When Harry reached his hotel room, he was ready to sleep, but he needed to check first on Kreacher. Depending on how long his letter had taken to arrive, the poor elf might have believed for an hour or more that Harry was dead. He might also have felt the loss of Harry's Light magic, which he experienced through their bond, and Harry wanted to make it up to him.
"Kreacher," he called aloud, and the elf arrived with a loud crack.
"Master!" he cried, throwing himself at Harry's feet. His body shook with sobs, and Harry knelt to comfort him.
"It's all right, I'm fine," he repeated, patting Kreacher's thin shoulders. "I came back, just like I said I would."
"Master said no such thing," the elf rasped. "Kreacher listened for Master's call and reached for Master's magic, but there was nothing. Kreacher was all alone."
"But my letter ... didn't you see it?"
Kreacher looked up and shook his head. "No letter," he said, his eyes wet with tears. "Kreacher was all alone."
Those fuckers! thought Harry, enraged. They must not have sent it! He wrapped his arms around Kreacher and pulled him close. "No, I sent you a letter last night, as soon as I realised you mightn't feel our bond. Oh, Kreacher—I'm so sorry," he repeated, trying to focus on the elf's heartbreak, and not his own fury.
As Kreacher clung to him, Harry detected a hint of perfume. Is that Valerie's? he wondered, not recognising the scent. But he tried to stay focused, allowing his Light magic to flow. Kreacher's heart rate eventually settled, and Harry felt him relax.
Gently pulling away, Kreacher looked up at him again. "But where was Master?" he asked, and Harry explained what had happened. He glossed over the bit about the guards, for fear the elf would seek vengeance. Instead he blamed the missing letter on American incompetence, which he knew Kreacher would accept.
"Worthless fools," Kreacher scowled. "Unfit even to wipe Master's boots. Pinelle says nearly all Americans are descended from people who couldn't succeed in their own country, which is why they're so useless!"
"What the–" stammered Harry, shocked by Kreacher's turnabout. "That's not true! I've met heaps of clever Americans, including Valerie. And who's this Pinelle? It sounds like they're talking bollocks."
"Master will not insult Kreacher's wife!" cried the elf, his ears curling malevolently.
"You're quoting your wife! I thought you couldn't stand her!" said Harry, blindsided yet again.
Clearly horrified by his own disrespect, Kreacher threw himself at Harry's feet, renewing his sobs. It took several minutes to calm him down, and his story gradually emerged.
"When Kreacher thought Master was dead," he began, "no one could console him. Kreacher wept and wailed and rended his pillowcase," he said, and Harry noticed he was wearing a new one. "They all pitied Kreacher, for every elf knows loss, but their words were cold and hollow."
Harry felt ill hearing how unhappy he'd been, all because of some dickhead cop. Can I get him in trouble? he wondered. Pace yourself, Snitchbottom—looking after Kreacher comes first.
"Kreacher lay moaning in his hammock, but suddenly it was upended, and Kreacher fell on the floor. And there was Kreacher's wife, Pinelle."
"On the floor?"
"No, standing over Kreacher and shouting. She told Kreacher how foolish he was to cry for a master, when there will always be a new one. And Kreacher said there will never be another master like Master, and that Master slew a Dark Lord and was renowned for his manhood and was foretold to make House Black even greater than before."
"Er, how'd she take that?"
"She said a master like that would care nothing for Kreacher, nor any other elf. Kreacher said she was mistaken, and that Master was a Light wizard and told Kreacher he loved him."
"That's right, I do!" said Harry fiercely, drawing him close again and allowing himself to glow. For a long moment they basked in his Light magic, until the elf pulled away.
"Pinelle said, 'Only an elf can love another elf!' and Kreacher laughed and said Pinelle was incapable of love. She said, 'You are wrong, like always!' and then she–"
He stopped short, then said, "Kreacher must not speak of what happened next, since it is forbidden."
Harry suddenly realised why Kreacher smelt of perfume. But he was stuck on the word "forbidden," if only to distract himself from picturing Kreacher having sex. Forbidden because elves mustn't tell wizards about their private lives? Or because whatever they did violates some house-elf code of depravity?
"Er, are you happy about it?" he asked, hoping to bypass the particulars.
A solemn nod from Kreacher. "The house-elf marriage bond is sacred," he said, "second only to the bond of wizard servitude. Kreacher now realises how much he missed her."
Unsure what this meant for the future, Harry asked, "Does this mean you'll live with her now? And if so, where?"
"Kreacher will never leave Master!" cried the elf. "Kreacher's servitude comes first—Pinelle will return to her husband's side and serve House Black."
Harry tried to hide his alarm. Bloody hell, two elves was already excessive, but now three? I'll never live this down! "I'm glad if you'll be happy, but what about Beauxbatons? Doesn't she have a bond with them?"
"No, Master. Kreacher asked Master Sirius Apollo to send her away. After we provided enough children, of course."
The only thing more disturbing than hearing about Kreacher's sex life was the bit where he and his entire family were enslaved. I offered to free them, he pleaded silently to a frowning Hermione.
"Should I meet your wife? Or is she, er, resting?" Harry hoped for the latter, since he wasn't quite ready to see a freshly-shagged, elderly house-elf.
"Does Master require breakfast?" Kreacher asked. "Master's comfort is most important."
In that moment, Harry wasn't inclined to argue. "I could murder some breakfast," he said, thus ending the conversation. I can meet Pinelle later, he thought, and after eating he took a nap.
Considerably more rested a few hours later, he took a shower and asked Kreacher for a shave. The elf was keen to present his wife, and he insisted Harry call her, to reestablish her bond with House Black. "Kreacher has waited fifty long years for this day!" he declared, prompting Harry to wonder how he'd forgotten his previous enmity. Maybe she's just that good in bed.
When he called her, Pinelle appeared with a loud pop. "Yes, Master," she said, with only a faint French accent. She looked like an older version of Nitta and wore a tea-towel toga with the Beauxbatons crest. But in an instant it became the Black family crest, and Harry felt the surge of a new bond.
She curtsied stiffly, then said, "Kreacher speaks highly of Master." But her expression was sceptical, and she was clearly sizing him up.
"I think the world of Kreacher, and I was horrified to learn he never received my letter. Did he tell you what happened?"
"Yes, Master—American wizards," she said with disdain. "They are most inferior."
"Please, I won't hear any more against Americans. Yes, that guard was incompetent"—Harry refrained from calling him a dick—"but the witch I'm seeing is brilliant, and so are plenty of other Americans."
"Yes, Master," said Pinelle, not even trying to sound like she meant it. Harry had to remind himself what Kreacher was like when they first met, and how much their relationship had improved. For Merlin's sake, he lied about Sirius to lure me into a trap—if I can get over that, surely Pinelle and I can make progress.
"What about your current mistress at Beauxbatons?" he asked. "I don't want to steal you out from under her, if she's relying on your help."
They agreed Pinelle would serve the Beauxbatons flying mistress for the remainder of the conference and accompany her back to France, but after that she'd come to Grimmauld Place. Note to self: Warn Ron, although it was tempting to scare the shit out of him.
He went downstairs to the lounge and joined a group of his fellow jailbirds, including Mona and Yang. "What's the word?" Harry asked. "Are the organisers in trouble for not controlling us better?"
"Are you kidding?" said Yang. "They probably got a kickback from all our fines. And the local press is much more interested in us now. Until this morning, they were mainly interested in you."
Harry rolled his eyes, and Mona said, "By the way, some of the IQF guys were looking for you."
"Really? Do you think it's about the rules change?"
"Could be anything. But do us a favour and milk them for everything they're worth."
"And buy us all drinks," added Yang.
"You think they'll bribe me?" said Harry, astonished.
"That's the only language they speak, so yes. They probably want your help getting Quidditch to catch on in America."
