Harry was reluctant to admit, even to himself, how much he was enjoying the novelty of a new partner. He definitely wasn't over Fiona, and it was occasionally jarring to realise he was in bed with someone else, but he could hardly be upset about it. Valerie was playful, sexy, and had clearly mastered the improv technique of living in the moment.
"All right, what's the protocol?" she asked the next morning, after a very late night. "Does your house-elf administer an exit interview? Or do I just get a pamphlet called, 'So, You've Fucked a Light Wizard.'"
"No, but you get breakfast in bed, if you like."
"Sure, if it's quick. But work starts at nine, and I really can't be late."
"You do improv at nine?"
"No, my day job, which I can't afford to quit yet."
After a brief discussion about breakfast, and a silent exchange with Kreacher, Harry asked about her job.
"I work for a florist—not far from here, actually. And yes, that was Plan B for meeting you. Plan C involved jumping out of a cake, so I'm glad it didn't come to that."
He knew she was joking, and that she hadn't actually schemed to meet him. "Which florist?" he asked. "And would it be weird if I sent you flowers at work?" Her brow furrowed, and he said, "I could send them anonymously, if you don't want people to know."
She flopped back onto the pillow. "Christ, this is the part where I have to decide whether I want to become instantly notorious." Turning to face him, she said, "Would it be rude to ask what percentage of your partners opt for the stealth route?"
"Er, just Helena, I think. Oh, and technically Vera, but she sold her story to a magazine, so I'm not sure that counts."
"It doesn't. But really, is that all? Sorry, I don't mean to imply you're a slut."
"I prefer 'manwhore,'" he said stiffly. "And yes, that's all. I'm actually a bit wary of one-night stands, believe it or not. Which reminds me, what are you doing tonight?"
They made plans to meet for dinner, but she asked for more time to decide whether to appear with him in public. "For one thing, my parents would find out what a ho-bag I am—which they've probably figured out by now. But then there'll be the 'Who is Valerie Dwyer?' onslaught, which might be a bit much."
Harry didn't point out that her career would very likely take off, as Sophie's had done. But Valerie clearly knew this already, and she deserved time to weigh the decision properly.
After she left, he went downstairs, where people were milling about drinking coffee. Soon the conference would begin—with opening remarks, a keynote lecture, and a call for petitions. The lecture topic was Observational Magic, which no one doubted anymore, and Harry knew his name would come up. And then he would formally request the rules change—a task he'd foolishly agreed to months earlier, when Krum had refused.
"So, how was the rest of your night?" asked Phil, nursing a mug of coffee. "I know I had fun."
Harry had done his best to ignore him as the night progressed, but Phil and the blonde witch had both disappeared around the same time. "Could you at least not flaunt that you're cheating on my friend?" said Harry irritably.
"All I said was I had fun. You're the one who jumped to conclusions."
"You have dark circles under your eyes, same as me. And yes, I had fun."
Phil's expression softened. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "After what you've been through, you deserve a good time." Looking at the conference agenda, he said, "Shall we sit together for the observational magic talk? A bit of solidarity?"
"Cheers, yeah. Seems only right after enduring a three-day match together."
They entered the auditorium, where the lecture soon began, and the initial news was positive. Observational magic, was "not nearly as predictable as the recent match in England would suggest," said the presenter. "This is mere speculation, but it's possible the outcome was influenced by the widespread interest in observational magic itself. Naturally, this is difficult to test, but I urge the reporters in the audience not to, shall we say, overhype observational magic, lest it further influence the Snitch."
But the news that followed was concerning. "That particular match, however, introduced a new variable, which our research failed to account for. When we analysed more than eight hundred years of Quidditch results, we focused on audience size rather than the individual players—a deliberate omission, due to the added complexity and a dearth of examples. But in light of recent events, we combed through the data and found a handful of what you might call 'mega-celebrities.'"
Harry shrank in his seat as everyone turned to look at him. "For example, in the 1658 semifinal between Finland and France, the French Seeker was a mundane-born witch named Marie-Anne de Bourbon, eldest daughter to King Louis XIII and sister to Louis XIV. This was before the Statute of Secrecy, which meant the entire kingdom of France—and all the related courts—were paying close attention to the match.
"The semifinal lasted fifteen days, and she won it with a spectacular catch whilst being struck by a Bludger. But her brother, who was king by then, forbade her from playing in the final, out of fear for her safety. And I beg you not to take anecdotes as proof, but"—he paused for dramatic effect—"the World Cup final that year lasted less than an hour."
Phil leaned over and whispered, "You are completely fucked, Underwear Boy."
Before Harry could fire back, the presenter said, "Again, I caution you not to draw conclusions from a single anecdote, or even a dozen anecdotes. It could be centuries before we have enough data to firmly conclude whether an unusually famous player could somehow affect the Snitch. And, speaking personally, I would encourage such a player to persist, and not let a fear of overlong matches deter them from the sport. If nothing else, they'd be providing invaluable data for future scholars."
Harry was relieved to hear it, but he didn't fancy being blamed the rest of his career for every match that ran long. I doubt my rivals—or even my teammates—will find it comforting to know we're providing invaluable data.
