Author's note:

seems to be having technical problems again, and I'm not at all confident in the site's longevity. I'll keep posting here for as long as it's running, but know that I also post to AO3. So even if FFN kicks the bucket, you can still keep reading :)


"Blimey, you got arrested?" said Ron, holding up the newly arrived Daily Prophet. "What on earth were you thinking!"

"I've told you, I don't know what he's thinking," said Jamie, occupying Banthora's frame. "I only get his memories—not his thoughts."

Jamie and Ron had become friendly in Harry's absence, and Ron now ate in the dining room so they could visit. "It says here you took part in an 'airborne free-for-all,' along with nearly fifty ofter players," he said, skimming the article. "'Massive secrecy violation,' they're saying. Looks like fun, though."

"It was. Although the guards were complete wankers—I wrote Kreacher a letter to tell him we were safe, but the guard sold it to the papers instead. Did the Prophet print it?"

"Not on the front page, but there's more inside." Ron turned to the indicated page. "'Dear Kreacher,' blah blah blah … Oh my god!" he blurted. "'Your loving master?'"

Ron was laughing, and Jamie clearly shared his amusement. "I was hoping they'd print it here—I knew you'd love it."

"Poor Harry," Ron chuckled. "He just can't win, can he?"

"Oh, he definitely can win. Check out the gossip column."

Ron flipped the pages again, and his mood instantly soured. "For Merlin's sake, she looks nothing like Ginny! Sure, she has red hair, but their faces are completely different." He looked more closely at the photo. "And what is she, five feet tall?"

Jamie's eyes unfocused for a moment. "Sounds about right," he said. "Similar breasts, though."

"Jamie!" snapped Ron "I don't want to hear it!"

"Oh come off it! You started it, telling me about Hermione's the other night."

"I was pissed, all right? And I'm sorry about that—a gentleman isn't supposed to talk."

"Yes, I know—Harry only reminds me a dozen times a day. I think he's afraid I'll turn into the portrait version of Sorceress after he's gone."

Jamie nevertheless told Ron about Valerie—nothing too revealing—and also about his night in jail. But Ron didn't press him for details, out of respect for Harry's privacy. And besides, Jamie had a life of his own, which was equally interesting.

"How are the fencing lessons going?" Ron asked. "Did you find a decent sword yet?"

"Maybe—Hector Black has one, and he's willing to make a trade, but he wants the dress I wore to the drag party, which I refuse to give up. I could probably get something from Aurora Black, since she has heaps of clothes, but she's been cross ever since she caught me with that mermaid. I tried telling her mermaids don't have human sex organs, and I haven't much use for eggs. But she accurately pointed out that mermaids have mouths and gills. And since she caught us underwater—one of us, anyway—I really don't have a leg to stand on."

Ron was struck yet again by how different Jamie was to Harry. They were identical, and they had the same mannerisms and speech, but Jamie was far less uptight. "How do you reckon it'll work," Ron mused aloud, "when Harry's gone but you have your own set of memories? Can you keep them straight, or are they all jumbled up?"

"No, they're distinct. And the other portraits tell me we'll become more alike over time. Although obviously I'm unique, since portraits mainly sleep until their subject dies." Jamie paused, then asked, "Is it weird that you and I have conversations the other Harry won't know about?"

"Er, kind of," said Ron. "But it's also nice, since there's no risk you'll fly off the handle. Because let's face it, he still does that sometimes."

"Believe me, I know." Jamie's brows drew together, then his eyes lit up. "Now there's a thought! Do you want to tell me all the stuff you'd never tell Harry? You know, to get it out of your system?"

Ron frowned, unsure how to reply. "Are you sure he wouldn't find out? I wouldn't want him getting, you know, the wrong idea."

Jamie promised not to betray any confidences. "I mightn't have Harry's thoughts, but I have his habits, and we both know he'd never reveal something personal." Ron raised an eyebrow, and Jamie said, "About someone besides himself."

At first Ron couldn't decide what to share. Thanks to his Weasley temper, he didn't exactly bury his emotions, and he and Harry had already aired most of their grievances. But an old memory came to the surface.

Not meeting Jamie's eyes, he said, "When I was little—like, way before Hogwarts—I used to imagine I was you. The Boy-Who-Lived, that is." Jamie's expression didn't change, and Ron continued. "We're the same age, or near to it, and I liked to pretend my parents had adopted you and cast a glamour so you'd look like one of us. And that I was secretly you."

He looked down at the table. "I know it sounds daft, and I can't believe I'm saying it aloud—I've never told anyone. But it was fun to pretend I was the one who'd survived the Killing Curse and defeated You-Know-Who. I decided the truth would come out when I got my Hogwarts letter, and Fred and George would–" Ron stopped short. "Of course, that never happened. But it's not like I was disappointed or anything," he quickly added, "since I was eleven by then and no longer really thought about it. Not much, anyway."

He glanced at Jamie again. "Was that too weird?" he asked.

"No, not at all. I'm sure Harry had all sorts of crazy fantasies about our parents secretly being alive and coming to rescue us. Although he hasn't told me about them yet."

"But that at least makes sense," Ron argued. "And in your case it kind of came true—not that your parents were alive, but that you were someone important. Not to mention–" He stopped short again, even though Jamie probably knew where he was going. "Not to mention you were rich," he said quietly.

It didn't help that Jamie was impeccably dressed and standing in a large gilt frame, above an elaborate flower arrangement. But he didn't look pained, as Harry would, and Ron said, "At least I have a salary now, although not like when I was an Auror. But George promised me a bonus when the DMLE renews their contract, and I'll get extra depending on how much they increase it by. But obviously it's nothing to what you earn, even without London Underground."

He was still avoiding eye contact, but when he looked at Jamie he saw only kindness. "And then there's the Lord Black thing," Ron said. "I know lordships are bollocks, but until that happened, you were still only–" He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed even to say it. "You were still only a half-blood. But now people call you a blood traitor, which means you're basically a pure-blood, same as me."

Jamie didn't react, but it hardly mattered, since Ron's self-loathing was bad enough. "And the Potters weren't even that important," he continued. "Not like the Weasleys or the Prewetts. I know the Weasleys haven't had much gold for centuries now, but we were a big deal for a long time. And my mum's family still is. I never told you this, but my mum had a dowry. Long gone, of course, but that tells you what kind of family she comes from.

