Harry stormed into the Star Chamber the next morning. "Where is he?" he demanded, addressing the wall of sleeping portraits.

Deimos Black rubbed his eyes. "Where is who?" he replied, too drowsy to sneer.

"Typhon!" Harry peered into the sides of his empty frame. "I know you're in there!" he barked. "Come on, face me like a man!"

Typhon emerged, straightening the elaborate gold and enamel collar he wore over his robes. "What do you want?" he asked with disdain.

Harry banished the other portraits with a terse command. "You know why I'm here, you conniving bastard." Imitating Typhon's lofty tone, he said, "'Your Light magic has deepened.'"

An amused look from the portrait. "It comes naturally, doesn't it? And you're crackling with power, are you not?"

"I don't want it! Can't you accept I'll never be a Dark wizard?"

Typhon raised a steadying hand. "Don't be so hasty. You seem to think the ordinary rules apply to you, when we both know that's never been true."

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Harry, fully aware Typhon was trying to trick him.

"What if you aren't merely a Light wizard? It's a well-worn path, after all, and you'd hardly be innovating."

"There's no need to innovate! Light magic is brilliant on its own, and I've only scratched the surface."

"But you're a Black now, and I don't think that's a coincidence. What if you were destined to join the two disciplines? It's not an outrageous claim—you're the subject of two prophecies, after all."

"You can't join the two disciplines," snapped Harry. "They're completely contradictory!"

"To the common mind, perhaps. But Light magic itself relies on deep insights into the nature of reality, where all phenomena are ultimately one."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Nice try, Typhon, but it's not going to work." Davina had taught them some common fallacies around Light magic, and that was one of them.

"Very well," said the portrait. "If you want to discard your greatest possible advantage, I can't stop you. Did you come here only to berate me, or is there something else you wish to communicate?"

No, just the berating, Harry thought, but he stalled until he came up with something else. "London Underground extended my contract," he said. "And I'll get a higher cut of the women's sales." It was only a tenth of a percent more, and mostly attributable to an accounting quirk, but Harry didn't want Typhon to get the last word. Yes, I know that's not very Light of me, but I'm only human, he said silently to his parents.

He'd addressed them already that morning, asking for help as he started his day. At first he'd been unsure what to wear, since it seemed wrong to dress impeccably when he felt like such an arse. But Jamie was in the same boat, and they weighed their options together.

"Are you planning to change again before the broadcast tonight?" asked Jamie, wearing only boxers and a vest.

"No—changing clothes midday is pretentious, right?"

"I have no idea anymore. Aurora sometimes changes clothes mid-conversation, if the inspiration strikes."

Harry held up the outfit he'd bought with Marina in Los Angeles. "Before the Dark magic disaster, I'd have been tempted to wear this. Which means I definitely shouldn't wear it anytime soon."

"You're lucky it's timeless," said Jamie. "Because it cost a bloody fortune." Harry winced, and Jamie said, "Don't be embarrassed—I did something similar."

"What! When?"

Jamie bit his lips and said, "Promise you won't be cross with Kreacher, all right?"

Merlin, what did he do now? thought Harry. "Yeah, all right."

"I ordered him to buy me more clothes. Wait, hear me out!" he said, when Harry expressed outrage. "I don't think you fully appreciate what being a portrait is like. Nearly everyone was painted in their absolute best, and for a family like the Blacks, that can get pretty extreme. Have you seen Octavian Black, in the Star Chamber? He has a mantle that took a dozen artisans more than a year to make—the velvet brocade is constantly shifting patterns, and the edges are trimmed with an ever-changing sequence of precious gems."

"Don't tell me you bought something like that!"

"No, of course not—it's completely naff. But that just tells you what I'm up against. Furthermore, they're dressed in clothes from other eras, and the baroque stuff is out of this world. I look like a bloody undertaker next to the seventeenth-century wizards."

"But now you have clothes like that?" said Harry, still appalled, but also curious whether he'd want to wear them too.