The lecture continued a while longer, which gave Harry time to actively dread the call for petitions. It wouldn't be as bad as addressing the Wizengamot, but in some respects the stakes were much higher. Why in Merlin's name did I ever propose changing the points system? he thought. Rival Seekers had cited it as proof of his colossal ego, and Harry feared they were right. I hadn't even been in the league for a month when I suggested it.
After the lecture, seven throne-like chairs appeared on the stage, and the members of the IQF Council each sat down. "And now," said the secretary, a beefy-looking wizard from Hungary, "we open the floor for petitions. I'll remind you that the Council is not required to address every petition, but you are welcome to present one."
A handful of people rose from their seats, and when Harry hesitated, Phil jabbed him with his elbow. "It's showtime," Phil said brightly, and with a heavy sigh, Harry joined the queue that was forming near the stage. He held a scroll with the hundreds of signatures they'd gathered, and a posh-looking witch had come to present the corresponding owners' petition.
Now that he knew how corrupt the Council was, Harry felt bad for some of the petitioners. For example, one wizard sought approval for a grass-growing potion he'd created, to be used on the pitch. But as he touted its benefits over the leading product, MagiChem Evergreen, the Council barely seemed to listen. And the banner listing the conference sponsors—including MagiChem—hung behind them like a taunt.
But the Council didn't ignore Harry. One perk of being a mega-celebrity, he thought, as he approached the stage. "We, the undersigned," he began, reading from the petition, "request the following changes to the International Quidditch rules and standards." He spoke with all the authority he could summon, and his Light magic surged as well. All seven council members watched him with interest, and the secretary accepted the scroll with a respectful nod.
When he finished, he returned to his seat and immediately slumped down. "Just kill me," he muttered to Phil.
"Are you kidding? We all know what happened to the last guy who tried."
Oddly enough, the reminder of Voldemort was just what Harry needed—this was nothing compared to what he'd faced during the war. Worst-case scenario, the Council would turn them down, and they'd be no worse off than before. And no one could say he hadn't tried.
The session ended with a request to vacate the room so the staff could transform it into an exhibition hall. "Really?" said Harry, as he and Phil filed from the auditorium. "Do you think they can make it big enough?"
"I should hope so—I'm sure that was a requirement when they chose the venue."
But when the staff threw open the doors a few minutes later, the players were uniformly disappointed. "This is hardly bigger than a broom shop!" groaned a Canadian Chaser. "And there are booths all over the place—we can't fly in here!"
He was exaggerating, Harry thought, but only slightly. The Seeker free-for-all they'd planned was clearly impossible—at best they could spar in pairs. "Good luck not smashing into anything," he told Phil, who was representing Firebolt. "Although you have my sympathy," he added with a smirk, "since my sponsorship also involves navigating tight spaces."
Phil shot him a two-finger salute, and Harry began exploring the exhibition hall. Nearly all the vendors offered him free merchandise, and several hinted at a sponsorship. "But I don't know if we could make it worth your while," they invariably added, which left Harry feeling sheepish. This is what I get for leaking how much I make from London Underground, he thought—a calculated move to protect his reputation at Pratt's. But he wished more people still remembered he'd endorsed his florist.
Speaking of florists, he thought, and a smile crossed his face. He knew where Valerie worked, and she hadn't forbidden him from coming to visit. And no one will be shocked to see me buying flowers.
He went upstairs to fetch his cloak, not intending to leave the wizarding district, then cast a Notice-Me-Not charm and went outside. He poked into various shops, cancelling the charm only to make a purchase, like gifts for Ron, Hermione, and Teddy. More than once, he saw something Matthew might like, and his heartache returned anew. But memories of his night with Valerie—and the prospect of repeating it—almost instantly erased the pain.
When he entered her shop, she was with another customer, and someone else offered to assist him. "Mr Potter-Black, welcome," said the pinafore-clad, grey-haired witch. "May I help you?"
"No thanks, I'm just looking," he said, trying to gauge when Valerie might be free.
The witch smiled knowingly. "Then I'll leave you to it. Let me know if you have any questions."
That was easy, he thought, and he browsed until Valerie approached him. "Did you tell your boss about us?" he asked quietly. "She seemed to know why I was here."
"No, she just thinks you're a letch." Harry froze, and she said, "Just kidding. I realised I should give her a heads-up before appearing with you in public, since reporters might come to the shop."
"Does this mean you've made up your mind?"
"Yes, I've decided to 'follow the fear' and come out as your floozy du jour."
His hand found hers, and he said, "Are you sure? I don't want you to do something you might regret."
She shrugged. "I moved to Chicago to give my career a chance. Obviously I didn't sleep with you to get famous, but now that it's happened I should see where it leads. Maybe nowhere, but at least I'll know I tried."
He recalled Sophie's letter, and how she didn't want to take advantage of him. But he wasn't upset by Valerie's frank ambition, which struck him more as courage than cunning. "All right, then. Where shall we go tonight?"
"Good question. I suppose there are a lot of ways to spin this." She frowned, then said, "I don't want to look like a gold digger. Would it be too lame to go to a diner?"