"But how would that even work? It's not as if I'm going to move here."
Yang waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure they'll think of something. They're very inventive where gold is involved."
Sure enough, two Council members approached Harry and invited him to lunch. "We have a private room upstairs. Much better than what they're serving down here." The players sniggered, but the Council members didn't even acknowledge them.
"Yeah, all right," said Harry, curious what they wanted. They gestured for him to follow, and the moment their backs were turned, Yang whispered, "Steal dessert!"
Harry patted his expandable pouch and gave Yang a thumbs up. He followed the two wizards out to the lobby and into the lift, and one of them pressed the button for the next floor up. Clearly they aren't athletes, Harry thought.
"I'm glad you could join us," said the elder of the two. "From what I've seen, you've mingled primarily with players, but Quidditch is so much bigger than that."
Before Harry could reply, the lift opened and he followed his hosts into a private dining room. Sweet Merlin! he thought, seeing the the enormous selection of food—and the relatively few diners. All the other Council members were there, seated at various tables with prosperous-looking guests. And I'm the only player, he noted, wondering just how much food he could smuggle downstairs.
His hosts urged him to load his plate before making introductions. "We've learned never to come between players and their food," they joked, and Harry smiled politely. He had a hard time choosing what to eat—there were so many options—and he eventually joined them at a table, with another wizard as well.
"Some wine?" said one of the Council members. "There's French, Italian, and Californian—all of it elf-made, of course."
Harry declined, and the conversation began in earnest. All three of his companions were male, and two were on the Council: Tsumuji Kenji from Japan, and Joop Vlieger from the Netherlands. The other wizard was Carsten Spangler from Australia, who sold Quidditch supplies in Oceania and parts of Asia.
"Needless to say, the Council is thrilled you're playing Quidditch, even if you won't fly in the World Cup," said Vlieger.
"I haven't ruled it out," said Harry. "I'm just taking my time."
"Yes, of course. And I'm sure there are other factors as well. But we'll get to those later."
For a while the conversation was light, covering Quidditch in general, but Tsumuji brought it round to Harry's career. "You are very popular in Japan," he said. "People listen to your matches, and of course they devour your merchandise."
Harry normally affected mild ignorance of such matters, not wanting to seem egotistical, so he gave only a slight nod.
"And Europe adores you," said Vlieger. "We all worried that Voldemort would come next to the Continent, but you put an end to that."
Thanks for the fucking help, thought Harry bitterly. "Right," he said, anticipating where this was headed.
"But America," Vlieger continued. "Now that is interesting. They too are enamoured with all things Potter, but they don't follow Quidditch. And we think you can change that."
"How, exactly? I don't plan on leaving England, other than the occasional short trip."
"These are details to be determined later," said Tsumuji, clearly unconcerned. "The question is whether you're interested. I'm sure we can make it worth your while."
And here we go. "No offence, but why would I want to make Quidditch more popular? I know the jury's still out on observational magic, but I'm potentially at a higher risk."
"That's why Spangler is here," said Vlieger. "He has a proposal you might find interesting."
They all turned to the Australian, who said, "Potter, I think I may have a solution. Ever since that three-day match of yours, my team has been looking into observational magic, and we've made some discoveries. Mind you, this is all confidential, and you literally won't be able to repeat it."
Harry nodded, recalling how Randolph Spudmore used a variant of the Fidelius Charm to protect his own trade secrets.
"As I'm sure you know, the Snitch is modelled after a bird called the Golden Snidget, used in Quidditch for centuries until they were nearly wiped out." Spangler paused for a sip of wine. "All Snitches are charmed the same way, to mimic the Golden Snidget, and my expert thinks she's found the bit of spellcraft that makes it so skittish."
"You can't change that!" exclaimed Harry. "Otherwise the Snitch would turn up too early, which no one wants."
Spangler shook his head. "No, the Snitch will still take its time. But we may be able to dampen the observational magic effect."
Harry was intrigued, but also torn. On the one hand, it would level the playing field, and no one would be able to blame him when a match ran too long. But the public loved long matches, and they'd probably riot if the IQF made them less likely.
"Why would you even propose that?" he asked the two Council members. "Observational magic is why some World Cup matches are so long, and those are a goldmine."
The three wizards laughed, as if Harry were hopelessly naive. "Young man, we're not proposing to change all the Snitches," said Vlieger. "Only the ones you try to catch."
Harry's jaw dropped, and Tsumuji said, "The IQF handles purchasing agreements, and currently the British and Irish league buys its Snitches from Prentiss & Smoot. But Spengler's firm is prepared to make a highly competitive bid, which I'm sure the team owners will accept."
"But it's the referees who launch the Snitch, not the owners," said Harry, still appalled—but also curious how their proposal would work. "I'm sure they'd notice if someone told them to use a special Snitch whenever I'm playing."
"This is all within the Council's sphere of influence," said Vlieger dismissively. "Speaking of referees, you may be interested to learn that the IQF sets the rules on fouls. I understand they're evaluating one of your signature manoeuvres."
Plocking, thought Harry, truly stunned by the depths of their corruption. "Have they made a decision yet?"
"No, the committee is still deliberating," said Vlieger. He motioned towards Harry's plate and said, "Will you go back for seconds? Or perhaps some dessert? You have much to choose from, as you can see."
Indeed I do, Harry thought, still reeling. First, there's the huge payout for flogging Quidditch to Americans. Then there's the promise to keep Plocking legal, and finally a special Snitch just for me, he thought, approaching the long table covered with food.
The embarrassing part was that he was tempted. Not by the gold, which seemed to find him regardless, but by the promise to keep Plocking legal, and the deliverance from observational magic. No, I can't possibly, he thought, recalling Alistair's moral code. He'd essentially be lying, and for what? The right to fly like a maniac through the rings? I can fly like a maniac everywhere else, he reminded himself.
No one was watching him at the desserts table, so he surreptitiously loaded his pouch, noting the irony of stealing from a bunch of crooks. He also took time to consider his answer. Will this affect the scoring change? he wondered. Will I become their enemy if I turn them down? Sweet Merlin, what if they Obliviate me!
His heart was racing, until he remembered the Black family ring would whisk him straight to Kreacher if that happened. He took a steadying breath and returned to the table, where the three wizards were eager for his reply.
"What about the petition to change the rules?" Harry asked. "If I agree to help you with America, will you let it through?"
The two Council members laughed, and Tsumuji said, "That's another matter entirely—and out of your hands, I fear. But you'll find there are benefits to a good relationship with the Council, particularly so early in your career. Together we can accomplish great things, Mr Potter."
Potter-Black, thought Harry, suddenly keen to leave. But he'd loaded his plate with dessert, and they still awaited his answer.
"The America thing's not out of the question," he said, "but I can't do the modified Snitch. We don't actually know if I'm more vulnerable to observational magic, and if it ever came out I was getting a special Snitch, my reputation would be shot."
"The changes wouldn't affect whether you caught it," Spangler countered, but Harry shook his head.
"No one would believe me. I'm always a hair's breadth away from scandal, and something like that would absolutely end me."
The two Council members exchanged glances. "What about the foul?" asked Vlieger. "That wouldn't be special treatment."
"I'll leave that up to the committee," said Harry, secretly hoping they'd keep it legal. "And I'll need more time to consider the America thing. And a proposal, of course."
"Yes, of course," said Tsumuji. "You are young, but your time is valuable. Although I understand you lost a lot of it last night."
The others laughed, and Harry told them about his night in jail, omitting the bit about the guards. He remembered what Jasper Fleet had said about the local wizarding mob, and the last thing he wanted was for the Council to retaliate on his behalf.
He left soon after, with handshakes but no firm agreement. Back in the lounge, he found more players and distributed the desserts he'd stolen. "How was the spread?" someone asked. "Wedding reception, or Roman feast?"