"Yeah, I authorised Kreacher to take gold from the Black family vault—they can bloody well pay for it—and he went to that historical tailor Charles Selwyn told you about. I told him to hide the originals, but I'm sure he'd love for you to have them."

Harry asked how much they had cost, and he was embarrassed to learn it was less than he'd spent in Los Angeles. "Do you think you'll keep wearing them?" he asked. "Or will you take a break until we get this Dark magic thing under control?"

"I should probably take a break," said Jamie, and together they chose outfits that were tasteful but not excessively chic.

Harry spent the rest of the morning responding to post, since Mrs Thwip had given him heaps of new mail. But there was one letter he was reluctant to write, since he had no idea what to say. The salutation was easy enough—"Dear Daphne"—but otherwise he was at a loss. He even consulted the letter-writing manual he'd found in the Black family library, but he feared she'd recognise his wording and deem it insincere.

He finally went with something informal, hoping she'd appreciate his candour:

Dear Daphne,

I was a complete and utter twat—full stop.

You were hurting, in large part due to my own carelessness, and instead of being a friend, I thought only of myself. I wouldn't blame you for cutting me off entirely, but please know how sorry I am for my gross insensitivity.

Yours sincerely,
Harry

He was tempted to have Lodie deliver it, so Daphne would receive it sooner. But he sent it via jackdaw instead, not wishing to burden her with his own impatience. Her needs are more important than mine, he repeated to himself, and he only wished he'd remembered that the day before. He'd known it with Fiona, when she'd cried in the back garden during his drag party. She too had seemed interested, and he'd wanted desperately to kiss her, but his concern for her comfort held him back.

His despair resurfaced, and he gazed upwards again. "Mum, help!" he said aloud. "I know Dad was a complete berk for years, but you finally forgave him. Not that I want to marry Daphne, but I don't want her to hate me either." He squeezed his eyes shut, then said, "The worst part is knowing none of this would have happened if Rob Dunning hadn't come back. Although I feel selfish for even thinking that, since it's basically wishing he'd stayed trapped. Merlin, why I am such a dick!"

He would have liked to go upstairs and whinge to Jamie for a while, but there was no time—Owen was coming over for lunch. They'd arranged it on Monday, before the Daphne disaster and the Dark Arts revelation, and Harry was dreading having to tell him. More proof I was never mature enough for Fiona—I'm nineteen going on twelve.

They were ostensibly meeting to discuss the Quidditch rules change, and how it would affect the Cannons. There hadn't been time on Monday, with the general hubbub surrounding Harry's return, and—more importantly—Gemma's presence, since rumours were swirling about teams wanting to hire her. None of it was verified, but the Cannons were likely to lose her, and fast.

But their other topic, which neither Harry nor Owen had mentioned, would be Fiona. Harry ached to know how she was doing—especially how she'd reacted to his trip abroad, and whether she missed him. Admittedly, he'd had two partners since they broke up, but Fiona was unquestionably the winner, which bothered him more than he liked to admit.

"How are you doing?" said Owen when they sat down in the dining room. His tone was sober, and it invited a real reply and not just empty words.

"Honestly, I've been better. But let's talk about the Cannons first, since that's why you're here."

Owen got straight to the point. "Things are moving quickly—the Catapults offered her the reserve position again, but with starter pay and significant perks. And if Isla Preston isn't pregnant yet by mid-season, she and Gemma will take turns starting."

"Not bad," said Harry. "Do you think she'll take it?"

"She might, unless she doesn't want to wait, in which case the Banchory Bangers are her best choice."

Harry winced, thinking of their Seeker, whom he liked. "Does Selden Puttick know?"

"I'm sure he does. But she mightn't fancy the daily commute up to Scotland."

An amused huff from Harry. "Only someone raised by wizards would call that a long commute. It's maybe two minutes by Floo, or three Apparition hops."

"True, but she can afford to be choosy. And the Catapults have better Chasers."

"And that's what matters now," said Harry, sighing. "Be honest—was changing the rules a huge mistake?"