"I'm sure it's fine. But what's a diner?"
"Classic Americana: burgers, fries, milkshakes. Very Archie and Jughead." He looked at her blankly, and she said, "Sorry, No-Maj reference. But yeah, you'll love it."
He glanced at the flowers on display. "I assume wearing a boutonnière would make me look like a ponce?"
She told him it would, so he left the shop with only a quick kiss and a plan to meet later in the hotel lobby. His next mission was lunch, and he found a shop selling empanadas, which looked a lot like pasties. But they were lighter, with different fillings, and he was glad to try something new.
He was doubly glad when he returned to the exhibition hall. "Sliced cold meats," Phil groaned, indicating the lunch trays the hotel had provided. "Which is fine, I guess, but I heard the VIPs got filet mignon. Meanwhile, I'm stuck flogging brooms till five."
"How's the flying been?" asked Harry. "Was there sparring?"
"Yeah, but it sucked." Phil lowered his voice and said, "Fortunately there's a plan. Go talk to Kenneth Yang—he'll fill you in."
Yang was the Canadian Chaser who'd complained about the room, and Harry found him in the lounge. Yang cast a privacy charm and said, "First things first: this is illegal, and I should definitely know better. But if we're caught it'll just be a slap on the wrist, and we'll never get a chance like this again."
Harry refrained from saying, "Well, you know how law-abiding I am," since that would definitely sound egotistical, and he told Yang to continue.
"Two words," said Yang, leaning forwards. "Actually, three—obstacle course, and skyscrapers."
"Fuck yes!" said Harry without hesitation. "Two words—when, and where?"
Yang laughed and said, "I knew you'd be in. But you're forgetting to ask how, and here's the answer." He pulled an amulet from his pocket and handed it to Harry. "With this sweet baby, you and your broom will be invisible to No-Majes. That'll be thirty Dragots, please."
"Why can't we just Disillusion ourselves?" asked Harry, trying not to sound like he thought Yang was trying to fleece him.
"Because we'd crash into each other?" said Yang, as if Harry were slightly dim. I suppose I am, thought Harry, embarrassed. "You can buy one yourself at the sketchy broom shop I found," Yang continued. "But I figured you might not want to be seen there, so I picked one up for you."
"Cheers, yeah," said Harry, digging into his pocket for American currency.
They were to meet at midnight atop the Colossus, and Harry hoped Valerie would be willing to watch. Admittedly, midnight was prime time for shagging, but they could get started early, have a rest, then break for some insane, illegal flying. And the prospect of returning to bed for round two will definitely motivate me, he thought.
To that end, he went upstairs to get some rest. Removing his outer robes, it occurred to him that if he were at home, he'd probably be chatting with Jamie right now. Have I got used to him already? he wondered. He knew the portrait would be pleased he'd found a partner so quickly. And his brash, Gryffindor counterpart would surely approve of the midnight obstacle course.
"See, Jamie, I'm capable of having fun," he said aloud, knowing the portrait would instantly remember it. "And in case you're wondering, no, I'm not over Fiona. But Valerie is brilliant, and she'll be good practice for the whole 'friends with benefits' thing. Although I have no idea who to recruit, now that Sophie is out."
After taking a much-needed nap, he called for Kreacher—partly to ask for tea, but mostly to see how he was doing. "Do you have enough to do?" he asked, knowing Kreacher behaved more erratically when he was at a loose end.
"Yes, Master. Kreacher assists the hotel staff when Master does not require him."
"Are you joking? They just press-ganged you without even asking?"
"No, Master. Kreacher volunteered, to make Kreacher's wife look bad. She has always been vain and idle—a very bad elf."
Harry suddenly pictured a spoilt-looking elf lying on a divan eating grapes. "How did she react?" he asked.
"She pretends not to notice, but Kreacher knows she is upset. It is most gratifying."
"Well, I'm glad you're having a good time. Carry on, then."
After dithering about what to wear, not wanting to look like a ponce, Harry went downstairs to wait for Valerie. More than one Quidditch player asked if he was flying with them that night, and they were pleased to hear that he was.
"This is going to be legendary," said a Beater from Peru. "I won't win a chase against Seekers, of course, but the Beaters have our own contest and we have no rules about fouling."
"Please tell me you won't have Bludgers up there," said Harry, alarmed.
"No, it will just be full-contact flying. I will tell my grandchildren about this one day."
Viktor Krum was excited as well, and not at all worried about getting caught. "They should have known this would happen. In fact, I hope we get caught and the Council gets blamed," he said fiercely. "They should never have accepted a space this small."
Surprised by the rare burst of fire from Krum, Harry said, "What would be the consequence if they were blamed? It's not like the IQF answers to anyone."
"They want to make Quidditch more popular in America, because there is so much money here. Although I am starting to think they chose a small space on purpose, so we would do something like this, since it will draw more attention to the sport."
Harry grimaced. "Do you really want more Quidditch fans in the world? The observational magic problem is bad enough already, and you're also high risk."
"I am not a mega-celebrity," he said. "Yes, I am a big name in Quidditch, but there are always big names." He studied Harry, then said, "Are you worried about it?"