The only wedding Harry had attended was Bill and Fleur's, and the closest he'd been to a Roman feast was dinner at Lydia's flat. "I don't know, but there was something called 'surf and turf.' And the lobsters were still alive, in a tank."
"Were the cows alive too?"
"No, but there were actual strawberry plants, and all the fruit was ripe."
That afternoon he went to the Art Institute, a nearby Muggle museum. It was nearly as big as the science museum, and he even recognised some of the paintings, thanks to his lessons with Simon. I'm not completely ignorant, he noted with pride. He'd grown accustomed to not knowing things, particularly in the Muggle world, but the trip to America was proving he'd made progress.
As usual, he enjoyed not being recognised, and he stayed out until it was nearly time to meet Valerie. Rushing back through the lobby, at first he didn't notice the Evening Beacon, on a rack near the front desk. But Phil spotted him and waved him over.
"Harry, have you seen this?" he said, holding up the newspaper.
"Shit, what is it now?" said Harry, taking it from him. At first glance it seemed fine; his photo was on the cover, with headlines about the mass arrest, but he'd expected that.
"It's a few pages in," said Phil ominously. "Did you send a note to your house-elf?"
The note he never received! "That fucking bastard!" cried Harry, recalling the guard who'd mocked him. "Don't tell me he sold it to the papers!"
"Your loving master," quoted Phil. "He most certainly did."
Harry found the page where it was printed, and his forehead knotted as he read it:
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
Scanning the article, he said, "Does it mention they never actually delivered it and my house-elf nearly lost his mind?"
"No, it just says you were a drama queen and demanded special treatment."
"Yes, I see that," said Harry, still frowning. He glanced at the clock and nearly swore again. "Ugh, Valerie will be here any second. I don't even have time to go upstairs first."
"So bring her with you," Phil shrugged. "Really, Potter, I thought you knew your way around women."
Harry smiled in spite of himself. "That's a good point. Are you taking Lindsey out tonight?"
"Yeah, it's the least I can do after she collected me at M-SEP this morning. She even brought me tea and a bagel."
"They must have coordinated," said Harry, before remembering he was supposed to be cross with Phil for cheating on Daphne. But what's the point? I tried and failed to stop him, and she'll probably never find out.
He turned the page and saw the picture with Valerie, which identified her by name. "Area Jokester Catches Potter's Eye," said the headline, and the blurb included the time and location of her performance that night.
"Jokester?" said Harry aloud. "That makes her sound like she carries Dungbombs around with her, just in case."
"Her show'll be packed," said Phil. "Which is good news for Lindsey, since her team is performing first."
The two witches arrived a few minutes later, and Harry invited Valerie upstairs. "I just need to change, but then we can go to dinner."
"Perfect—I want to see your wardrobe. Everyone's been asking me about it."
But when they entered his room, a small parcel was on the table. "What's this?" he exclaimed. After casting a few detection charms, he opened the card and read:
Dear Mr Potter-Black,
Thank you again for the pleasure of your company at lunch. You've been a tremendous addition to the Quidditch community, and we look forward to your triumphs in international competition.
We were sorry to hear about your unpleasant night in a MACUSA facility, particularly the ways in which you were singled out. Please accept this token of our regret and appreciation, on behalf of the IQF Council.
Sincerely,
Tsumuji Kenji
Harry picked up the parcel and knew at once what was inside. "Fuck, it's a bribe," he said, unwrapping it. The small lacquer box was inlaid with a fluttering Snitch, and inside was a pouch full of American coins, which Harry poured onto the bed.
Valerie cast a charm to count them. "Fifteen hundred Dragots," she said. "Is that number significant?"
"It's how much I had to pay M-SEP this morning. They charged me extra."
"The Moneybags Tax," said Valerie, laughing. "I can't believe that law got passed—normally rich people get away with everything. But there was a scandal a few years back, when a pair of spoiled brats flew an enchanted VW Bug all the way from New York to Ilvermorny. In plain sight! Can you imagine?"
Embarrassed, Harry changed the topic. "What should I do with the gold? This is basically a preemptive bribe."
"Maybe you should give it back?" she said uncertainly.
Every instinct told Harry that was a bad idea. "No, that would basically be a declaration of war. I won't be their lapdog, but I don't want to be their enemy either."
"I guess you should keep it, then. Takes the sting out of having to pay that fine, at least."
Harry didn't want to admit he'd already got over it. "I suppose we could get dinner tonight somewhere a bit more posh. Unless you're still worried about looking like a gold digger."
"Nah—according to the Beacon, you're the high-maintenance drama queen. Which reminds me, let's see those robes of yours."
He led her to the wardrobe, expecting her to laugh when she saw all the robes he'd brought. But her eyes grew wide, and she ran her fingers over the soft wool. "You're like a fairy-tale prince," she murmured.
It didn't seem like the right moment to say, "Lordships are bollocks." Instead, he leaned in to kiss her. "And you're like a woodland nymph," he said. "You deserve to be famous, just so everyone can have the pleasure of looking at you."
Naturally, this led to snogging, but after a few minutes she pulled away. "I wish I'd worn something nicer," she said, looking down at her jeans and fitted blouse. "But this is my improv uniform."
"Your show's not till nine, right?"
"Yes, but all I have is the green dress from yesterday. Which I'm happy to wear again—I think the only person who took my picture was that lady at the diner. But we'd have to stop at my place first. Are you okay with side-along?"
Grinning, Harry said, "How late are the shops open? Somewhere that takes Dragots—I suddenly seem to have a lot of them."
She inhaled sharply. "No, I can't accept that. I swear, I'm not a gold digger!"
"I know you aren't. But you're going to be famous one day, and I want you to get over your fear of being seen. I think you're getting there, but let's rip off the plaster."
They ventured into the Zero Block, and she suggested her favourite shop. "Their stuff is cute, and you get a lot of bang for the buck."
"Right, and it'll probably be crowded. We need to go somewhere more discreet."
She glanced across the courtyard, several storeys up. "Well, there's Hadley's. But they're ultra-exclusive, and way too expensive."
"Would 1,500 Dragots cover it?" he asked. A blush spread over her pale cheeks, and she nodded. "Then lead the way," he said, extending his hand.
It wasn't the first time Harry took a woman shopping, but he wasn't just buying Valerie clothes—he was initiating her into another world. With her looks and talent—and a brand-new medium—she could easily become a star. And she genuinely loved performing, just as he loved playing Quidditch. Maybe she'll develop Light magic too, he thought.
The shop assistant, Nina, was clearly used to celebrities. She treated Harry like any other client—polite, but not awestruck—but she fawned over Valerie. "That tiny waist!" she said, nearly encircling it with her hands. "And your hair, is that natural? It's got to be!"
It was the kind of shop where they bring the clothes to the customer, and Valerie protested when she saw the red dress. "Not with my hair," she argued, but both Nina and Harry insisted she try it.
Nina said, "You can't wear every shade of red. But trust me—this one is perfect."
And it was. When Valerie looked in the mirror, Harry watched her expression, and he saw a new air of confidence. "That is definitely your colour," he said, and she didn't contradict him.
"Now shoes," said Nina. Valerie's feet were bare, which made her look girlish, in spite of the dress.
"Can't I wear these?" she joked, indicating her Doc Martens. "They even match Harry's."
Nina came back with strappy black heels, charmed for comfort, and Valerie tried them on. "It's official, you look smashing," Harry said.
"We're not even done with her," said Nina, and she led them to the cosmetics counter. The makeup artist taught Valerie several new spells, to replace the charms she'd learnt when she was twelve. "Are you saying Lizzie Ratliff wasn't the last word on the feminine arts?" said Valerie, feigning offence.
"Possibly not," said Harry, "but you're beautiful regardless."