"I once heard Aunt Muriel describe the Potters as 'common,'" Ron said. "I thought Mum would tell her off, but all she said was that the Potters were respectable, and not everyone could be in the elite. Which is a joke, considering my family all had second-hand textbooks and hand-me-down robes. But I still found it a little comforting." Fiddling with his serviette, he said, "Although you turned out to be a Peverell, which I bet even Malfoy respects. And now you're head of House Black, which puts you on top of everyone."

Jamie's silence was starting to unnerve him. "Are you sure this is all right?" he asked. "I know you're not Harry, but you still have feelings."

"I do," said the portrait. "But you haven't actually criticised me, or even Harry. Honestly, you sound more upset with yourself."

"Maybe. But here's some criticism, if you want to hear it." Jamie nodded, and Ron said, "Malfoy. I understand why you wanted to make amends after the Patronus thing, but I think you've forgotten what an absolute shit he was for years. He used to insult my family—remember? And Hermione, and Neville. Oh, and he nearly poisoned me, but I suppose that's all water under the bridge when you're a Light wizard."

Ron's heart was beginning to race. "Weasley is Our King—does that ring a bell? Clearly Malfoy doesn't remember, or else he doesn't think it's worth apologising for. And really, why would he? He gets to be best mates with Harry Potter, just like he always wanted, and since he never actually sees us together, he can pretend I don't exist. I bet he likes it better that way, since it means he definitely has the top spot."

There was a crease in Jamie's forehead, and the smile disappeared from his eyes. He looked like he wanted to speak, but Ron wasn't ready to stop, now that he'd started. "Can't you see he's just using you? His mum certainly is. You act like it was some big deal she lied to Voldemort about you being dead, but she probably did it just to save her own hide! For fuck's sake, you'd just survived the Killing Curse—again—and if she'd told him that, he'd probably have shot Fiendfyre at the both of you. But instead, she's practically your new mum! I know my mum would like to see more of you, but you're too busy dancing with Narcissa bloody Malfoy!"

The real Harry would be shouting back by now, Ron knew, and he almost felt bad for berating the portrait. But he didn't want to stop, and until Jamie left his frame he was going to keep at it.

"You just ditched me!" he cried. "We joined the Aurors together, but you just crooked a finger and the Chudley Cannons came running! And you're so fucking good at it! Christ, does everything come naturally to you?"

Ron's voice was ragged, but he kept going. "And now witches! Technically that's not new—I think it started with the Triwizard Tournament. But you could literally have anyone you wanted now."

"Not Fiona," said Jamie. "Or Ginny, or Helena." Ron was startled silent, and Jamie said, "Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt. But if you think about it, you're more successful with witches than Harry is."

Ron took a deep breath. "I know that. And believe me, I'm grateful. But it's just–" He paused, embarrassed by the old wound. "During the war, when I was so sure about you and Hermione ... I'd have bet my life you two were shagging while I was gone."

"I know, right?" said Jamie unexpectedly. "I mean, she was a lot more uptight back then, before the Light magic got things flowing. But you'd think the constant mortal peril would have done the job. I have no idea what Harry's problem was."

Ron tapped his own forehead, where Harry's scar would be. "He had a built-in boner-killer, remember?"

"Right, I keep forgetting that." This time Jamie looked embarrassed, and he said, "Can I tell you something? I'm a little scared I'll never understand what he went through. Even though I have all his memories, including the headaches and the visions."

"You have the visions?" said Ron, surprised.

"Yeah, because they weren't actually his thoughts. But I don't really know what he felt while they were happening."

"But that'll come, right?"

"That's what the other portraits tell me. But how would they know? Maybe they only think they're the same as their originals." Ron shrugged, and Jamie said, "On top of that, we were probably the world's only living Horcrux, and maybe there's no way for portrait magic to reproduce that."

"Thank Merlin for that!" said Ron, aghast. "But don't worry—you're already more like him than when you first got here. And don't change on my account. Honestly, I like you this way."

"Because I didn't lose my shit when you gave me a bollocking about Malfoy?"

Ron laughed. "Yeah, in part. Although you looked like you had something to say about that."

"I did," said Jamie, glancing down at the flowers below his frame. "I know Draco never apologised to you or Hermione, and Harry's never really pushed him. And I don't share his thoughts, so I can only guess as to why. But I think he'd rather pretend the war never happened. That he isn't the Boy-Who-Lived—or even an orphan at all—and that he and Draco were just rivals, the same way we are with Phil Routledge."

Jamie began massaging his palm. "Again, it's just a guess. But I'm doing the same thing, and I didn't even live through the war like you and Harry did."

At first Ron didn't understand what he meant. "Do you mean how you're running around with the other portraits?" he asked.

"Yeah. Some of them aren't very with it," said Jamie, pointing to his skull, "so I can mostly ignore it when they spout off about blood purity. But a lot of them are sentient, and they were definitely rooting for Voldemort. Which means I hear cracks about my mum all the time."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"It does bother me, and I occasionally give them a piece of my mind. But more often I just treat it like Quidditch taunting. Like, if some geezer calls me the filthy son of a Mudblood and a middle-class blood traitor, I'll pretend I didn't hear and say, 'I'm sorry, did you say, "Son of purity, son of sacrifice?" Because yes, I am prophesied to make House Black greater than before.' And believe me, that's much more fun than arguing with them."

"But you're not changing anyone's minds," said Ron, not ready to accept Jamie's stance.

"Actually, I might be. It's early days yet, but Aurora Black seems to be changing. She literally poisoned her sisters for their dowries, but she also keeps asking me about Light magic. Admittedly, it's probably because she wants a Veela allure like Lydia got—she's terribly envious of Annabel. But it's a start, and it's a lot more fun than holding a grudge."

"You're shagging her, right?"

"Yeah, although she's cross about that mermaid. But she'll come around—she's quite the little minx."

Jamie's easy manner had returned, and Ron was no longer upset. He cast a warming charm on his breakfast, which had long since gone cold, and resumed eating. "Can we do this again sometime?" he asked after swallowing, as Hermione had drilled into him.

"Absolutely. It's nice for me too, even when you're telling me off."