"Honestly? Yes. Not just for my own sake, but for anyone else I'm playing with. I know the speaker said not to let it stop me, but people are bound to blame me."
For a moment Krum was silent. "Potter, when I met you, everyone thought you were lying about entering the Triwizard Tournament. Your own school wore badges that said 'Potter Stinks.' Why do you care whether people blame you for something that has not even been proven true?"
Exactly because of that! came the voice in Harry's mind, surprising even him. He thought he'd overcome his fear of being disliked, but clearly he hadn't. "That's a good question," he said, "and I don't know. All I can guess is the stakes were higher back then. Back in school and during the war, when people blamed me or thought I was lying, it made Voldemort stronger. People died because I wasn't likeable enough."
"Yes, but that is the past. You need to move on."
Harry was tempted to twit him about Hermione, whom he clearly still carried a torch for. "I'm sure you're right. And don't worry—I love playing Quidditch and have no plans to quit."
It was time for Valerie to arrive, so he went to the main entrance and found Routledge there as well. "I think Lindsey and Valerie are coming here together," said Phil, referring to the blonde witch. "They're friends, you know."
"I hope you're not coming to dinner with us." Harry didn't mean to sound rude, but if Phil and Lindsey were photographed with him and Valerie, it could easily get back to Daphne.
"No, we're going somewhere Muggle. And please, give me some credit. If there's one thing I've learnt from Daphne, it's discretion."
"Don't even start," said Harry, still annoyed he was cheating on her. "By the way, I'm going to wipe the floor with you tonight. The Silver Arrow is tailor-made for an obstacle course, and if you're caught using anything but the Firebolt you'll be sacked."
"I already beat you where it counts," retorted Phil. "And Krum will be on a Firebolt, so I can go after him."
The two witches arrived, and Valerie took Harry's breath away. She'd looked good the night before, but she hadn't dressed provocatively—which he understood, since she wasn't there to be ogled. But tonight she was wearing a fitted green dress with a flared skirt, and more makeup than she'd previously worn.
She blushed under his plainly admiring gaze. "Yeah, yeah, I know—don't embarrass me." Splaying her hands and twisting her neck, she said, "I'm ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille."
"I actually know that reference!" he said. Simon had taken him to see "Sunset Boulevard," and Harry felt very proud of himself.
"Look at you, down with the Golden Age of Hollywood! Come on, let's get out of here."
Lowering his voice, he said, "Can I kiss you first? Or do you want to ease into it?"
She crooked a finger and said, "Come here, sugar-lips," and they kissed in plain sight. Harry dimly realised that he too was passing a point of no return—it was only a matter of time now before Fiona learnt he'd moved on. Fiona and Rob, he reminded himself, and his kissing intensified.
"Whoa, slow down there, sailor!" said Valerie, gently pushing him away. "It'll be even better when we both taste like milkshakes."
They began walking to the restaurant, which was inside the Zero Block, and he said, "I've never actually had a milkshake before. Is there anything I should know?" She told him the essentials, and at first he thought she was joking. "Four scoops of ice cream?" he exclaimed. "And this isn't even dessert—you drink it with the meal?"
"That's right. Everything's bigger and better in America!" He was still gaping, and she said, "I'll admit, most people don't get dessert afterwards. But it's not out of the question."
They arrived at the diner, which looked familiar thanks to all the crap telly he'd seen growing up. He was puzzled, however, by the chrome and glass device at their table, and she said it was a mini-jukebox that they could pop a coin into, to play a song.
"And everyone would have to listen?" he asked, noting the overhead speakers, which were playing the Beach Boys.
"Yup. Should we see if they have Revolution #9?"
Again, he was pleased to know what she was talking about, and they looked for something to play. Sadly, it was all pretty normal, but he selected "Let's Dance" by David Bowie, and they turned to the menu.
"If this were a New Jersey diner, it would be ten pages long with small print, but the Midwest keeps it simple," she said. He ordered a burger and fries, and they got two types of milkshakes so he could try them both. The waitress seemed gobsmacked to meet him, and many of the guests were staring.
"And there goes my anonymity," said Valerie, after someone furtively took her picture. "It was good while it lasted."
"Do you know what will happen next?" he asked. "I don't really know how these things work in America, but in England you'd probably get pelted with Howlers. Oh shit, I should have warned you about that."
"No problem, I'm one step ahead of you. My home address is already protected, thanks to an improv stalker last year. That was a blast, let me tell you," she said, rolling her eyes. "As for what's next … I have no idea. My friend Carrie and I have been batting around ideas for a two-woman show, which could be fun, but people would probably want stories about you. And no offence, but I'd rather not base my entire career on that time I fucked Harry Potter."
"Times," he said. "Plural."
She laughed out loud. "Oh my god, the male ego is truly universal. Yes, I know how to count—I was speaking loosely." She described a few other options, but it was clear she was most attracted to film. "It might not even get the go-ahead, but I love how it's basically a new medium, so I could write too. And I think the turnaround would be much faster than with No-Maj movies, since we don't need to bother with special effects."
"Right, that reminds me—how come you didn't use magic during the show last night?"