The artist selected a lip potion the same colour as her dress, and Valerie's look was complete. "You realise I'm going to have to change out of this when I perform," she said, still astonished by her own reflection. "I can't exactly play a crusty old Potions teacher dressed like this."
"You definitely don't look like a Potions teacher," said Harry, picturing both Slughorn and Snape.
They selected a handbag but she refused his offer of jewellery, partly because they'd spent almost the entire amount. Harry paid for everything, and Valerie said, "Now let's go back to the shop where they were mean to me, so I can say, 'You work on commission, right?' And they'll say yes, and I'll say, 'Big mistake, huge mistake!'" Harry looked at her blankly, and she said, "Okay, I guess you haven't seen 'Pretty Woman.' We'll have to add it to your list."
They chose a chic-looking restaurant, and Harry had to dissuade the hostess from seating them first. "Are you sure? I can whip up some space in an instant," she said, holding up her wand.
"Then whip it up for them," he said, indicating the crowd of people already waiting. "As long as we're out by half-past eight, we'll be fine."
The hostess reluctantly directed them to the bar, and Valerie said, "There you go again, demanding special treatment. Such a drama queen!"
"You're the one who's appearing on stage in a few hours," he countered, letting her take the only available stool.
"Yes, and I'm nervous about that. My entire future could depend on whether I do a good job tonight." He tried soothing her nerves, but she continued to fret. "Look at all these people trying to figure out what's so special about me," she said, with a glance around the bar.
"Trust me, no one is wondering that," said Harry, succumbing to his urge to kiss her.
For a moment she allowed it, and he felt her relax, but she pulled away. "Then they think I'm a bimbo, and the only reason I'm on stage is because there's nothing sadder than an all-male improv team." Harry raised a single eyebrow, and she said, "Fine, I'm being irrational. But how do you deal with nerves?"
He took a moment to consider it. "For years I just had to cope. I was stuck doing all sorts of things I was afraid of, and I didn't have a choice, so there it was."
Her face suddenly ashen, she said, "I wasn't even thinking of all the war stuff. I just meant stuff like going on the radio, or playing in a big Quidditch match, or ..." She trailed off, embarrassed.
"Or posing in my underwear," he said, and she laughed. "But those are scary too," he admitted. "In fact, they're almost worse, since I usually have a choice about that sort of thing."
"Thanks for making me feel better about comparing my stage fright with facing a Basilisk. But how do you handle it? It sounds like you do more than just cope now."
He told her what Owen had taught him about expanding into awareness, but she didn't quite get it. "It's like this," he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. "There's a part of our mind that wants to focus, to the point of crushing the thing we're focusing on. But if we let it relax,"—he loosened his grip—"there's suddenly a lot more space. And I can feel your hand much better now." He raised her palm to his lips and kissed it.
She looked like she was ready to melt. "You really deserve your reputation," she said breathlessly. "And yes, I feel a lot less nervous now. But we probably shouldn't engage in foreplay right before going onstage."
"Maybe not, but the awareness thing borders on Light magic."
"Which borders on sex," she replied. "Yes, I've read the articles. Although I've seen you during sex, and you aren't exactly at peak mental acuity."
"That's true, but I'm definitely single-minded. It's the same when I play Quidditch—that's partly why I enjoy it so much, since my thinking mind relaxes, and I feel much more expansive." Recalling the fugue states he'd experienced, he said, "When I'm really in the zone, I don't even have to look for the Snitch. It just appears, sometimes right next to me."
"That's what good improv is like," she said, twining her fingers through his. "I don't have think about what to say. I just say it, and I'm just as surprised as the audience. It feels amazing—that's why I do it week after week."
Merlin, she's so close to having Light magic, Harry thought. According to Davina, some people get a taste of it before making the full transition, which Valerie was clearly doing.
Fortunately, she was no longer nervous, and by the time they finished eating she was keen to perform. "I just need to be photographed in my 'fuck me' red dress with my 'fuck me' British boyfriend," she joked. "Um, is it okay if I call you that?"
"'Fuck me?'"
"No, boyfriend. I know you're leaving in a couple of days, and I'll get some lovely parting gifts, but for now we seem to be a thing."
"It's fine," said Harry, with only a small twinge for Fiona. They left the restaurant and were met by reporters who flooded them with questions—including one about their relationship status.
"I'm his American sex slave and he's my loving master," said Valerie, completely deadpan. "Unless my parents read this, in which case we're just good friends."
"We're dating while I'm here, but it's nothing serious," said Harry. "And Valerie's brilliant, in case you haven't noticed."
"Are you worried Fiona will find out?" asked a reporter.
Before Harry could react, Valerie feigned outrage. "Oh my god, is that your wife? You scumbag!"
Harry just laughed and pulled her into a kiss. "Thank you," he whispered.
She turned to the reporters and said, "I'd love to chat, but the show must go on. And for the record, he's not at all high-maintenance. Though he really should have known better than to land on the Sears Tower."
They Apparated to the theatre and snaked through the crowd into a makeshift dressing room. Several of Valerie's teammates were there, and they stared at her outfit.
At first Jason was dumbstruck, but he quickly recovered. "Potter, you're lucky I didn't make a move first, because this is a hard act to follow," he said, indicating his nondescript clothes and scrawny physique.
"Cheers," said Harry, with genuine sympathy. He was no longer inept around women, but he could remember feeling hopelessly outclassed—by Cedric Diggory and Viktor Krum, for example, during the Yule Ball.
Valerie shooed everyone away so she could change, and her teammates led Harry to a roped-off section of the theatre. Although it wasn't really a theatre—it was more like a dive bar, with lots of tables and a stage.
"We've never had a VIP section before," said Jeff, "but we've also never had a VIP. Oh, and there's drinks over there," he said, motioning towards the bar and coughing.
Harry took the hint and bought a couple of pitchers, and Valerie was back when he returned. The theatre filled with people, including Phil Routledge and Lindsey, and Jason waved them over. "I heard there's a talent scout in the audience," he gushed, blinking madly. "Do you think this'll be my big break?"
There were, in fact, several likely scouts in the audience. Jeff recognised a theatre producer who was known to be interested in film, and Harry heard someone at the bar saying, "The right leading lady could definitely get this thing off the ground." But no one conveyed that to Valerie, who merely laughed at Jason's joke.
Lindsey's team went first, and they were decent, Harry thought—but not as good as Valerie's troupe was on Wednesday. "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly during intermission. "Do you need some foreplay?"
"I don't think there's time, but let's go in the dressing room and charm some jizz onto my shirt. That would really get people talking, don't you think?"
When intermission was over, she kissed him for luck before going onstage, and Harry hoped she couldn't hear all the chatter. He also tried to ignore it—particularly the would-be Mind Healer who said, "You know, Potter's mom was also a redhead." Harry was tempted to turn around and say, "You know, Potter's dad also fancied redheads," in a fake American accent. But it might make a scene, which was the last thing Valerie needed.
The show soon began. Jason delivered the monologue, and at first Valerie seemed ill at ease. Come on, you've got this, Harry thought. But something clicked in the second act, and from then on, she stole the show. He could hardly say why, since her teammates were funny as well, and the other witch was also pretty. But Valerie was magnetic, and nearly everything she did was comic perfection.
Wild applause at the end, and after a group bow she returned to the table. "What did you think?" she asked Harry, even though she clearly knew the answer.
"You hit it out of the park," he said, deliberately using the American expression.
"I was nervous during the first act—I'm sure you could tell. But then I slipped into the groove, and it felt amazing."
"You were amazing," he murmured, which led to a long kiss. Her friends made hooting noises, and eventually she pulled away to talk with them. Over the next hour, multiple people gave her their business card, promising huge opportunities. And when Harry mentioned the red dress, her mates insisted she change back into it.