"It's only for a year," Owen shrugged. "Yes, some people will lose their jobs, and yes, you'll take a lot of heat. But you were hardly the only one backing it, and you certainly weren't the one bribing the IQF."

"Funny you should mention that," said Harry, and he told Owen about his meeting in Chicago—and the subsequent bribe. His throat clenched, however, when he told them about their offer to tamper with the Snitch, and he was unable to speak.

"Are you all right?" Owen asked, sliding a glass of water towards him.

"Bugger, I can't tell you everything—they used a secrecy charm. But the short answer is they're corrupt as sin, and I have no idea whether to help promote Quidditch in America. Or if it would even work, given the current lack of interest."

"That bad, eh?"

"Yeah. My contract with London Underground meant I had to chat with a lot of Americans, and I discovered that talking about Quidditch was a good way to get rid of them."

Owen laughed. "Then don't do it. Unless you're keen to go back there."

Harry's first thought was "Yes, absolutely." He'd had a brilliant time in America, after all. But then came the harsh realisation: I arrived as a Light wizard and came home as a Dark one.

"No, I'm better off at home," he said firmly.

Owen blinked, clearly surprised by his resolve. "That's good news for the Cannons, I suppose. By the way, we'll probably have trials next week."

"Do you know who you're inviting?" asked Harry. When they hired Gemma, they'd brought in a dozen potential Seekers, and Harry had met the final two.

"Yes, but that's not the whole story." Owen said they had some good prospects already, based on discussions with flying instructors from lesser-known schools. They also planned to invite players who'd excelled in the large recruiter trials, which was how they'd found Gemma. "But we'll also have an open trial of our own, in case there's someone out there who's slipped through the cracks."

Harry raised a single eyebrow. "That's awfully thorough," he said, impressed.

"We need to be," said Owen. "The Cannons aren't the only team looking for a new Seeker, and I want to cast as wide a net as possible. We'll even provide brooms and give the players time to get the hang of them first."

"Will I only come at the end, like last time?"

"That's up to you. It would be nice to have an extra pair of eyes, although you should probably bring your Invisibility Cloak."

When they finished discussing the Cannons, Owen asked Harry again how he was doing, but Harry changed the topic. "What about you and Jill? It must be nice having Rob back."

Owen looked him in the eye. "Is that really what you want to ask?"

Harry grimaced. "I wouldn't mind hearing about it. But no, that's not what I'm most curious about."

"Well, the answer to your stated question is yes, it's very nice having Rob back. But I assume you want to ask about Fiona." Harry nodded, and Owen said, "I won't betray any confidences, but on the whole she seems happy. And rest assured, she still has a high opinion of you."

"Even though I'm a total manwhore again?"

Owen scowled and said, "I could curse whoever came up with that. Yes, even though you're a total manwhore. She thought Valerie seemed lovely, and she said no one could possibly resist Marina—least of all you."

"Cheers," said Harry acidly. "Has Rob said anything?"

"Believe me, Rob has nothing but praise for you. Between winning the war, saving his life, and turning the Cannons around, he thinks you walk on water."

Harry felt a swell of pride, and his Light magic surged. Fuck! That's Dark magic, he thought, and he dug his fingers into his temples to interrupt it.

"What's wrong?" said Owen urgently. "You said you were off, but clearly this is more than just Fiona."

"It is," said Harry, avoiding eye contact. "I don't even know where to start—it happened so gradually." He took a deep breath, then said, "You probably know Light and Dark magic are a bit similar, in the sense that they both rely on powerful emotions."

"Yeah, only Light magic uses transcendent mental states, and Dark magic uses shitty ones."

"Right, shitty ones," said Harry, mostly to himself. But Owen's eyes shot open—he'd obviously put two and two together. Harry met his gaze and said, "Like pride."

Owen's face fell. "Oh, Harry … are you sure? I know you're sometimes too hard on yourself."

"If only. But no, Davina spotted it during our Light Arts lesson last night. And she's not just jumping to conclusions—there's plenty of evidence." He gave Owen the details, including how much more comfortable he felt at Malfoy Manor and Grimmauld Place.