She smiled enigmatically. "Because that would ruin the magic." Harry gave her a sceptical look, and she said, "Some teams use magic—to conjure props, for example—but to me it just falls flat. And then you're swapping out props between scenes, which is distracting, or you get boxed into a scenario because you conjured a can of pop and not a beer. No thanks."
Their milkshakes arrived, and Harry couldn't believe they were considered a beverage. "This isn't a drink, it's a slurry!" he exclaimed, and promptly began sucking it down. After a minute, he said, "Are they available everywhere or only at diners?"
"I see you've made a friend," she said, indicating his shake, and she let him try hers as well.
Several people asked for Harry's autograph while they ate, and he taught Valerie his favourite privacy charms. "I can't imagine what it's like for Muggle celebrities," he said. "I can at least cast a charm, or even disappear into the Muggle world. But they have nowhere to go."
He also told her about his midnight plans. "Are you out of your mind!" she said. "That's completely against the law."
"I know, but we'll have amulets that hide us from Muggles."
"Yes, and you need a license for those."
Oops, I guess that explains why they came from a dodgy shop. "Still, I heard it's just a slap on the wrist if we get caught," he said, hoping that was actually true.
"It is," she admitted. "But you'd better take care of my lady parts before midnight, because you'll be spending the rest of the night in jail."
He laughed, and before long they were back at the hotel. They needed time to digest, but then they enjoyed a very pleasant few hours and even managed to rest a bit.
At quarter to twelve, she said, "Are you sure I can't talk you out of this? I have feminine wiles, you know."
"Believe me, I know," he said, reluctantly getting out of bed. "But it won't be more than an hour, and then we can get back to business. Will you watch?"
"Sure—it'll be a nice change of pace not to be the biggest idiot in the group."
He put on flying robes, cast several warming charms, and grabbed his amulet and broom. They made their way to the roof of the Colossus and were met not only by pigeons but by a large group of flyers. Several other plus-ones were present, and all the Americans shook their heads in despair.
"I tried to talk him out of it," said Lindsey, Phil's date.
"I know, so did I," said Valerie. "Harry, be sure to bring cash, because I'm not bailing you out."
"I'll tell them you tried talking sense into me." Drawing her close, he said, "I must be mad not to still be in bed with you."
"Clearly. But go on, make me proud. I expect you to get arrested the fastest."
He kissed her goodbye, then joined the group of flyers. "Okay, here are the rules," said Yang. "There are none. It's not a race and there's no course to follow. We're just going to fly like maniacs in as large or small a group as you like. If you want to play fair, you can find other people who use the same broom." Pointing in various directions, he said, "Cleansweep … Raptor … Merkur … Comet … Nimbus … Gryphon … Firebolt … Silver Arrow … that crazy Russian broom some of you are into, et cetera. Try not to die!"
Harry joined the Silver Arrow group, who were easy to find because of the broom's pale colour. They introduced themselves and formulated an initial flight plan. "The Sears Tower is the highest," said an Egyptian Seeker named Mona, "but there's nothing nearly as tall next to it, so I think we'll have more fun weaving through the smaller buildings. Although we can meet at the top of the Sears Tower, if you like—until a couple of years ago it was the tallest building in the world."
Everyone wanted to see the view, so they agreed to eventually meet there. "We can also dive low," Mona continued, "but we should probably stay at least ten storeys up, to keep from generating wind where people might feel it. So if you're planning to weave through those bridges, forget it. And seriously, we all have rivers at home, so let's stick to the skies."
The groups staggered their departures, to reduce the chance of a collision, and soon Harry's group was off—and they never looked back. The wind bit Harry's cheeks, even with the warming charms, but sweet Merlin, he didn't care! He'd never flown at such a height, and weaving through all the buildings was as exhilarating as dodging the Hungarian Horntail.
It didn't take long for the more reckless Seekers to find one another. "My fellow lunatics," called Harry, and the others laughed. They included Mona, a Norwegian Seeker named Lars, and a Seeker from Pakistan called Yusuf. Lars had a penchant for dives, abruptly plunging twenty storeys just for kicks. Naturally, everyone followed, and they took turns introducing their own pet manoeuvres. Yusuf was fond of weaving, and if Mona hadn't ordered them to stay ten storeys up, he'd probably have led them through bridges and even parking garages. Mona liked helixes, as did Harry, and they spiralled through tight urban canyons. Harry also liked throwing the others off course, and his companions responded in kind.
Eventually Mona shot upwards, and they soared to the top of the Sears Tower. It was clearly a popular idea, because when they arrived, the narrow roof was crowded with flyers.
Nearly everyone was facing east, towards the lake, and the view was spectacular. But there was a problem. "Er, can anyone see the Colossus?" Harry asked.
"No," said a few of the others, and someone said, "Apparently you can only access the Zero Block from ground level."
"How did no one think of this?" said Mona, half-laughing, half-panicking.
Yang shrugged. "We're Quidditch players, not Charms experts. But I'm sure we'll figure out something."
Routledge and Krum were in the next group to land, and they quickly spotted the problem. "Do you think it'll appear when we get closer to it?" asked Krum. "That's how it works on the ground."