By the time they returned to the hotel, she had several meetings lined up and a stack of cards. "That was nuts," she said, flopping onto the bed without even removing her shoes. "Is that what it's like for you every day?"
"Performing onstage and getting offers to be a film star?"
"No, being the centre of attention. My whole body is buzzing right now."
Harry was also buzzing, both from drink and from witnessing her triumph. "You'll get used to it," he said, removing his necktie. "And yes, it's completely mental."
"But how do you not have an impossibly swollen head?"
"Give a man a minute, will you?" he joked, and she threw a pillow at him. "Honestly? I kind of do. But I try not to get caught up in it, because I know how fast people can turn on you. And then you're just some wanker who everyone hates."
"So, that's your advice? Don't be a wanker?"
Grinning, he said, "Not right now, certainly." Valerie laughed, and they dropped the subject. But she brought it up again later, while sipping the milkshake they'd ordered from room service.
"If you actually do have a big ego," she began, "you hide it pretty well. Are you sure it's not just confidence?"
"I don't know—what's the difference?"
"Probably what you said earlier, about not being a wanker," said Valerie, passing him the milkshake. "Someone with a big ego is usually selfish and arrogant. But someone who's confident is just aware of their good qualities, instead of putting themselves down all the time."
"Like your improv mates do?"
"Ugh, yes. Although some of them have really fragile egos. My old boyfriend was like that—he'd get defensive about the stupidest things. And even though he was a great scene partner, as soon as we were offstage, everything had to be about him."
"I hope I'm not like that," said Harry. "Although it might be hard to tell, since I usually am the centre of attention."
"That's true, but you don't really talk about yourself. Sorry, Harry—I'd say you're confident rather than egotistical."
He passed back the milkshake and said, "That's a relief. Although tomorrow might be a bit much—I have a publicity event for London Underground."
"Really? Why haven't I heard about it? Was it in the paper?"
"No, it's invitation-only, and mostly for the press." He paused, then said, "It's a fashion show."
Her eyes lit up. "Oh my god, please tell me you're going to strut down the runway in your underwear!"
"No, the female models will, but I'll be fully clothed. They're expanding the women's product line, and I'll be there primarily as a draw."
"What, just standing there looking British? Or will you hold up cards and give everyone a score?"
"I honestly don't know, but I'm sure it's not that." Harry asked if she wanted to attend, which she did, and soon they were asleep. But morning came all too quickly.
"Is that a pigeon?" asked a bleary-eyed Valerie, in response to the tapping at the window. She used her wand to open the curtain, then let out a scream. "Holy shit, it's an owl!"
More alarmed by her scream than by the owl, Harry leapt out of bed. "Keep your shirt on," he told the owl as he struggled to open the window. It was Draco's fastest bird, and she flapped her wings in a show of aggression.
Cowering behind blankets, Valerie said, "Will it come inside? Why didn't it just drop off your letter at the front desk?"
"I'm sure Draco told her to deliver it only to me, night or day. Probably revenge for that time I rang him at four in the morning," said Harry, prying the letter from sharp talons. "Sorry, I haven't anything for you to eat," he told the owl, "but just go down to the kitchens, and they'll get you sorted."
The owl flew off, and Harry returned to bed with the letter. After a quick scan to ensure it didn't mention Fiona, he tilted it towards Valerie so they could read it together. It began:
I should have known you'd do something daft and get yourself arrested. Mother was appalled and said it reflects poorly on House Black, but I did you a favour and reminded her where the head of House Malfoy currently resides.
The letter continued with a lengthy analysis of the conference thus far, along with bits and bobs about life in England. It covered both sides of the page, and by the end, Harry was bewildered.
"What was that all about?" he asked Valerie.
"It looks like he misses you," she replied. Harry just stared at her, and she said, "What, is that surprising?"
"Well, yes—he actively loathed me until recently. Admittedly, we're mates now, but the main reason we exchange letters is to take the piss out of each other."
"What about when you're together? Do you see each other much?"
"Maybe three or four times a week?" he said, not quite believing it himself. But between Pratt's, visits to Malfoy Manor, and regular gatherings with the Slytherins, it was true. "Blimey, he misses me!" exclaimed Harry, looking down at the letter again.
"Are you going to write back? That owl might still be around."
"I suppose I should," said Harry, and he realised there were heaps of things he wanted to tell Draco. Sweet Merlin, we're actually friends!
He dashed out a reasonably long letter while Valerie showered, then asked Kreacher to find Draco's owl. They ate breakfast together in the room, and Valerie left with a promise to return for the fashion show. Harry was glad she was gone—not because he didn't enjoy her company, but because she didn't need to see Kreacher shave him, or witness his reunion with Sophie. They were meeting that morning to prepare for the show, and it would be awkward enough without her.
At ten he arrived at the venue, which hummed with activity. Virginia Holloway, his American contact, was talking with a tall, flamboyantly dressed wizard and a starkly stylish witch—an unusual contrast. They were studying a large parchment, and the wizard occasionally shouted orders to the crew who were setting things up.
"No, the curtains are all wrong," said the wizard. "Didn't you use the colour sample I gave you?"
The crew member held a card to the curtain and said, "They're the same damn shade of green. I don't see the problem."
"Trust me, it's off," said the wizard. "We'll just have to fix it later."
Virginia was also puzzling over the curtains, which hung behind the stage, but then she spotted Harry. "There you are, right on time!" Harry began to greet her, but she turned to the wizard and said, "There's the man himself—you can fix it now."
Everyone paused to stare, and Harry tried to ignore his discomfort. "Good morning," he said, with a general wave to the room. He didn't add, "I'm Harry," since false humility seemed pointless.
The wizard came to meet him, platformed boots clacking with every step. "Harry, be an angel and talk to Jesse over there," he said, pointing to the crew member near the curtain. "We need to nail down the colour once and for all."
With a sinking feeling, Harry did as directed, and Jesse held the card to his eyes. "Not a match," he said. "Too much yellow." He asked Harry not to blink for a moment, then cast a charm to adjust the card.
Pacing noisily, the tall wizard said, "This is a fucking disaster—the chairs are all the same colour. Should we send the new sample to the storeroom, or just fix them here?"
"I doubt anyone will notice," said Harry, embarrassed, but Virginia just shushed him.
"Javier's a perfectionist. And really, it's easy to fix."
The change to the curtains was barely perceptible, but Javier seemed pleased. "I'm Javier St Alexis, and it's simply divine to meet you," he said, surveying Harry from his towering height. "As you can see, it's still chaos up here, but it'll be an absolute vision when we're done. And when the girls walk out, you'll think you've died and gone to heaven."
Will there be trains? Harry thought, recalling his vision of King's Cross. "I'm sure it'll be great," he said. "But clearly you're busy, so I'll get out of your way."
Javier resumed barking orders, and Virginia introduced Harry to the chic-looking witch. "This is Taryn, the choreographer, and she'll do a walkthrough as soon as the models come out. They're not done with their final fittings—sorry to make you wait."
Harry stood back and watched the crew set everything up, fearing more references to himself. But other than the green curtains—and plenty of flowers—his own presence was minimal. And surely the models would attract more attention than he would.
They appeared a few minutes later, in dressing gowns and high-heeled shoes. There were a dozen in total, including Marina, who'd nearly been cast in the original advert. But Harry looked first at Sophie, who met his gaze with a warm smile. He smiled back, with a tiny nod to acknowledge her letter, and Taryn introduced everyone.
"They've been rehearsing since yesterday," she told Harry, "so this is mostly for your benefit. And really, your role is minimal, as you requested." She used her wand to place a chair in front of the runway, which extended from the stage. "You'll sit here, in the audience. The room will be dark, but you'll be in plain view thanks to the stage lights. Which reminds me, are you bringing that new girl you're seeing? The redhead?"