"It'll be a good test of how much you're becoming like Harry," Ron joked. But take your time, he thought fondly, spearing a tomato.


"Portkey post!" declared Hermione, holding up the letter she'd just retrieved from her parents' house. "And you said he wouldn't even write."

"Untrue," said Ryan. "I said I'd be surprised if he wrote, considering how busy he'd be in America. But clearly I was wrong, unless it's just three lines on a postcard."

"It's a note card," she said, opening the envelope. "But it's big, and he filled all three sides. And oh, look at this train!"

The card featured a highly stylised locomotive, with gleaming metal and curving lines. "'The Sleekliner: An icon since 1933,'" she read aloud, from the printed legend. "I must say, it makes the Hogwarts Express look like a relic."

Harry described the train in his letter. "You'd love it," he wrote. "It's art deco, which you probably knew already, and the inside is even nicer than the outside. It's wider, of course, with wood panelling and chrome accents. And the dining car is incredible, although Sophie says it's art nouveau, not art deco. I'm taking a ton of photos, which I'll show you when I get back. If I ever had a mind to redecorate Grimmauld Place, this is definitely the style I'd choose."

Hermione wondered if this meant he and Sophie had reunited, but the next paragraph said they hadn't. "Sophie says hi, by the way. We decided not to get back together, or she did, rather. But that's all right. You probably read about Valerie, the witch I met in Chicago—you'd have liked her, I think."

Hermione inferred that the relationship was already over, and that Valerie hadn't accompanied him to San Francisco. That's a shame, she thought, and she hoped he wasn't too depressed about Fiona.

He went on to describe his experience in jail, and the extent to which Light magic wasn't actually magical. "I couldn't glow, obviously, and I don't know whether my Occlumency would have worked, but all the best parts of Light magic were still there. It was hard to sleep, partly because the floor was so uncomfortable, but I could expand partially into awareness, and even generate love for the other players (although the guards were another story)."

Hermione was fascinated, and she decided to ask Lucinda how to suppress her own magic, so she could test it herself. Indeed, she consulted Ryan's mum on a near-daily basis, on topics ranging from Potions to cookery to Muggle relations. And even though Davina was overseeing her research, Lucinda was often more helpful, since she embodied the hedge-witch ideal.

Harry's letter ended with a message for Ryan. "I still can't believe the rules change went through! I hope you're not disappointed it's only provisional, but if it proves popular I'm sure they'll keep it around. Do me a favour, though: if you hear people refer to it as 'the Potter rules,' or anything like that, try to steer them towards another name. This was a huge group effort, and nicknaming it after me is unfair to everyone else who made it happen."

Ryan laughed when he read it. "Poor Harry, doomed to notoriety. Of course I'll try, but it may be a losing battle." He and Hermione had been glued to the radio on Saturday night, waiting for the decision, and Harry's name had come up repeatedly. "Honestly, I can't blame him," Ryan added, "since I'm sure there are some very unhappy Seekers out there."

"I hope they don't make trouble for him," said Hermione, frowning. "He's been through enough lately, with Fiona, and I don't want him coming home to more headaches."

She was still fretting about Harry the next morning. He'd mentioned Sophie a little too often before he left, and Hermione feared he'd set his heart on her. And while Valerie had seemed promising, her colouring was a bit suspect. There was nothing wrong with having a type, Hermione knew, but Harry's ongoing attraction to redheads suggested his dead-mum trauma was alive and well.

The most concerning part, however, was that he'd sent a letter at all. Ryan was right—he should have been too busy for more than a post-card. But his long letter seemed to indicate he was lonely on the train. He'd planned the trip with Fiona, after all, and her absence must have been hard to bear.

While Hermione's tea was steeping, she went to the fireplace to retrieve the Daily Prophet. Ryan was too engrossed in a Quidditch manual to bother with it, and she unrolled it in the kitchen while he ate.

Harry wasn't on the cover, except for a teaser that said, "Potter's Latest Bombshell," with details inside. "Oh hell," said Hermione, and Ryan looked up from his text. She showed him the paper, sat beside him, and said, "Hold me."

Ryan laughed and put an arm around her. "I'm sure it's fine."

"Then you open it," she groaned. "Getting arrested was enough of a bombshell, thanks."

He turned to the designated page while she warmed her hands on her teacup. "Great Merlin!" cried Ryan—who never used wizarding slang—and they both gaped at the photograph.

"She's definitely a bombshell," said Hermione, unable to look away. The witch, whose fingers were twined with Harry's, was as beautiful as Fleur, with golden-blonde hair and sea-blue eyes. But unlike Fleur, who mostly contained her allure, Harry's companion exuded sexuality. Her generous curves—combined with pillowy lips and a smouldering expression—made Hermione rethink her most basic life assumptions.

"Ryan, I should probably tell you I'm bisexual. As of this morning."

She heard Ryan swallow, and he pulled her even closer. "You know I'd never cheat on you, right?"

"Yes, I know," she said, still staring at the witch—a lingerie model named Marina Lind. "But you need to put three Sickles in the swear jar." He looked at her blankly, and she said, "For saying 'Great Merlin.'"

Ryan blinked. "Can I get you a jacket like that instead? Assuming those are feathers and not actual fur."

"I'm not sure that's my colour, but yes." They both read the article—which was heavily sprinkled with terms like "voluptuous", "delectable", and even "sex kitten"—but they were unable to properly converse until Hermione closed the paper again.

Ryan asked, "What did you make of the quote from Harry?"

Hermione was tempted to turn back to the article, even though she could have recited the quote from memory: "Marina's a lovely witch, inside and out. And she really knows her way around the non-magical world, which I admire. They're certainly lucky to have her, but maybe we can lure her back."

"The 'inside and out' wasn't very subtle," she began, "but I'll assume it was a Freudian slip. As for the bit about luring her back … did he say 'I' or 'we'? Because that really changes the meaning." She reached to open the paper again, but Ryan swatted her hand.

"Nice try, Sappho—he said 'we.'"

They both laughed, and Hermione said, "Then it's probably a general statement, and not an announcement he's bringing her back to London. Although it doesn't really sound like him, does it?"

"No, it's more like something a publicist would write. Not that there's anything wrong with that," he added. "But it struck me as a bit of a quid pro quo."

Shocked, Hermione said, "Are you suggesting she traded sex for publicity?"