"Thanks for walking me through it," said Owen. "Although I don't entirely understand what's wrong with pride. You shouldn't have to deny your own achievements."

"No, but this is more than that. It's more like self-satisfaction, and a sense of superiority—that I alone am this special." Harry's cheeks were hot, and he said, "I'm sorry, I know how terrible that sounds."

"It's not an unreasonable conclusion. But in the context of Light magic it's clearly a disaster. Can you still glow?"

Harry demonstrated he still could. "Yes, thank Merlin. And Davina says we caught it early." He told Owen the strategy she'd outlined and suggested some ways he might help.

"Of course, whatever you need. Shall I assume you'd rather I not tell Jill?"

"God no! I don't think I could handle Fiona knowing about it."

Owen was silent for a moment, then said, "Honestly, I'd be a little worried if something like this hadn't happened." Harry expressed surprise, and Owen said, "Not this specifically, but something major. It would have been weird if you'd just got over Fiona in, like, a week."

Harry supposed Owen was right, but it was still hard to take. Why did it have to be Dark magic? he thought, still despairing.

After Owen left, he continued responding to the mail Mrs Thwip had given him. One letter was particularly startling, although he really should have expected it:

Dear Harry,

Like all England, I was shocked by Rob Dunning's return from the dead. I know perhaps better than anyone how devoted you were to Mrs Dunning, based on your upstanding behaviour during our date (which I nevertheless enjoyed, and I don't regret squandering my erstwhile dowry on it).

I didn't contact you in the immediate aftermath of Dunning's return, knowing you'd need time to recover. But the news from America suggests you're ready to move on, at least physically, and I wish to reiterate my offer to consummate our relationship. The only caveat is that I won't use Polyjuice Potion this time—it's far too vile. But if you found Miss Winslet alluring, I can assure you my youth-potioned self would also entice.

As you may recall, I offered to donate an additional two thousand Galleons to WORF for the privilege of your unrestricted company, and the offer still stands. Or, if WORF has unpleasant associations for you, just name another worthy cause.

I would also be prepared to enter a longer-term arrangement, should that hold appeal. I suspect you're reluctant to fall in love again, in which case you might appreciate the opportunity for casual carnal relations. And lest you worry about my husband, please know that he has a mistress in France (a long series of mistresses, in fact). So the sanctity of our marriage is already breached, and I am long overdue to respond in kind.

Yours,
Jasmine

For a moment, Harry just admired her handwriting, which was uncommonly lovely, and the swooping lines recalled a bygone era. Just how old is she? he wondered.

"Jamie, I hope you're not busy," he said aloud. "Because I have no idea how to reply."

A few minutes later he stood opposite the portrait, who looked equally unsure. "Mate, that's a tough call," said Jamie. "On the one hand, she'd be a perfect fuckmate, if you can get past the age thing. But she's also a Dark witch, which mightn't be good for you right now."

Harry wasn't ready to consider the Dark magic angle, so he said, "How old is too old? And does it even matter, if she looks young?"

"As it happens, I've asked myself the same question. More than once, in fact."

"Oh right," said Harry, chuckling. "Just how old is Aurora anyway?"

"She was born in 1801, which means she'll turn 200 next year. But I wasn't even thinking of her. Hypatia Black is pushing 600, and I'll admit the old-timey language is pretty hot—she once blurted, "Thou stallion!" But otherwise she's too far behind the times. Like, she insists the sun and all the planets orbit the earth, and not the other way around. And she gets really stubborn about it, since she was tops in Astronomy way back when—she genuinely thinks heliocentrism is just an excuse not to do the maths. So, she's always on about epicycles and crystalline spheres when I'm just trying to have some fun."

"Yeah, I don't think that'll be a problem with Jasmine," said Harry. "Although now I'm worried she'll want to listen to naff music while having sex." He grimaced and said, "Remember that time we walked in on Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon?"

"Cliff Richard," said Jamie with a shudder. "That was truly horrible. Although Jasmine is probably way older than they are, and she'd never listen to anything Muggle. Do you know if Walburga's records are still lying around somewhere?"