"You have to spin counterclockwise around a lamppost," said Mona, still fretting. "There aren't any lampposts this high up."
"So we land on the ground—what's the big deal?" said Yusuf. "We're all wearing amulets."
"They might notice when several dozen flyers turn up at the hotel. Not to mention there's extra security because of Potter."
Everyone looked at Harry. "Excuse me for living!" he snapped. "I didn't ask for extra security!"
"No, you just earn more than the rest of us combined," said Lars. "You can pay to get us out of jail."
"We all knew it was a risk," Harry countered, refusing to let them guilt-trip him.
"He's right," said Phil. "This is on all of us."
After much debate, they came up with a plan. First, they'd try approaching the Colossus from above, to see if it appeared once they were in range. They would also try circling anticlockwise, directly above the lampposts. If that didn't work, they'd land in an alley and try Apparating there, and if that failed, Harry would call Kreacher and have him shuttle them in one at a time.
"We've got this," said Mona, no longer worried. They agreed to stagger their departures, which meant everyone was watching when the first group took off—and crashed into an invisible barrier.
"What the fuck?" was the general response, and suddenly more flyers appeared, wearing matching dark robes, helmets, and mirrored sunglasses.
"Stay where you are!" barked the central flyer, his voice amplified. "You're all under arrest!"
Several of the Quidditch players attempted to zoom off, but they all crashed into the barrier, and even more tried to Disapparate. But no one was able to leave, and Harry heard someone say, "We are well and truly fucked."
"Surrender your wands!" the man ordered, and the players began to protest.
"No fucking way am I handing over my wand on top of the world's tallest building!" someone said, and Harry vehemently agreed. In fact, he was sorely tempted to have Kreacher rescue him—which he suspected would work—but he knew the others would never forgive him.
"I repeat, surrender your wands!"
"Then how will we get down?" said one of the players. "And who the hell are you?"
"MACUSA Secrecy Enforcement Patrol. And you'll take a Portkey down to M-SEP HQ." He lowered his mirrored sunglasses—at night? why?—and said, "After you surrender your wands."
Some of the other players looked at Harry, as if he should speak. Because I'm famous? Or because I have the most experience breaking the law?
"Sir, we'll take the Portkey, but we're not comfortable surrendering our wands. I hope you understand." Harry was trying to sound polite, but he belatedly realised his accent made him sound like a snob.
"Oh, veddy good, sir! Would you like a spot of tea first?" said their captor, in a cartoonish attempt at a British accent, then he narrowed his eyes. "Let me rephrase that," he said, brashly American again. "You can surrender your wand and pay a fine for violating secrecy, or you can keep your wand and we'll turn you over to the Aurors for resisting arrest. What'll it be?"
"And we'll get it back?" said Harry, trying to sound less like Draco than before.
"Yes, after you pay a fine."
Harry glanced at the other players, then held up his wand, handle out. The others followed his lead, and he desperately hoped their collective fame would ensure them fair treatment. The patrollers collected the wands, then herded the players into groups of eight.
"Don't try using your brooms at the station," the leader ordered. "Because that's also resisting arrest. Comprende?"
Is that Spanish for "capisce?" Harry wondered, taking hold of a Portkey. He tried using Light magic to keep from stumbling, and surprisingly it worked, in spite of his jangled nerves. They landed in a large room, and one by one the other Portkeys arrived, until all the players were there.
Harry assumed the next step would be The Paying of the Fines, and he anticipated a long queue, but instead they were marched into another room. There were rows of metal benches, and in the corner was another door, too small for an exit.
Bloody hell, it's a loo! "Are you keeping us here?" he demanded, no longer taming his accent. "You said we only needed to pay a fine!" In his fury, he dimly noted that Draco would have added, "Wait until my father hears about this!"
"That's right," said the officer, smirking. "The cashier arrives at eight. Nighty-night!"
He was conveniently near the main door, which he slipped through and slammed shut. The door merged seamlessly with the wall, as if it had never existed, adding to Harry's trapped sensation.
"Hey, Potter—nice ring," said a mocking voice. Harry turned and saw several players sniggering at the Black family ring, now visible.
"Fucking hell," said Harry, closing his eyes and slumping onto a bench. On a hunch, he glanced at his other hand and saw his Umbridge scar, long hidden by a glamour. "The room is cancelling our magic."
"You're fucking kidding me!" cried Lars, and he attempted what looked like wandless magic.
Harry's memories of Auror training came rushing back. "It won't work," he said. "We're in a holding cell. The guards have talismans that allow them to perform magic, but we're as good as Squibs."
Several players tried and failed to make their brooms to leap into their hands, unleashing a polyglot chorus of profanity. "We might as well sweep the goddamn floor," grumbled Yang, shoving his broom under a bench. Harry tried sliding his own broom into the expandable pouch he always carried, but of course it didn't work.
"Can you glow?" asked Routledge, grasping at straws. "Maybe Light magic is different."
Harry tried, and he felt the familiar wave of comfort, but no glowing occurred. Still, strong energy filled his head, which he equated with Occlumency. His panic was receding, and his curiosity stirred; Davina always said Muggles could experience Light magic, and now he had a chance to find out.
