerie's cheeks turned pink, but their eyes met for a long moment.

Behind him, he heard Jason mutter, "You really know someone's out of your league when Harry Potter starts hitting on them."

She excused herself to visit the loo, and Harry got up to buy more beer. Personally, he was done drinking, but the others were still going strong, and he felt vaguely obliged to support struggling performers—at least with drinks.

When they reconvened, he found himself next to Valerie, somewhat apart from the others. "You were really good tonight," he said, not for the first time. "Your dragon wrangler was hilarious, and you actually reminded me of my best friend's brother. Although he's not that old yet."

"Give him time," she said, in the raspy voice she'd used in the role—pretending to smoke a cigarette, then stubbing it on her arm. Harry laughed, and she said, "But you were a great audience. We were nervous as hell when we heard you might be there—that's why we brought as many friends as we were allowed."

"There was a limit?"

"Yeah, for security. Apparently there's a massive celebrity staying here, and they had to bring in crowd control. Which reminds me, how did you Apparate from the Portkey terminal? Everyone's wondering."

Harry was less embarrassed now that he was talking only with her. "I have a telepathic bond with my house-elf," he admitted. "Although it was mostly panic—I'd had a bad interaction with another passenger, and I couldn't face a crowd."

"I heard about that. I'm so sorry—Americans really suck sometimes."

"Believe me, so do the British. But I've liked nearly everyone I've met here, and I'm enjoying the change of scene."

Her expression softened, which implied she knew about Fiona. "I hope they didn't force you to go on the radio yesterday. Like, to fulfil a contract obligation or something."

"No, they gave me the option to back out entirely. And it was fun, if a little weird."

"A little weird?" she said sceptically. "Appearing on national radio? That would be the craziest thing that ever happened to me." She blushed again and said, "Except maybe this. You should see the looks my friends are giving me right now– No, don't turn around!"

He did it anyway, and three of her mates were gesturing wildly. One was waggling her tongue; another was goading Valerie to reveal more cleavage; and the third was simulating a blow job by cupping her hand and pushing her cheek out with her tongue. They started laughing hysterically when Harry spotted them, and he laughed too.

"Sweet Merlin, they're even worse than my friend Janet! Something tells me she'd be good at improv."

Valerie looked mortified. "I can't take them anywhere. But really, I'm having a nice time just talking."

"So am I." He asked how she'd got into improv, and she told him she'd started in school, then decided to make a go of it.

"That's why I came to Chicago. I even tried doing No-Maj improv, but it was too hard, since I had to keep censoring myself. You can only refer to magic so many times before people decide you're weird."

He asked her more questions, and he was definitely attracted to her, which made him a little uncomfortable. Part of him wanted to take her upstairs, and he suspected she'd be willing. But he didn't want to jeopardise things with Sophie, whom he still felt bad about dumping over the phone. It was better than cheating on her, like her previous boyfriend, but he felt honour-bound to restart their relationship with something resembling a clean slate.

"Anyway, I should probably turn in," he said. "I've really enjoyed meeting you, and maybe I'll catch your show at the weekend."

"That would be great. But I'm gonna leak that you're coming, since we'll sell a shitload of tickets."

"Please don't," he laughed, knowing she was joking.

He wished her luck with her career, then said goodbye to the other performers, who'd acquired even more beer. He was a little sad as he went upstairs, but he knew he'd done the right thing where Sophie was concerned.

"Kreacher," he called when he entered the room.

Crack! "Yes, Master!"

"How are you doing? Was your day all right?" Harry refrained from adding, Did you manage to avoid your wife?

"Kreacher is pleased to see Master," he said, his ears twitching.

Harry gave him a probing look, not knowing if Kreacher's day went poorly or not. "I do hope you're all right," he said.

The elf revealed nothing, other than to say, "Master received a letter." He indicated a sealed envelope on the console table, which Harry was standing next to. He picked it up and recognised Sophie's distinctly French-looking handwriting.

"Brilliant, thanks," he said, feeling much more confident about his decision to sleep alone that night. Maybe she'll be here tomorrow, he thought hopefully.

Eager to read the letter, he sent Kreacher away, then sat down on the sofa. He read:

Dear Harry,

You have been in my thoughts these last few days, ever since I learned about the return of Fiona's husband. That must have been a great shock, and I was very worried about you. You have an enormous heart, and I know it is breaking.

I admit I had other thoughts too. I know we did not have the same connection you have with Fiona, but we were a good couple, I think, and perhaps you would like a familiar lover while you grieve. My agent has the same wish—not to be your lover (although perhaps that too), but for us to reunite. My career flourishes ever since our affair, with many bookings, and I will also become apprentice at a wizarding fashion house. My dream was to create non-magical couture, since it is a more exciting world, but there begins to be more interest in wizarding couture and I think it has potential.

Excuse me, I digress ... As I said, when I heard of your situation, I wished perhaps to restart our affair. But then I noticed I feel ambitious, which I do not like. I therefore decided we should not reunite, because I do not wish to take advantage of you, especially when you are suffering.

To my surprise, when I made the decision I was also relieved. I am not angry about how you ended our relationship, because you were honest. But I was hurt, and I realise I do not want to be vulnerable like that again—that is why I was relieved.

Perhaps I am fooling myself and you do not even think to restart our affair. If so, you may ignore this letter, and we will laugh about it when I see you in Chicago. But if you hope perhaps to "pick up where we left off," as you say in English, I think it is better if we do not. I fear you are too loveable, mon joli Anglais, and I do not trust myself to protect my heart when I see you again. I ask you only to respect my wish and not to use your big eyes on me.

A très bientôt,
Sophie

Harry's heart sank as he read it, and he realised how much he'd pinned his hopes on her. She'd seemed like the perfect solution to his heartache—"a familiar lover while you grieve"—but now she was out of reach, just like Fiona. I guess I don't need to master Portkeys after all, he thought glumly, letting go of his plan to visit her every week.

He turned the letter over in his hand, feeling the paper's texture. It was grounding, somehow—he'd lost yet another version of the future, but the smooth paper was here and now. He'd lost so many futures: the one with his parents; the one with Sirius; the one with Ginny, then Fiona, and now Sophie. All he had was now—all he ever had was now. It was a little terrifying, like finding himself atop a tall building, surrounded by skyscrapers. But he'd always—perhaps stupidly—followed the fear.

It wasn't fear, however, that roused him from the sofa. He took a moment to freshen up, removing the last traces of the pizza he'd eaten, not bothering to tidy his hair. Next he descended to the lounge, certain of what he'd find, and he wasn't disappointed. Her bright hair was easy to spot, and her knowing smile answered his unspoken question.