"Of course not! But it might be good for his image as well. Didn't you say he disliked being an object of pity? Because no one who sees that photo is going to feel sorry for him right now."

"You're probably right," said Hermione. "Although maybe we should look at it again, just to be sure."

The photo was the talk of the Ministry that morning, and Ryan's mum even mentioned it that afternoon. "Well done, Harry!" she declared. "So many men refuse to date a woman who's taller than they are. But clearly he's not bothered by it."

"Was it a problem for you, before you met Walter?" asked Hermione, faintly pleased Lucinda no longer had the power to shock her.

"Yes, I reached my full height at fifteen, which meant I towered over my classmates. I was resigned to going to the Midsummer Ball alone, but then Roger McPhee invited me. And even though he barely came up to my shoulders, I was so impressed by his confidence that I fell madly in love with him—we dated all the next year."

"Really? I can't picture you with anyone but Walter."

"That's only because we've been married so long. But my romantic pursuits used to be as varied as my hobbies. It's rare for me to find something I actually stick with, like Walter, or Healing."

"What about motherhood? You did a great job with Ryan, certainly."

"Yes, that was a good fit as well. But I only got the one, and he's too big to carry." Her tone was light, but Hermione detected a hint of sadness—she'd wanted more kids, after all.

Hermione changed the topic by mentioning Harry's letter, and how he'd felt his Light magic even in jail. "Do you know how to temporarily suppress magic?" she asked. "I'd love to try it myself."

Lucinda looked up from the herbs she was grinding. "Suppress your own magic? What a brilliant idea! Can we take turns?"

Hermione stared in shock, and she realised she hadn't, in fact, got used to Lucinda's surprises. "Of course," she stammered. "But why?"

"If I suppress my magic, I can conduct tests on myself. There's heaps of things I could never test on Walter, like burn remedies. But with you here, I could suppress my magic, give myself a grievous injury, and then see if it's fixable. And if it isn't, we'll just bring back my magic and patch me up." Hermione must have gone pale, because Lucinda said, "If you're willing, that is."

Hermione's first thought was to refuse. She couldn't possibly watch Lucinda burn herself or—heaven forbid—help her do it. Then again, the research potential was enormous. A lot of remedies drew on the patient's magic, or even the minimal magic of a Squib. But something that could work on my family ...

"Yes, I'll do it," said Hermione. There was no need to elaborate, since Ryan's mum clearly understood what she was agreeing to.

"We'll devise safeguards," said Lucinda quickly. "I won't ask you to do anything I can't recover from. And you can always back out, no questions asked." In a gentler voice, she said, "And thank you. Both for the idea, and for being willing to help. I could never ask Ryan to do it."

They combed through Lucinda's books for a method to suppress magic. "I'm not comfortable with a potion," said Hermione, and Lucinda agreed. "And it's impractical to construct a holding cell like Harry was in."

"I'm sure I've read something about an amulet," said Lucinda, pulling another book from the shelf. "I keep meaning to make a card catalogue, but whenever I try, I get sucked into whatever I'm cataloguing and wind up with half a dozen new projects."

Eventually, Hermione found the instructions in a book about runes. "Surely we can buy a piece of rowan struck by lightning," she said, with growing excitement. "And we'll need blood from a Muggle. Do you think Walter will mind?"

"He won't be thrilled when he hears what it's for, but yes, I'll get it out of him. I'm not above crying, you know."

Hermione didn't witness Walter's reaction that evening, but Ryan's was bad enough. "Has my mother gone mad?" he blurted. "No, don't answer that. She's been mad my whole life—the only question is how she pulled you down with her!"

"Ryan!"

He held up a hand to quiet her. "Look, I'm not saying you're mad, or that you'd even be doing anything wrong," he said, less vehemently than before. "But it's not fair for her to put you in that position. She's exploiting your wish to help your parents, and forcing you to do something you might regret."

Hermione folded her arms and said, "If I wouldn't be doing anything wrong, why would I regret it?"

Ryan was silent a long moment. "It's like when I've had to Obliviate my friends or relations. I know it's the right thing to do, but every single time I feel the weight of it. And I don't want you carrying that burden."

"It's not your decision! And you seem to be forgetting I've cast a few Memory Charms, so I know plenty about 'that burden.'" Ryan paled, and she said, "And no, I won't enjoy hurting your mum, but at least I'll have her consent, which isn't the case with Memory Charms."

Sighing, he said, "It's the slippery slope I'm worried about. Mum has no sense of proportion, particularly around the pursuit of knowledge. So she'll start with something simple, like a second-degree burn. But then it'll be a third-degree burn, or a compound fracture, or—I don't know—gangrene. And you're the same way when it comes to pursuing knowledge, so I'm scared she'll make you go too far."

"Why, because I have no sense of proportion either?" she snapped.

"That's not what I said!"

"Yes, you did! You said your mum has no sense of proportion, and that I'm the same way." Ryan looked stricken, and Hermione realised she was shouting at him. She took a deep breath and said, "I know Lucinda and I share some of the same faults, and that I've benefited from how accustomed you are to her. After all, you didn't even blink when I sent Harry a Howler on our first date."

Ryan didn't exactly smile at the memory, but his expression softened a little, which encouraged her to go on. "But it's not fair to either of us to say we have no sense of proportion, like there's something wrong with that. Forgive me for being blunt, but I'd probably be dead if I had a normal sense of proportion. And your mum's lack of proportion may well save your dad's life one of these days, or spare him prolonged agony while she desperately tries to treat him."

"Yes, you've made your point," said Ryan. "And I'm sorry—it's unfair of me to criticise the very traits that earned you an Order of Merlin. I just worry about what you might bring out in each other. This is the first time she's had a partner in crime, if you'll pardon the expression, and I'm afraid where it might lead."

Exasperated, Hermione said, "I'm not going to flay her alive! I'm not even going to curse her, since this is for non-magical injuries."

"For now," argued Ryan. "But after what happened to my grandparents, you know she'll want to prepare for magical attacks against my relations—or yours."

"Exactly, or mine! Has it occurred to you that I want this too? Or that I'd also be willing to endure some pain if it could help someone I care about?"