"No clue, but you've given me an idea," said Harry, thinking of his upcoming broadcast. "I could mention my favourite albums on the radio tomorrow, and I'm sure Jasmine will be listening. Although some bands might be a bit much for her."

"Yeah, no need to mention the Clash or the Buzzcocks. But she might go for Miles Davis, or Nina Simone."

They talked about jazz for a bit, then Harry said, "Right, so that's music sorted. But what about the Dark Arts thing? You aren't taking a break from Aurora, are you?"

"No, she's part of my motivation. After all, she's living proof that Dark magic doesn't make you happy. Well, not living proof, but you know what I mean."

"So you don't think Jasmine would drag me in deeper?"

"I don't, but see what Hermione thinks. She almost always has a clearer head than we do—probably now more than ever."

Harry agreed, and that afternoon he told her about Jasmine's offer.

"Your date from the WORF auction?" she exclaimed. "How old is she?"

"I don't know exactly. She said she was younger than my grandparents, and they were born around 1910. She was also a little vague when I mentioned Walburga, so it's possible they're near the same age, which would make her about 75. But again, that's just a guess."

"And she thinks a youth potion would cover it? I doubt it! From what I've heard, they only knock off maybe twenty years."

"It has to be more than that," said Harry, not keen on shagging someone in her fifties. "In her letter she says she'll look more or less like Kate Winslet, who's barely older than we are."

"Then maybe Jasmine is younger than you thought," said Hermione, unconvinced. "Or it's not a standard youth potion."

An uncomfortable thought arose. "Er, she's a good brewer—she made her own Polyjuice. And she said something about a particularly strong youth potion."

"Dark magic," said Hermione, confirming Harry's fear. "It'll use blood, certainly, and probably not her own."

"Would the blood have to be taken forcibly?" he asked, thinking of the ritual to restore Voldemort's body.

"Probably not, although it might need to come from a relation. Someone younger, I imagine."

"Brilliant," Harry grumbled. "So she'll Confund her granddaughter or something. Forget it—this can never work."

Hermione's eyes darted about. "She mightn't have to Confund anyone," she said, thinking aloud. "Blood magic is common in Dark families, and if she's a good brewer, she could just claim she needs it for a health tonic or something."

"So she'll lie," said Harry glumly. "That's much better."

"You're right, that's the real problem. That and the infidelity—you heard what Davina said last night." To help Harry overcome his Dark magic, Davina reviewed the code of conduct for a Light wizard, which included respecting other people's relationships.

"Right, I was hoping this wouldn't count, since he's been cheating on her for decades, by the sound of it."

"Nice try, but unless he agrees to it, you'd be violating the code."

I already slept with one married witch, he thought, although clearly Fiona didn't count. "What if I insisted she tell him?"

"Tell her Dark pureblood husband she's sleeping with Harry Potter? I doubt that would go over well."

"No, of course not. But she could tell him she's taking a younger lover, and he'd just assume it was some gigolo."

Hermione raised a single eyebrow. "Is that how you see yourself?"

"No, but she might. Particularly if she's making charitable donations on my behalf."

For a moment, Hermione was silent. "Well played, Silvercock," she said finally. "And I'll admit, it's a reasonable solution to your libido problem."

"Oi!"

"Sorry, that came out wrong. What I meant is that for now it's better than the alternatives. Regular pulling would just feed your ego, and brothels …"

"Would just feed my ego," he said, recalling the fawning attentions of a half-dozen filles de joie.

"And until your Light magic is back at full strength, you might get slapped again," she said, amused. "What exactly happened with Daphne anyway?"

Embarrassed, he told her what he'd done. "I wrote to her this morning but haven't heard back yet. Not that I expect a reply—or even deserve one."

"I'm sure she'll forgive you," said Hermione, her expression kind. "She mightn't sleep with you, but surely she'll want to be friends again."

"Would it be wrong to also apologise on the radio?" he asked. "Not with her name, of course."