"Hey, Viktor," he called. Krum was on the next bench—scowling, of course—and he turned to face Harry. "You know Legilimency, right?"
Krum looked surprised by the question. "Yes, Karkaroff insisted I learn it, for the Triwizard Tournament. Why do you ask?"
"Can you still do it, even though we don't have magic? You can try it on me." Harry wasn't nervous, since his Occlumency shields felt as solid as ever.
Their gazes locked, and Krum's thick eyebrows drew together. But Harry felt nothing, and after a minute Krum shook his head. "No, I don't feel a thing. Even if you repelled my effort, I would at least feel something."
Harry wasn't sure whether this proved his Occlumency was still intact, and he didn't fancy asking one of the guards to try Legilimising him. What about Kreacher? he wondered. The house-elf didn't use Legilimency, but it would be interesting to test whether their telepathic bond still worked.
Kreacher! he called silently. There was no reply. Kreacher! he repeated, although he'd never had to call more than once, and on the third try he was certain it didn't work.
Oh my god, he probably thinks I'm dead! Harry realised in a panic. The last time Harry had gone missing was when he spent the night at Penelope's, and the poor elf had been beside himself. But the sudden loss of their bond might actually kill him!
He had to try reaching him, although he didn't know how. But the opportunity arose when one of the guards came in with food—dismal-looking sandwiches on white bread—and Harry approached him.
"I'm so sorry to bother you, and I know I shouldn't even ask, but may I leave the room for a minute? Under supervision, of course." The guard just stared at him, and Harry continued. "I have a telepathic bond with my house-elf, and he almost certainly thinks I'm dead. He's very old, and more than a little unstable, and I'm honestly afraid he won't survive. Could I contact him, just to tell him I'm alive and that I'll be back in the morning?"
He felt stupid even asking—the guard would have to be mad to trust him. But at first his expression was hard to read. "Let me get this straight," the guard began. "You think your house-elf might die because you can't talk to him?" Harry nodded weakly, and the guard said, "And would you die too, if you had to wash your own underwear like the rest of us?"
"Of course not," said Harry, omitting the part where he still had another elf. "But it's not his fault I got arrested."
"Seems like you should have thought of that before breaking the law. Or maybe you're used to getting away with everything."
For a moment Harry just gaped, unsure where to start. You bloody idiot, he thought, and he felt a tirade coming on. But that wouldn't help Kreacher, so he tried changing tack.
"No, not at all," he said. "And I completely understand why you wouldn't want me to call him. But perhaps you can deliver him a message, at the hotel?"
The guard took a moment to consider it. "Yeah, fine," he grumbled, pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket, along with a pencil. "Will this be all right, or do you need an eagle-feather quill?"
Fuck you, Harry thought. "No, this is fine," he said, and he jotted a quick note:
Dear Kreacher,
I am safe. I've run into a small inconvenience, but I'll be back in the morning and everything will be back to normal, including our telepathic bond. Please don't worry about me, and have a good night.
Your loving master,
Harry
He felt embarrassed signing it that way, but he knew Kreacher would freak out even more if he implied they were equals. He folded the paper in half and addressed it to Kreacher, wishing he could use magic to seal it.
Handing it to the guard, he said, "Thanks—I know it's a lot to ask, but it's literally a matter of life and death."
"Sure, whatever," said the guard, and he left the room.
Grateful to have one less thing to worry about, Harry returned to his bench and considered who else his arrest might impact. He knew Valerie would enjoy saying "I told you so," and the London Underground directors would probably be thrilled. Ron would undoubtedly congratulate him, and Draco would call him a Gryffindor moron, same as always.
Hermione would scold him, but she'd be fascinated by his ongoing experience of Light magic. Well, not magic, exactly, but everything that makes Light magic so bloody enjoyable. In fact, he was tempted to sink into it, just to pass the time, but he was unable to ignore all the grumbling around him.
There was considerable speculation about how they'd got caught, and it emerged that several groups hadn't been as discreet as Mona had recommended. For example, a trio of Nimbus flyers had discovered a pair of buildings across the river that looked like giant corncobs, and they indulged in a dizzying chase through the fifteen-storey, open-air garages. They claimed no one saw them, but some were sceptical—and others envious.
Meanwhile, a group of Beaters ditched the skies altogether and raced through an underground street system. Yang and Mona were outraged, calling it a blatant secrecy violation, but the Beaters refused to apologise. "It's called Lower Wacker Drive!" they argued. "That's basically a sign from the universe we were supposed to go in there!"
The leading theory, however, was that the top of the Sears Tower had monitoring charms, which alerted M-SEP. "It makes perfect sense, really," said Yusuf. "The obvious place to illegally fly is the top of the world's tallest building. The fines are probably a steady source of revenue."
"Yeah, because mirrored sunglasses don't come cheap," someone grumbled. Everyone complained about M-SEP, and Harry learnt the word in twelve different languages for "wanker."
The conversation eventually died down, and people tried to sleep, but it wasn't easy without bedding. "We really are spoilt, aren't we?" said Phil as he readjusted his makeshift pillow.