"I just–" Ryan paused, then said, "I just can't bear to see you get hurt. I know you've endured torture–"

"That's right, I have done! And the hardest part wasn't the pain—it was the fear, and not knowing how it would end. Please, Ryan, give me some credit, and your mum as well. She said I can back out anytime, no questions asked, and we'll work out a protocol in advance—both for safety and ethics. So, please, just trust me."

Ryan agreed, and while he didn't quite apologise, he affirmed how much he respected her. Hermione was still upset, and she knew if this were Ron, they'd probably keep fighting. But look how well that worked out, she thought sourly, setting her anger aside in the hope it would fade.


"Mother, if it makes you this upset, why do you keep talking about it?" asked Draco between bites of stuffed quail.

"Because you don't seem to grasp the danger!" she said sharply. "He's exceptionally vulnerable to fortune hunters right now, and this Veela–"

"I honestly don't think she's a Veela. Her hair is the wrong shade, for one thing." He refrained from adding, "And you of all people should know blond hair doesn't make a Veela"—since Father tended to rant on the topic.

"It's not just her hair—it's her tout ensemble. Believe me, I'm well-versed in the feminine arts, and everything about her is designed to ensnare!"

He raised a single eyebrow. "Such strong opinions, Mother. Just how much time have you spent looking at her photo anyway?"

"Draco!" she snapped, and he knew he'd crossed the line.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "But really, you're getting upset over nothing. He has that vow not to marry before he's twenty-one, after all."

"It's not magically binding. And if she's using the Dark Arts, he'll be utterly defenceless." Draco just stared at her, and she said, "Not curses, obviously. But there are Dark arts of seduction, and she may well be using them."

A horrible memory surfaced, from the final summer of the war. The Dark Lord was abroad, and Draco ventured into the smoking room, which he hadn't seen in months. He'd expected it to be empty, but Aunt Bella was there, looking utterly unlike herself. Normally he found her off-putting—frizzy-haired, and ravaged by Azkaban—but not that afternoon. She was addressing two lowlifes, probably Snatchers, and they were trapped in some sort of Body-Bind.

"I could wring pleasure from your every nerve," she growled, and even though the men couldn't move, Draco could tell they wanted her. But the worst part was he did too—how had he never noticed how sexy she was? Overwhelmed by desire and shame, he fled before she even saw him.

He avoided her for days, and the next time he saw her, she was old and haggard again. It baffled him at the time, but now he realised she was using Dark magic, probably to control them. He desperately hoped Mother didn't have the same skill—or if she did, that she only used it on Father.

"Remember, this is the Light Lord we're talking about," said Draco, hoping to reassure her. "So if anyone's being manipulated, it's probably her. For Merlin's sake, he barely comes up to her chin!"

Narcissa was still frowning. "I'll just be glad when he comes home—without her. Although I shudder to imagine what your father will say tomorrow."

Draco would have preferred not to visit Azkaban, but he couldn't let Mother go alone. Father was getting worse, they both knew. Ever since Mother revealed she'd grown fond of Harry, Father was pushing Draco even harder to betray him.

"There's a brothel in Rotterdam," said Lucius the next day. His tone was light, and he didn't mention Harry because of the guard. "I've never been, of course, but Rookwood used to go. The proprietor's a fellow called Steegman, and if you pay him enough, he'll give you a Portkey and set things up exactly as required."

"He won't go," said Draco. "He's sworn off filles de joie."

"Then get him drunk!" snapped Lucius, and the guard leapt to his feet.

"None of that, Death Eater!" said the guard, pointing his wand. He shot a glare at Draco, who dutifully handed him a small pouch, then sat down again.

"Your mother's not safe," Lucius hissed. "If you won't do it for me—by Salazar, do it for her!"

"Don't worry, it's under control," said Draco quietly. "Since he's been abroad, I've made efforts to fill the gaps in Mother's schedule, to the point where she hardly misses him now." Draco didn't mention he was referring to her Muggle ballroom dancing club, and that he'd accompanied her in Harry's absence.

"Perfect," said Lucius. "I knew your Dark Mark would protect you. Sometimes I think it's the only thing keeping me sane in here."

Define "sane," thought Draco. Although perhaps he too had taken leave of his senses, at least by his former standards. He was still seeing Vicki, and if the superstition were true, all his future children would be Squibs—no matter who he married. But for now, he was content.

Except he couldn't see her as much as he liked. He'd expected her to jump at the chance to move into his flat, since it was vastly superior to her university lodgings. Her room there was dismal, with linoleum floors and paper-thin walls, and she didn't even have her own toilet. But her friends were all nearby, and she claimed she didn't want to "disappear into a relationship," the way some people did.

"I thought you liked our relationship," Draco pouted, when she resisted staying over that night. They had a standing date on Wednesdays, since he always craved company after visiting Azkaban.

"Of course I do," said Vicki, lounging next to him in bed. "But I play racquetball on Thursdays, as you're well aware, and I don't fancy walking clear across campus at half eight."

"So take a taxi," he said. There was no need to mention who'd pay for it. "Or I'll get you a bicycle."

She grimaced and said, "Now Draco, what have I said about gifts?"

"That you can't get enough of them," he drawled, and she gave him a playful shove.

"This is the problem with dating someone who's spoilt. You can't take no for an answer."

"That's true, but the silver lining is I never say it either."

"No, you just say 'Pass.'" But a smile crossed her lips, and she said, "I know a way you could get me to stay the night."

Draco knew what was coming: a request to see more magic. "I'd love to, but I can't. You've already seen too much."

"Yes, and nothing's gone wrong. I haven't been trapped in Faerie, nor anything else the legends warn about."

Wishing he could just show her his wand and be done with it, Draco said, "I'm sorry—it's out of the question. But name anything else and it's yours."

Unfortunately, she didn't want anything else, and he brought her back to her residence hall. After returning to the flat—on foot, like a Muggle—he racked his brains for a way to spend more time with her. If I could just prevent her from revealing what she knows, I'd tell her everything, he thought for the millionth time.

He'd combed the family library for an answer, but no mere Compulsion Charm could ensure her lifelong silence—it was Obliviation or nothing. Even the Fidelius Charm wasn't enough, since the existence of magic was too great a secret, and too widely known.