"It depends on your motivation. Would you still be trying to seduce her? Or pressuring her to forgive you?"

"Maybe the second one," he admitted. "But mostly so she doesn't feel hurt anymore."

Hermione gave him her cautious approval, and she helped him select a boutonnière, even though he was reluctant to wear one. "No, you mustn't stop spreading joy, and wearing flowers is a part of that," she said. "Just watch your pride, and I'm sure you'll do fine."

But Harry felt a small thrill just from sliding the flower into his lapel. Is that Dark magic? he worried. "But I feel like such a hypocrite," he said. "I've told the entire world how much I hate the Dark Arts, and here I am practising them!"

"Not on purpose! If you were pursuing them in secret, that would be one thing. But you were horrified when Davina told you what was happening, and you're making huge efforts to change."

Harry shrugged, but Hermione surprised him with a sly smile.

"Actually, I know a book that might help," she said.

"One of those books on the Light Arts? Sure, I'll give it a try," he said, although the other Light Arts books he'd perused hadn't grabbed him. "Where can I get it?"

"You bought it already. For me, at Christmas."

Harry's jaw dropped. "You can't mean Lockhart's book!"

"It's not bad, actually. I know there's no comparison between the two of you–"

"You've got that right," retorted Harry. "He has a far better smile."

"Harry! I'm trying to help!"

Merlin, I'm such a dick! he thought. "I'm sorry," he said, massaging his brow. "If you think it'll help, I'll be glad to read it."

She offered to send him her copy, then departed to listen to the broadcast with Ryan. It was time for Harry to leave as well, but he paused before tossing Floo powder into the grate.

"Hi, Dad?" he said aloud. "This time I'm asking you for help, since you also know what it's like to be kind of a shit. But I really want to do better … Tonight when I come home, after the broadcast, I want to feel proud of how I did." He smacked his forehead. "Bugger, not proud—that's what got me into this mess in the first place. But not, like, ashamed. And I want to be sincere, even if it's embarrassing. So please, help me with that, if you don't mind."

He allowed what he hoped was Light magic to arise, then travelled to the Leaky Cauldron. "Look, it's Potter!" someone said, and there were hoots and applause.

"Nice work," said a red-faced wizard, hoisting his beer. "I thought the French bird was a looker, but that blonde? She's a goddess made flesh!"

"They're both lovely," said Harry, almost timid. "They all are."

"What's this?" said a motherly-looking witch. "Are you all right? Where's that swagger we're used to?"

"Still in America, maybe. But don't worry, I'm fine."

"Don't let George Weasley push you around," she ordered. "We were afraid you'd give up the show entirely, on account of him."

"No, he's family," Harry said before leaving. As he walked up Diagon Alley, he deliberately lowered his walls, allowing tendrils of kindness to seep through. It was completely opposite to when he'd gone shopping in Los Angeles with Marina—in hindsight he realised he was awash in Dark magic, in spite of the blinding daylight.

"Welcome back," people called, and Harry smiled at them. It wasn't his usual cocky smile—instead it was tender and sad. If they had any idea what a fraud I am, he thought, almost ashamed to be seen.

He felt small as he entered the shop, like when he'd joined the other champions after his name came out of the Goblet of Fire. "Hi," he said to the people nearest the door. "Thanks for coming."

After signing photos, he allowed George to steer him into the booth. "Glad to see you, mate," said George. "As you can see, everyone missed you. So, don't be shy tonight—they're ready for a massive dose of Harry Potter-Black."

"Right, about that," said Harry, a little sheepish. "I'm trying to keep my ego in check—the trip to America was a bit much. So, feel free to take the piss, and then some."

At first Lee and George were sceptical, but Harry assured them he meant it.

"What about Walburga?" Lee asked. "We've kept her off the air, like you asked, but if anyone can take you down a peg, it'll be her."

Harry was torn. Narcissa had begged him to destroy the portrait, calling it an embarrassment to the Blacks. But he had a weird urge to say hi. "Maybe just for a minute," he said. "But silence her if she goes too far."