Sensing her displeasure, Harry said, "Yes. Is that a problem?"
"We'd like to seat her elsewhere, if that's all right. It would be one thing if you'd been seeing her for months," she said, and Harry felt a pang for Fiona. "But you're basically a bachelor right now, and we want to play that up."
Harry took a deep breath. "Yes, that's fine."
"Perfect. Anyway, you'll just be a spectator most of the time, although each of the girls will make eye contact with you, so be ready for that. And then at the end, they'll drag you onstage. Major photo opportunity, by the way, so prepare to be blinded."
She sent the models backstage, through the spot where the two curtains met, and cued the music to start. Harry wasn't familiar with it, but surely Ryan would know it, since it sounded British and relatively new. And the curtains parted, revealing four enormous photographs of Harry, divided in the middle by a long sheet of black gauze.
He already felt sick from the photos, but when the first model walked through the gauze, which was artfully tattered, his chest clenched. Disjointed images filled his mind—Sirius! Dementors! Rob Dunning!—and he nearly called Kreacher to escape. But he had the presence of mind to stay put, and he tried grounding himself in reality. Breasts! he thought wildly, finally noticing the model, and his breathing steadied a little. She wore a silk bra and knickers, and her hips swayed as she walked.
It was an odd combination—the Veil of Death and the stirrings of an erection—and he hoped it didn't herald a new fetish. Meanwhile, his photographs gazed at the model, renewing his horror. Great Salazar, they're wizarding photographs! They were from the original photoshoot and depicted the range of men's undergarments. And Harry was genuinely afraid one of them would reach down and have a tug.
As promised, the lingerie model looked right at him when she reached the front, and he couldn't help smiling back. Her hair wasn't styled yet, nor was she fully made up, which meant she looked more natural than she would during the show. But this is almost better, Harry thought, since she looked like she could be parading across his bedroom.
The black, fluttering curtains still unnerved him, but seeing a series of lingerie models made it easier. And when Sophie came out, even his photographed selves smiled. Which surprised him—any other photograph would be wanking by now, but these were oddly well-behaved.
Her eyes met his, and Harry was careful not to give her the Look. She seemed to notice, because she winked at him, and he couldn't help laughing. I hope we'll stay friends, he thought, and only a part of him added "with benefits."
Each model appeared more than once, in a different outfit, and after the last one came out—wearing a bridal negligée and holding a bouquet—the others returned to the stage. They all carried flowers, and Sophie beckoned Harry to join them. "Viens, mon joli Anglais," she said, and even though her come-hither look was just for show, he ascended the stairs and went straight to her. The others crowded around him, kissing his cheeks and showering him with petals, and he was nearly as dazzled as he'd been at the Boudoir.
Virginia and the crew members applauded, but Javier and Taryn were busy jotting down notes. "Don't move an inch," Javier ordered. "We want to discuss some changes. Virginia, get over here."
Trapped amidst all the models, Harry tried to make conversation, but he mostly just stammered. To make matters worse, they were all taller than he was, and he had to struggle to maintain eye contact. Marina in particular was hard to look away from, and she pulled a petal from his hair.
"I am glad to see you again, Harry," she said, in her thick Eastern European accent. "And I look forward to the train ride to San Francisco."
Several of the others echoed her, and Harry shot a helpless glance at Sophie. "No more celibacy vow, mon pauvre accro," she said fondly, using the French term for "addict."
Harry continued his inarticulate praise, and it was a relief when Javier finally addressed them. "Taryn has feedback for the girls, but let's get to Harry first, since I'm sure he has places to be." Approaching the stage, he said, "Harry, I'll be blunt—I found the end a bit lacking. I know the contract says your clothes stay on, but even a partial striptease ..."
The models' squeals of delight nearly drowned out Harry's reply. "No, I'm afraid not. Remember, I'm a political figure in England, and I need at least a veneer of respectability."
Javier's gaze flicked upwards, and Harry belatedly recalled the enormous photographs behind him. "I'm sure you could get away with it," said Javier. "I know you agreed to that photoshoot on the train."
Harry politely refused, but Javier was persistent, and it took a sharp look from Sophie to steel Harry's resolve. "I've made my decision," he said, using Narcissa's precise tones. "And there are a few other things I'd like to discuss. Those photographs, for example."
"Your contract doesn't forbid using them, and London Underground owns all the rights."
"I know that, but I'm worried they'll misbehave. That's why we used Muggle photos for the adverts."
"Oh, that's not a problem," said Javier with a careless wave. "We charmed them to behave. It'll wear off by the end of the day, but we'll take them down before that."
"I suppose that's all right, then, assuming they don't fall into the wrong hands." Virginia described the chain of custody, and Harry was reassured. "There's another thing," he said, "but perhaps we could speak privately."
He stepped down from the stage, leaving Taryn to work with the models, and Virginia cast a privacy charm. "Yes, what is it?" asked Javier, his arms crossed.
"The black curtains. You had no way of knowing this, but I've had some ... difficult experiences around tattered black curtains, and I nearly had a panic attack just now." He didn't want to tell them about the Veil, since it was still too recent, but he said, "Amongst other things, they look like Dementors' robes."
Suddenly pale, Javier uncrossed his arms and began kneading his hands. "Jesus, I never thought of that. Tell me what you need."
"Change the colour maybe? Or at least get rid of the tatters."
"Done. Is silver all right?"
Yes, I'm a Slytherin, Harry thought. "That would be great, thanks."
They went over a few more details, then Harry was free to go. But he wanted to talk to Sophie, so he waited around. She seemed to realise why, and after finishing with Taryn she approached him.
"Mon cher, I am happy to see you," she said, kissing him on both cheeks. "You are doing better, I hope? I see you have a new girlfriend."
"Just for this week," said Harry. "And thanks for your letter. I'll admit, I was waiting to hear from you—you were definitely on my mind. But obviously the last thing I want to do is hurt you again."
"And I do not wish to use you. Too many people forget you also have feelings."
They chatted for a short while, but it was clear she was maintaining a boundary. "Will you be going to San Francisco?" he asked, wondering how things would work on the train.
"Yes, and I have signed a contract for the shoot. But my sleeping car will be far from yours. Which will suit us both, I believe." She glanced at Marina, who was still onstage with a few other models.
Harry wanted to contradict her, but he couldn't lie. "I haven't made any decisions, certainly. But yeah, I think it's better if you and I keep things professional."
She nodded, then said, "But protect your heart, mon cher. She too is ambitious, and she approaches the age where non-magical casting directors are no longer interested."
Are they blind? thought Harry, seeing no trace of her advancing age. "Yes, I know," he said. "And thanks."
He returned to hotel and popped into the exhibition hall, where Phil was still promoting the Firebolt. "Just one more hour and I'm a free man," he told Harry. "And let me tell you, we're all looking forward to your show."
Harry froze. "What?" he croaked.
"Your underwear show. Surely you've heard about it."
"I have, but–" He had to pause, almost dizzy from panic. "It's invitation only," he said weakly.
"Yes, and I have one," said Phil, patting his pocket. "So do heaps of other players. Someone came round this morning and handed them out."
Harry belatedly realised the venue was a bit large for only reporters. "Sweet Merlin, I can never play international Quidditch now! I knew the press coverage would be dicey, but if you're all there in person ..."
Laughing, Phil said, "Will you be debuting London Underground's new male thong?"
"God no! I'll be fully clothed, thanks to my contract—which they tried to pressure me about. But they have the rights to my image, and they're not shy about using it."
"Then I'm sure you'll be fine. We'll all have a laugh at your expense, and you can take comfort in how jealous we are." He lowered his voice and said, "Have you seen the models yet?"