Lying alone in their bed, he couldn't quite remember why she mustn't learn the truth. He knew she'd be cross about all the faerie rubbish he'd fed her, but he could blame Harry for that. And he couldn't date her publicly, since that would bring the DMLE down on them in an instant. But otherwise it seemed feasible, and by the time he dozed off, he almost felt hopeful.

He dreamt of her that night. It was mostly a jumble, like the dream where her university was a part of Hogwarts, and she and the other Muggles cast spells with the assistance of house-elves. But his final dream before waking was particularly vivid, and oddly coherent. They were at the Manor, which was fully decorated for a ball, like his parents used to throw. It was a masquerade ball, and as he and Vicki danced, people speculated about the witch who'd ensnared their young host.

When the crowds were too much, they escaped to the moonlit verandah. "I want to see you," he said, tugging at her mask.

"You first," she insisted, and he happily obliged her. "And now the other one," she said. Confused, he held up the elegant Venetian mask he'd been wearing, but she grasped the sides of his face and pulled something away.

The skull mask was grotesque in her hands, and Draco felt sick with shame. But when he looked up, she was beaming at him. "Now I can see you properly," she said, brimming with affection.

His relief was intense, even as he awoke. But slowly the reality set in: he could never tell Vicki about the wizarding world. The genius of the faerie deception was that she believed entering his world would trap her forever. But if he told her the truth, she'd be furious he'd lied for so long. And if she knew what he'd done during the war—and what he'd believed about Muggles—she'd never forgive him.

It was still early enough to have breakfast at home, so he returned to the Manor, where Mother was fretting over the Prophet again. "I thought Harry was coming home today," she said, as soon as he greeted her. "One night on the train, two nights in San Francisco, and a final night in Boston."

"It's nice to see you too, Mother," he drawled. "And yes, that's what his letter said."

"Then why is he in Los Angeles? With that harlot!"

Draco took his usual seat. "I think you've answered your own question," he said, unrolling his own copy of the Prophet. He took his time reading the headlines, even though Mother clearly wanted him to look at the gossip column, and she finally pushed her own paper at him.

It was a Muggle photograph of Harry and Marina in bright sunshine, walking together in a non-magical district. She wore tight denim trousers and a black leather jacket—far more casual than her previous look, but no less alluring. Their hands were interlaced, and Harry seemed alarmingly at ease in the alien landscape.

"It's a Muggle shopping district," said Narcissa, indicating the text below. "Rodeo Drive ... what a ghastly name! Is it lined with horses?"

Draco had actually heard of Rodeo Drive, thanks to a film he'd seen with Vicki, but he wasn't sure he should admit it. "I believe it's in Beverly Hills. And it's the height of Muggle vulgarity."

"She'll drain him dry," said Mother ominously. "All we can hope is he's using the Potter vault and not the Blacks'. Great Salazar, please don't let him marry her!"

"I thought you wanted him to marry for looks," said Draco. She had often worried his Potter traits would irreversibly alter the family gene pool.

"Then he should marry Lisa Black! And yes, I know she's a half-blood, but she favours the Blacks, and she also has brains."

Draco suspected Marina had brains as well, since she had plenty to gain from the liaison. I could probably lure her myself, with the Malfoy gold, he thought, but he much preferred Vicki. Unlike Catherine White, Vicki had no ambition to marry him, and she didn't even want presents—which only increased his desire to spoil her.

He longed to buy her something magical, like the handkerchiefs Mother carried, with embroidered birds that flitted about—or even a humble Chocolate Frog. Now there's an idea, he thought. Magical sweets were consumable, and he could insist they eat them together, to destroy the evidence. That won't violate secrecy, right?

When he met her on Friday night, he brought an array of sweets from Diagon Alley. "I have something to show you at the flat," he said quietly, so her mates wouldn't hear.

Vicki's eyes flashed with annoyance. "Draco Malfoy, I swear to God, if there's a bicycle waiting for me, I'll turn around and walk—yes, walk—right back to campus."

"It's not a bicycle," he said, charmed by her ire. "And it's not clothing either."

"Or jewellery," she warned.

"I promise it's nothing like what I've given you before. In fact, I'm sure you've never seen anything like it."

In an instant, her irritation was replaced by childlike wonder. "And it's safe?" she said, clutching her hands almost in prayer.

He kissed her fingertips and said, "Perfectly safe."

On Fridays, they normally spent an hour or more with her friends, but she was eager to leave. She pressed him for details as they walked, but all he said was, "You won't believe your eyes."

By the time they reached the flat, she was bouncing with excitement. "Show me!" she repeated, looking utterly adorable.

"First, a question," said Draco. "Would you prefer chocolate, peppermint, or something fruity? Or just straight-up sugar?" he added, thinking of the Sugar Quills.

Vicki went pale. "Not faerie food!" she gasped. "All the legends say–"

"The legends are rubbish," Draco countered. "According to legend, I can't touch iron, or cross a threshold with salt, or cope with the colour red."

"Or lie," she said, looking genuinely frightened. "But Harry lied to Penelope about living in America, and for all I know, you're lying now."

Draco's heart sank. In his excitement to show her something magical, he forgot the warnings about faerie food. "Do you really think I'd trap you, after all this time?" he said, genuinely hurt.

"I don't know what to think. You're almost too good to be true—you're romantic and generous and fit, and you seem to like me."

"I don't just like you—I'm mad about you!"

"But that's just it. You were upset when I went home on Wednesday night, and maybe ..." She trailed off, but the implication was clear: she didn't actually trust him.

He was upset she still doubted him, but he couldn't exactly blame her. He'd been raised to believe Muggles were sub-human, after all, and he'd pledged himself to a mass-murderer.

"You're not wrong to be suspicious," he said. "But I swear on my life and magic I'd never trap you like that."

The word "magic" earned him a smile. "Is that a binding contract?" she asked hopefully.

"No, it's just words—an actual magical vow is much more complex. But my kind are superstitious, and we'd never risk our magic, even in jest."

Vicki was silent a long moment. "I suppose if you wanted to trap me, there are easier ways to go about it. You could have just popped some faerie food into the fridge."

"Exactly!" He gave her a quick kiss and said, "So, would you like chocolate, peppermint, or something fruity?"

"Chocolate, please," she said, extending a hand.

He reached into the bag of sweets and gave her a box. "It's not a real frog, of course, but be careful while opening it."