"Too right," said Harry, rolling his outer robe into something similar. "I never thought I'd say this, but I actually miss the tent." He slept fitfully, partly because he was uncomfortable, but also for fear of nightmares. According to Fiona, he still kicked and talked in his sleep, which he didn't fancy sharing with a roomful of strangers.
But he must have dozed off before dawn, based on how groggy he felt when a guard threw open the door. "Rise and shine!" he bellowed, casting a charm to make the room brighter.
"Pendejo," Harry mumbled in Spanish, trying out his new vocabulary. To make matters worse, it was only seven o'clock, so they still had an hour to kill before the cashier arrived. The guard provided breakfast, but Harry wasn't keen on black coffee or fried egg sandwiches, so he decided to wait for something better from Kreacher.
They weren't allowed to queue until eight, and Harry was nowhere near the front. But word travelled fast about the charges against them and how much it would cost. "Unlicensed use of concealment devices" and "Reckless flying in sight of No-Maj populations" totalled 500 Dragots, which worked out to roughly 50 Galleons. It was pocket change to Harry, but a lot of the players complained, so he carefully didn't react.
When he reached the counter, however, he was told a different sum. "That'll be 1,500 Dragots," said the cashier, not looking up.
"I beg your pardon! Everyone else was charged 500!"
"There's a sliding scale for secrecy violations, to discourage rich people from just buying their way out of it."
Harry couldn't really argue, since that was exactly what he was doing, but he was still annoyed. "May I point out that we weren't 'flying in sight of No-Maj populations,' since they couldn't actually see us?"
The cashier looked him in the eye and said, "Only if I can point out that you're not a U.S. citizen and we have the right to deport you."
Arschloch, thought Harry, scowling. "Fine, you win. But how do I pay you? I'm not carrying that much on me."
The cashier provided a form to authorise an international Gringotts transfer—for an extra fee, of course—and Harry grudgingly signed it. He was given a receipt, which he brought to another window to reclaim his wand.
The guard examined Harry's wand before returning it. "So, this is the wand that killed Voldemort," he said, in a grating Chicago accent.
No, but it sliced the shit out of Draco Malfoy, Harry thought, snatching it from the guard's hand. He stepped away from the counter to test it, first concealing his ring, then casting a few hygiene charms in case Valerie was outside. He also cast several sartorial charms, in case of photographers. I might have spent the night in jail, he thought, but I don't need to look like it.
The doors opened to a large atrium, and at first Harry shielded his eyes from all the flashbulbs. But he quickly adapted, and when the reporters pelted him with questions, he trod the line between regret and amusement.
"We're a bit less careful about secrecy in the UK, and I really thought our precautions would be enough. So, I apologise for abusing your hospitality like that." Cracking a smile, he said, "But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't the most fun I've ever had on a broom, or near to it. And frankly, I'd be kicking myself if I'd missed out."
"What else are you doing for fun in Chicago?" asked a reporter, his meaning plain as day.
Valerie had pushed to the front of the crowd—advantage of being small—and she gave Harry a brief nod. "I'll let you lot work that out," he said, moving to greet her. She was holding a paper bag and an insulated flask, which meant they couldn't fully embrace. But she tilted her head up to kiss him, and the cameras flashed when their lips met.
"I brought tea," she said, handing him the flask. "You'll probably hate it, but hopefully it's better than nothing."
"You're brilliant," he murmured, taking her hand. "And I'm an idiot."
They walked briskly to the exit, cameras still flashing, and when they were outside she cast a privacy charm. "How did I do?" she asked. "I've been practising them."
"That was perfect—full marks." He took a sip of tea, which wasn't the worst he'd ever had. "But how are you? Sorry to ruin our night together."
"Don't worry, I had a good time on the roof. We passed some Omnioculars around while you did your best to nuke the Statute of Secrecy."
"At what point did you realise we were completely fucked?"
"When you landed on the Sears Tower," she said, rolling her eyes. "I should have warned you about that, but I didn't think you were that stupid. No offence."
"None taken," he laughed. Noticing she'd changed clothes from the night before, he said, "You went home, I gather?"
"Not right away—first we went to M-SEP, but they told us you wouldn't get out till morning. By the way, are you hungry?" she asked, thrusting the paper bag at him. "I brought you a bagel."
He enjoyed the unfamiliar food, which he ate as they walked to her workplace. She asked about his night, expressing sympathy for how they'd been treated. "It's a relief to be outside again," he said, in spite of the cold. "But how can I make it up to you? You'll have my full attention tonight—all night."
"Thanks, but you won't have mine. I have a show, remember?"
"May I come?" he asked, eager to see her perform again. "I can have Kreacher disguise me, if you don't want the distraction."
"Nah—in for a penny, in for a pound. And besides, our picture will be in the Evening Beacon, so if you don't show up, people will think you've already ditched me."
Walking alone to the hotel, Harry wondered when Fiona would see their photograph—in tomorrow's Prophet, he supposed. He glanced east, towards the lake, recalling how even from the top of the Sears Tower he couldn't see the opposite side. And that's just Lake Michigan, he thought, scarcely imagining the distant ocean.