Harry was still in a daze, but now it was more like how he'd felt onstage, surrounded by witches. "Yes, and you'll definitely be jealous. Don't get me wrong—Valerie is brilliant. But unless she wants to come to San Francisco with me, I'll be single again."
Phil raised his hand in a mock salute. "You're an inspiration to us all, Potter."
Reminded again of Daphne, Harry said, "Mate, do me a favour and don't start running around with some new witch the minute you get home. Daphne deserves some time to—I dunno—process."
"She does," said Phil, averting his eyes. "I honestly thought it could work when we started. And I really do like her. But it's better to end things now, before it's even been two months."
Harry was still conflicted, since he knew how upset Daphne would be, even without knowing Phil had cheated. But Lindsey seemed nice, and she wasn't just some bimbo. Harry's thoughts drifted back to Marina, and how much he desired her. Is it really so bad she'd be using me?
Someone pulled Phil away for a broom demonstration, and Harry strolled about the expo hall. It was surprisingly busy for the final day of the conference, and he realised there were more Americans than before. Is this because of our arrest? he wondered. Maybe the IQF really did engineer it.
There was a small crowd at one of the booths, with a pair of wizards signing autographs. They were close to Professor McGonagall's age, perhaps, but still athletic-looking, and Harry assumed they were former players. People were asking them questions, and it emerged that the American was a former Quodpot star. The other was British—Alistair Wood—and Harry wondered if he was related to Oliver.
They were signing their respective memoirs, and Harry bought both of them. He had no interest in Quodpot, of course, but it seemed only polite to learn about it. And the other book looked genuinely good: 150 Points: A Seeker Tells All. The embossed cover said, "Anniversary Edition," which implied it was popular enough to reissue.
When he reached the table for autographs, Wood said, "I coached one of your classmates, you know."
"Really? Which one?"
"Draco Malfoy. His Death Eater dad paid me a pile of gold so he could beat you."
"Er, I don't think it helped much," said Harry. "No offence."
"Don't blame me. You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it catch the damn Snitch."
Harry laughed and asked if he was related to Oliver Wood.
"Yeah, he's my brother's grandkid. Saw him play once at Hogwarts—only once, thank Merlin. After you've spent a few years in the league, school matches are about as exciting as a Flobberworm race." He glanced at the queue and said, "Better keep it moving, kid. Nice to meet you."
Tucking the books into his pouch, Harry thanked him and resumed his tour of the hall. Nearly every player he saw mentioned the fashion show, and Harry wondered if it was too early to start drinking. No, I should keep my inhibitions intact, he decided, and he searched for lunch instead.
Several players accompanied him, and they speculated about the rules change, which the IQF had yet to announce. "They'll post their decision at five," said Rolando, a Beater from the Philippines. "Although we might hear about the new fouls before that, if there are any."
"I hope not," said Yusuf. "Potter, I'll have you know I've been Plocking for years, only we didn't call it that. So I'll be annoyed if you ruin it for the rest of us."
"It's a small price to pay for new scoring," said Yang. "By the way, the Chasers are planning a huge celebration if it goes through." He turned to Harry and said, "This'll probably be the first and last time we're willing to buy you drinks, so plan accordingly."
"I still can't believe it might go through," said Harry. "Everyone thought we were mad to even suggest it."
"I thought you were mad," said Yusuf, "and I signed the bloody petition. Maybe not the cleverest move, since it makes Seekers less important, but I'm tired of being a scapegoat."
After lunch, Harry went to his room to prepare for the fashion show, which mostly involved casting sartorial charms and affixing the boutonnière Javier had provided. Then he went to the venue and signed autographs for the crowd outside, since his contract required it. And when Valerie turned up, he whisked her through the doors.
"So, they don't want you to be seen with me?" she joked.
"No, and I'm sure you'll understand why, when you see what they have planned." He told her about the rehearsal, and she threatened to cast a Finite incantatem on whatever was making his photographs behave.
"I'm sure if Lindsey and I team up, we can pull it off. Phil gave her a ticket, so I know she's here somewhere," said Valerie, looking around. "Ah, over there, with all the Quidditch players."
Harry walked her to the back, and the players immediately began taunting him. "Hey Potter, come here so we can settle a bet," called Lars.
"None of this was my idea," said Harry preemptively, and someone lifted a seat cushion and held it next to his eyes.
"Told you!" said a player, and a lot of gold changed hands.
"Screw that, how do I get one of those gift bags?"
"I think they're just for reporters. But I'm sure Potter can get us some of those London Underground ballscratchers."
Harry was too horrified to speak, and Phil said, "Technically it's a backscratcher, and it's enchanted to move about on its own. But with a name like London Underground, there's really only one place to put it."
"So, it's got the logo then," Harry stammered, "and not my–"
"Balls? No, just the logo."
Small mercies, thought Harry, and he gently pulled Valerie aside. "Remember, you're the one I want," he murmured. "All this is just for show."
"You're sweet to say that, but I wasn't born yesterday. We'll have a great time tonight, and then we'll say goodbye and you'll board the Booty Train to Frisco." Her expression serious, she added, "By the way, don't call it Frisco. Only tourists call it that."
He kissed her for luck, then found his seat in the front row. The crowd there was different—less rambunctious than the players, and far more sophisticated. These were the VIPs, he discovered, and the reporters were farther back.
"How are you finding Chicago?" asked the woman at his right. Her accent was American, but it was oddly similar to Malfoy's drawl. "I usually just Portkey through on my way to the coast. It's so provincial, don't you think?"
"Chicago is brilliant," he said. "I've never seen buildings this tall, and the museums are fantastic."
She let out a disdainful huff. "You should really see New York—everywhere else is positively soporific by comparison."
Harry didn't want to ask what "soporific" meant, so he just nodded. "Then why are you here?" he asked blandly.
"For your show, of course. You've really taken the colonies by storm." She gave him her card and invited him to visit New York, promising to introduce him to "everyone." Who does she mean by everyone? he wondered. Mundungus Fletcher? Uncle Vernon? Professor Trelawney? Grawp?
He chatted with his other neighbours, who were equally posh, and finally the lights dimmed. An unseen announcer with an English accent welcomed them, and the music came on—much louder than before. The curtains parted, revealing silver gauze rather than black, and Harry was relieved he couldn't hear the players laughing at his photographs.
The first model walked out, and Harry revised his opinion on the natural look, since she was elaborately made up and drop-dead gorgeous. It was hard to look away, but he consulted the charmed notecard he'd found on his seat. It described each outfit in turn, and Harry was impressed they'd found so many ways to say "bra and knickers."
The lighting was also more dramatic, and with the flashing cameras and pounding music, the show was a feast for the senses. And when each model gave him a smouldering look, he could only think, "Thank god I survived the war."
Sophie invited him up at the end, same as before, and he managed to look out at the audience instead of just ogling the women. It was hard not to touch them inappropriately, since they all wore lingerie, so he grasped the two nearest hands, which belonged to Sophie and Marina.
Marina said something in his ear, but he didn't catch it over the music. "What was that?" he replied, looking into her sea-blue eyes.
"I want you, Harry Potter," she repeated, and he hoped no one heard it over the din. Although it hardly mattered, since her body language was unmistakable.
The lights came up, and he could see the audience for the first time. The VIPs looked pleased—mostly with themselves—and the reporters had clearly enjoyed the spectacle. But the Quidditch players were downright unruly. They were the first to spot the post-show champagne bar, and when the models donned dressing gowns and began to circulate, the players mobbed them.
Harry was mobbed as well, by the VIPs and then the reporters, and Virginia made sure he talked with them for the required duration. But then he found Valerie, and after posing for more photos they slipped to the side.
"So, are you going to rope me into a threesome, or can you wait till you're on the train?" she asked slyly.
"I told you, I only want you," he said, and he actually meant it. After the frenzy of attention and desire, all he wanted was an evening alone with her. "I need to deal with Quidditch stuff for an hour or so, but after that I'm all yours."