"It looks like a Cadbury's box," she said, then screamed when the frog leapt out.

Draco reflexively caught it, thanks to years of practice. "Here, it's fine," he said, gripping it gently. "I usually start with the legs, otherwise it might jump away again."

"I can't eat that! It's still alive!"

"No, it's just chocolate. See?" He broke off a leg, and when the frog didn't react, she took a tentative bite.

Her eyebrows went up. "That's rather good," she said, finishing it. The frog was still wriggling, but she took it from him, no longer afraid.

Draco glanced at the box as she set it down. Fuck, the card! he realised. Hoping to distract her, he said, "I brought heaps of other sweets, but you have to eat them here." He emptied the bag on the counter—not the most elegant presentation—and palmed the offending box.

Nearly all the sweets had enchanted packaging, which Vicki marvelled over, and Draco discreetly slipped the card into his pocket.

"I already believed you about magic," she said, still astonished. "But seeing it like this, plain as day!"

Only later did he look at the card, in the loo before Vanishing it. The text began, "Harry Potter-Black, who defeated the Dark lord Voldemort in 1998, is the only wizard known to have survived the Killing Curse—not once but twice." Draco tried to imagine what his own card would say. "Draco Malfoy, who pledged himself to the Dark lord Voldemort, is the only Dark wizard known to cast Unforgivables but avoid Azkaban—thanks to Harry Potter-Black. He's currently dating a Muggle and desperately hopes he won't have to Obliviate her, either for learning too much about magic, or discovering what a flaming bigot he used to be."

Lying next to her that night, he recalled the dream in which she'd fully absolved him. "Now I can see you properly," she'd said, after removing his mask. If only, he thought, nestling closer to her.


"Chocolate Frogs faerie," Vicki typed into the search engine, to no avail. Then she tried "Chocolate Frogs fairy," and "Chocolate Frogs magic," but nothing came up—as always.

She had yet to find anything on the internet about the faerie world, but she never gave up. At least once a week, she stopped by the university computer lab to try something new, based on Draco's latest slip. Like when he carelessly mentioned something called "Quidditch"—before freezing up and saying "Pass." But her search revealed nothing, and she'd used every possible spelling.

Vicki knew he wouldn't approve, but she couldn't see the harm in trying. It wasn't as if typing the wrong phrase into a search engine could somehow trap her in Faerie. As far as she was concerned, the World Wide Web was thoroughly mundane, and therefore safe.

She'd carefully noted the names of all the sweets he'd brought her, even though he destroyed all the packaging. "Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans" was far more specific than any of her previous search terms, but still she found nothing. It must be hidden by magic, she thought, and when she reached the bottom of her list, she sighed in frustration.

"Excuse me, do you need help?" someone asked.

Vicki turned and saw one of the awkward young men who frequented the computer lab. "Actually, yeah," she said. "I've been trying to find something online, and I'm sure it's out there somewhere, but I can never find anything."

With her permission, he pulled up a chair and asked her more questions. She kept her answers vague, not wanting to encourage someone who probably read a lot of fantasy novels, and he eventually said, "Have you tried Usenet?"

"I don't know what that is," she admitted. He told her about the online discussion system, covering every possible subject, and showed her a site for searching the archives. But she still came up empty. "Any other ideas?" she asked, feeling helpless.

"Maybe a BBS?" When she asked what that was, he said, "It's a bulletin board system—basically a private community around a common interest. They're mostly obsolete, thanks to the web, but some are still floating about, particularly for niche interests. They aren't searchable, though, so you'll just have to go down a list and look for a likely candidate."

He showed her a BBS directory, and she was at least able to search the descriptions. "Faerie" and "fairy" didn't turn up anything useful, and there were a lot of hits for "magic"—mostly of the Dungeons and Dragons variety. But eventually she found something promising. It was called "Real Magic BBS," and the description only said, "It's not your imagination."

He showed her how to use a DOS utility called Telnet, and when he left her alone, she typed in the address. A low-resolution image of a Merlin-like wizard appeared on the screen, along with a prompt to select a username. Her first thought was "FaerieLover," but she decided against it, since it was a bit on the nose. Instead, she chose "SugarQuill," and after creating a password she entered the site.

It wasn't actually a site—it was mostly text, and very primitive. But the BBS rules gave her hope she'd found the right place. The first was, "IMPORTANT: This server is for REAL MAGIC ONLY. No fiction, no roleplaying." Another said, "LABELS - Posts should be labeled FIRST-HAND or HEARSAY. You may only use the FIRST-HAND label if you saw it yourself. Anything else is hearsay." But the most convincing rule was, "NO IDENTIFYING INFORMATION - This includes you AND your informant(s). If the authorities find you, they WILL wipe your memory (RIP ArchMage), and your informant will also be punished." She hoped the "RIP" was figurative, and that ArchMage wasn't actually dead.

Oddly, there was no mention of faeries—only words like magic, wizard, and witch. But the rest matched what Draco had told her, so she ventured on.

The introductory screen invited new members to visit the chat room, so she followed the instructions to enter it. She was still deciding what to type when several people greeted her.

Spyder: Welcome SugarQuill!

Truthseeker: Run, while you still can!

MorganLeFay: Shut up, Truth. Hi, SugarQuill!

The username "MorganLeFay" seemed promising, since "fay" meant "faerie," so Vicki posted a reply.

SugarQuill: Hi. I hope I'm in the right place.

Truthseeker: That all depends. What can you tell us?

MorganLeFay rolls her eyes

MorganLeFay: Just ignore him. SQ, tell us what you're looking for, and we can tell you if you've found it.

Vicki took a deep breath, and she realised how nervous she was. Even though she knew magic was real, it was still mortifying to admit it.

SugarQuill: I'm looking for information on Faeries. Like, real ones.

At first no one replied, and she wrote:

SugarQuill: Although maybe you call them wizards. I'm in England, so it might be different here.

Spyder: Do you mean the little flying things? That's something totally different, but they're also real.

In a confusing exchange, she learnt that fairies were tiny and not at all human. Then what's Draco? she wondered. Realising she had nothing to lose, she told them her boyfriend had claimed to be a faerie.

TruthSeeker spits out his coffee

MorganLeFay: Oh, honey ...