"Perfect. But promise you'll get some of those ballscratchers, because everyone wants one."
He kissed her goodbye, and after securing a London Underground tote bag full of backscratchers, he returned to the hotel. There was still an hour until the IQF would announce their decision, and the lounge was packed. The players had taken over an entire section, and when they saw Harry they taunted him about the show.
"Clearly none of you want a London Underground backscratcher," he retorted, holding up the tote bag.
"No, you owe us," said Yang, "after nabbing the world's biggest endorsement. Besides, we spent the night in jail together. That makes us family, right?"
Harry agreed and gave him the bag, having already set aside some ballscratchers for Valerie. And he was glad to do it, since he'd enjoyed getting to know the other players, in spite of their taunts. But he spotted Alistair Wood nearby and realised it was a good chance to talk again.
He approached him and said, "Mr Wood, may I join you?"
"Sure, kid. But call me Alistair."
Harry would normally say, "And you should call me Harry," but so far Wood had only called him "kid," so it seemed unnecessary.
"Any word yet on fouls?" he asked the former Seeker, whom he assumed was waiting for the news.
"Nope. And they would've announced it by now, so it looks like your foul is here to stay. Although you're hardly the first Seeker to try that." Harry concurred, and Wood said, "I hear you're pretty damn good. It's one thing to fly like an idiot, but to be able to spot the Snitch while you're at it? Not easy."
"Cheers," said Harry, and they chatted for a while about Wood's career. He'd won several league cups for the Magpies but was traded to the Cannons near the end of his career, in the late sixties. And even though he regularly caught the Snitch, the rest of the team was so inept that they seldom won a match.
"Are you sure you want to go back to that?" said Wood. "Because that's what you're asking for, with a fifty-point Snitch."
"No team should win based only on one player," Harry argued. "But without a minimum length, it happens all the time."
"Yeah, and the Seeker's the hero. You should know better than anyone how much people like their heroes."
"But Quidditch is a team sport. Right now the Cannons are strong in every position, but I get far more than my share of the credit. And before you say it's because I was already famous, the same is true for Puddlemere. Phil Routledge is far better known than Oliver is, even though Oliver's one of the best Keepers in the league."
At first, Wood didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a wand wrapped in yellow plastic. "Slim Jim?" he asked, offering it to Harry. "It's a Muggle meat snack—you can't get 'em at home."
"Er, no thank you," said Harry, puzzled.
Wood peeled back the plastic in silence, then took a bite of the leathery-looking wand. After swallowing, he said, "Do you know what the most popular Muggle sport is, here in America?"
"No."
"They call it football, though it's nothing like what we call football at home. In American football, the most important player is the quarterback. The other fifty guys on the team could be the best in the world, but if the quarterback is rubbish, the entire team is rubbish. What do you make of that?"
"One player out of fifty?" exclaimed Harry. "That's completely mental."
"It is. You know what, though? The fans love it. It's the most popular sport in America—by a huge margin." He took another bite of meat-wand, then said, "Fans want a hero, someone they can project their dreams onto. And more than anyone else, that's you."
Harry rolled his eyes. "But Chasers and Beaters work much harder than Seekers do. As my teammates like to say, I mostly sit on my arse and look at clouds."
"Doesn't matter," said Wood. "Football fans aren't clamouring to make the quarterback less important, and Quidditch fans don't complain about the Seeker being the star."
"But it's so out of balance!" said Harry. "We're not trying to make Seekers insignificant—we're just trying to make things a bit more fair." He had strong feelings on this point, since it echoed his dream of making wizarding society more egalitarian.
Wood was shaking his head. "No, you're turning the most important player into a non-entity. Even if you catch the Snitch, you'll only be as valuable as a middling Chaser. Your main function will just be to end the match."
"That's not true—I fully intend to keep disrupting the other players, to stop our opponents from scoring."
"Yes, but you're the rare Seeker who can hurl yourself in harm's way and still find the Snitch. Not many of your counterparts can do that." Wood took another bite of meat and said, "I'm amazed they were willing to sign your petition. My best guess is they thought the IQF wouldn't give you the time of day." With a chuckle, he added, "They probably signed it to get their teammates off their backs. 'Don't blame me—I tried changing the rules. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to greet my legions of fans.'"
Frowning, Harry said, "But won't Quidditch be more fun to watch if the Quaffle actually matters? Right now the scoring is mostly a diversion until the Seekers decide who actually wins."
Wood finished eating his weird snack, then Vanished the plastic wrapper. "That's true, it will be more fun to watch. But now you'll have two sets of league standings: the official standings, and the pre-Potter version."
"Pre-Potter version!" exclaimed Harry. "No one will call it that!"
"Sorry, Potter-Black," he quipped, and Harry glared at him. "No, kid—it'll be worse than that. They'll call them the 'real' standings. And believe me, the fans will keep track. And when Montrose beats the Harpies next year, instead of the other way round, you'll be to blame."
Even though Wood claimed not to follow the league, he somehow managed to name Harry's two least-favourite teams. "I think you're overestimating my role here," said Harry. "I signed the petition exactly once, same as everyone else, and I presented it to the Council. If anyone's to blame, it's the team owners for bribing them."
"Yeah, they'll also take heat for it. But mark my words: you'll be the primary culprit." Harry was still frowning, and Wood said, "Cheer up, kid—you'll be fine either way. Like I said, you're tailor-made for this kind of Quidditch. And hey, maybe it won't go through."
Unsettled by Wood's analysis, Harry wrapped up the conversation and made his escape. Surely he's exaggerating, Harry thought, as he walked back towards Phil and the other Seekers. He quietly took a seat, hoping to gauge the mood.
"I wonder how this will affect my reserve," Phil mused. "Goodall's the more cautious kind of Seeker. I certainly like him, and don't want him to lose his job, but I'm guessing management will want someone more aggressive."
A few of the Seekers looked uncomfortable. "Fifty points isn't nothing," said a player from India. "And spotting is an art form. If anything, it will be more important with a minimum length." The others seemed puzzled, and he said, "Under the old rules, the Seeker wasn't in a hurry, since 150 points was almost always enough to win a match. But with a minimum length, unless the Chasers are badly mismatched, fifty points will be decisive—and we can even catch the Snitch more than once. So the team with the better spotter is more likely to win."
That sounded to Harry like a stretch, since short matches were relatively rare. But some people thought it made sense, and Harry genuinely hoped no one would lose their job over this. Or blame me for it, he thought.
After what seemed like an eternity, there was a burst of loud chatter at the far end of the lounge, near the noticeboard. All the players sat upright and strained to hear, until someone shouted, "Fifty points! And a clock!"
All the Chasers leapt to their feet and started chanting, "Potter! Potter!" until someone Silenced them.
"Provisional!" came the call, and this time the team owners stood up.
"What do you mean, provisional?" cried an owner.
"Subject to reapproval after a year."
Mingled joy and fury from the owners—joy that they were rid of the ten-minute match, and fury that they might have to pay more bribes the next year. But the Chasers resumed their chants, and several glasses of beer zoomed in Harry's direction.
"Er, does anyone want a beer?" Harry asked, backing away from them. The Seeker from India took one, and so did a few of his mates—the ones who'd been uneasy about the change.
But the Chasers were undeterred. "Get over here, you little miracle-worker!" someone shouted.
"It was the team owners," protested Harry, but no one seemed to care.
"It never would have happened without you," they countered, and Harry wished desperately he could claim they were wrong.
Author's note:
I did not actually plan for the Quidditch scoring change to occur in Chapter 150—it was pure coincidence! To celebrate, I recommend reading "150 Points" by Empiricalis (on AO3), which is the source for Alistair Wood and probably the funniest Quidditch fic out there.