SugarQuill: Not like that! No, he definitely fancies women. And he's definitely magical—I've seen things you wouldn't believe.

Spyder: Try us

She told them about the Chocolate Frog, and how Draco could sign his name without even touching the quill.

Spyder: No wand?

SugarQuill: He doesn't have a wand. I think he just did it with his mind.

More users had entered the chat, and they also seemed puzzled.

QueenofCups: Something's not adding up. Can you tell us more about him?

Vicki didn't use his name, since "Draco" was far too distinctive, but she explained how her friend had met a bloke called Harry—no need to conceal a name that common, she thought—and he'd told her he was a faerie. And Draco was the same.

Spyder: And that's why he can't show you his world? Because you'd be trapped?

Truthseeker: LMFAO!

MorganLeFay: No, you wouldn't be trapped, although he gets points for originality.

BigFatWand: Someone's read his Neil Gaiman :-)

So he's a wizard, not a faerie, thought Vicki, annoyed. But Queen of Cups reassured her somewhat.

QueenofCups: He's not lying about secrecy, though. Depending on where you live, he could go to prison for telling you about magic.

Spyder: She's in England

QueenofCups: Even worse. They're nuts over there about "blood purity." Has your boyfriend mentioned a war?

SugarQuill: Yes! He and his friend were both deeply involved.

Truthseeker: His friend HARRY?

Spyder falls off his chair

MorganLeFay starts to hyperventilate

BigFatWand: omfg no fucking way

Vicki belatedly remembered Harry was world-famous, and she regretted using his real name. Then again, Draco said he'd been untouchable since winning the war, so he was unlikely to get into trouble.

MorganLeFay: What does this Harry look like?

SugarQuill: Black hair, green eyes. Kind of a weird scar on his forehead.

Truthseeker: ZOMG! Get thee to the files, stat! Morgan just posted a new picture - we aren't even sure if it's him, tbh.

They told Vicki how to access the files directory and view the newest photo, which depicted Harry with what looked like a supermodel.

SugarQuill: That's definitely him. Who is he with?

QueenofCups: Holy shit! Harry Potter CONFIRMED!

MorganLeFay does a happy dance

Spyder high-fives Morgan

MorganLeFay: That's Marina Lind. She's a Victoria's Secret model and suspected witch.

TruthSeeker: Morgan keeps an eye on her for *cough* reasons

MorganLeFay: IT PAID OFF!

TruthSeeker: In your panties lol

MorganLeFay gives TruthSeeker the finger

MorganLeFay: I just found it suspicious when she was suddenly photographed with some random Brit who matches Potter's description. AND I WAS RIGHT!

TruthSeeker bows to MorganLeFay

Spyder: SugarQuill, this is huge! You have no idea.

Truthseeker: Promise me you're not fucking with us!

Vicki assured them she wasn't, but she was more confused than ever. Draco wasn't a faerie? And, according to everyone on the BBS, he ought to have a wand. Has he been hiding it from me?

She eventually entered a private chat with Queen of Cups and Morgan Le Fay, who seemed to grasp her dilemma.

SugarQuill: I still can't believe he's been lying to me.

MorganLeFay: Girl, you can't take it personally. He's probably fucked up by the war. Cuz if he's friends with Harry Potter, I'm sure it was hard for him. Like, *really* hard.

SugarQuill: Actually, they were on opposite sides.

MorganLeFay: ...

QueenofCups: oh shit

MorganLeFay: Um, can you say "magical Nazi"?

Vicki's chest clenched. She knew Draco had been on the wrong side of the war, but to hear him described as a Nazi?

QueenofCups: But he's friends with Potter now, right?

SugarQuill: Yeah. Harry said he changed sides at the end, kind of. And that he'd never have survived without him.

MorganLeFay: Then it's probably ok.

SugarQuill: But what should I do? I'm seeing him later tonight - I only left to do homework. Oh shit, I haven't done any homework!

MorganLeFay: Do you like him? Does he treat you well?

SugarQuill: I'm crazy about him. And he treats me like a queen.

MorganLeFay: Then enjoy it! Damn, girl - I'm jealous!

QueenofCups: But don't tell him you know! Seriously, he'd have to erase your memory.

They told her about a former BBS member called ArchMage, who'd stopped posting a year earlier.

QueenofCups: Spyder knew him IRL - they met at a con - and he tracked him down after he vanished. And he said it was like he'd been lobotomized. Trust me, don't let on you know!

MorganLeFay: Queen, stop freaking her out! Sugar, just play along. And for heaven's sake, enjoy the ride!

Vicki's mobile rang—it was Draco, of course. "Vicki, where are you?" he drawled. "I thought you'd be back by now."

"Sorry, love—I'll be there soon."

She returned to the flat, by way of her residence hall, haunted the words "magical Nazi." But that's not who he is anymore, she thought. Draco was a snob, and spoilt, but neither of those were his fault. And if Harry could forgive him, surely that counted for something.

But his lies and omissions still hurt. She knew it was to protect her, but now she understood why he couldn't marry her. His family's rich and powerful, and his dad's a magical Nazi. Draco mightn't share those opinions anymore, but if he brought home someone like me ...

She'd teased him about slumming with a mundane, and he always said, "This isn't slumming—this is freedom." Or maybe mundanes were just easier to seduce. Clearly Harry was a Casanova, parading through Beverly Hills with a supermodel. He and Draco were both rich and attractive—was this just a game to them?

But she remembered Draco's nightmares, and how he clung to her sometimes, dotting her with kisses. He'd nearly died during the war, and surely Harry had suffered as well. Two lost boys, seeking comfort, she thought, and her heart ached for both of them.

"You're back!" exclaimed Draco the moment she entered. He was on the sofa, playing a video game, but he immediately set it aside to greet her. "How was your afternoon? Did you finish your homework?"

"Not even close, but we can still go out," she said, removing her woollen cap.

He smoothed her hair, perhaps unconsciously, and she leaned into his touch. "Are you sure?" he said. "I can get takeaway if you still need to work."

"No, I learnt plenty today. Tonight should be all about us."

His look of delight was better than any gift, and she knew it wasn't just an act. He needs me, she thought. He won't marry me, and he'll probably never tell me the truth. But he needed something—acceptance, perhaps? And in the meantime, she could easily enjoy the ride.