"Absolutely," said Lee, and they went over a list of topics. Fiona was off-limits, of course, but Harry said everything else was fine.

"Brilliant," said George. "I'd call you a hero, but that would just fatten your ego, which nobody needs. But promise to kick me if I cross the line."

Soon it was time to start, and Lee counted down on his fingers. "Good evening, and welcome to another thrilling episode of Weasley's Wizard Wireless! I'm Lee Jordan, here with my partner in crime, George Weasley. We have a very special guest, who's come all the way from America. So, please, give a warm Weasley's welcome to"—he switched to a glaring American accent—"Harry Potter-Black."

Laughing, Harry said, "Thanks for having me, as always."

But George was frowning. "That didn't sound very American. You were gone for ten whole days—I assumed you'd have picked up the accent. Can you try that again."

"Er, all right," said Harry, still speaking normally. He cleared his throat, then said, "Um, hi everyone! It's really awesome to be here tonight." Lee and George nodded, and he continued. "Sorry I've been away for so long, but I'm totally jazzed to be back!"

Harry over-exaggerated everything, but "jazzed" and "back" were the worst, and George even covered his ear. "I reckon you could scare off Dementors with that," he said, lowering his hand. "But you should probably cast a Patronus instead, just to prove you haven't been swapped out by MACUSA."

"Are we still sending it to Azkaban?" asked Harry.

"Yes, every week, even while you were away," said Lee. "Although there's no substitute for Prongs—clearly no one casts a Patronus like the Light Lord."

Harry was suddenly nervous. Shit, what if it's not good enough? Then everyone will know! Furthermore, he wasn't sure which emotion to use, in case his pride intruded.

Opting for honesty, he said, "I'm sorry, but I'm actually nervous. Give me a moment." But apparently that was just what he needed, and he felt his heart expand. "Expecto patronum," he said gently, and Prongs appeared—bright as ever.

"Hang on, what's with his antlers?" asked George. "Did he shed his old ones?"

Lee said, "Our audience at home can't see it, but Prongs is looking a bit younger than before. Or his antlers are, anyway. Normally they're comically large, but these are much smaller. Not embarrassingly so," he added quickly. "Except maybe by contrast."

George turned to Harry. "You shagged them off, didn't you!" he blurted. "It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"I did not shag them off!" said Harry, more amused than indignant. "Clearly Prongs is going through a phase—that's all."

"Personally, I like the trim new antlers," said Lee. "Much less unwieldy! But let's see what our friends at Azkaban think." Harry sent the Patronus away, hopeful it would be strong enough.

But George was still studying him. "You look a little different as well," he said. "You're impeccably dressed, of course, but a bit more subdued than normal."

Harry knew George was right, but he looked down at his robes anyway. "What were you expecting? Stars and stripes?"

"I was hoping for a cowboy hat," said Lee. "And yes, those robes are a little tame, but they still qualify as 'Harry Potter robes.' What flower is that?"

"It's a purple hyacinth," said Harry, and George consulted the book.

"The plot thickens!" he said. "It means, 'Please forgive me.'"

"You're forgiven," said Lee magnanimously. "Or was that not for us?"

"It wasn't," said Harry. "And I'm not going to say who it's for, in part because I don't want to pressure them. But I'd like to convey how much I regret my actions, and whether they forgive me is entirely up to them."

"You just find new ways to be intriguing, don't you?" said George. "And we haven't even talked about your trip yet—I hardly know where to start!"

"Personally, I started my day in bed," said Lee. "So why don't we start there?"

Harry could see the audience laughing. "Yeah, all right," he said. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything, but I assume you won't tell us that. And we'd rather not provoke Mothers Against Harry Potter, who've left us alone the last few months. So perhaps you could tell us about Valerie Dwyer. How did you meet her?"

But before Harry could answer, George raised his wand and said, "Accio Fit Redhead!" Then he looked down at his own body. "And it worked!" he cried. "Bad news, though—you're not my type."

Harry chuckled and said, "I know what people say about me and redheads, and I'll admit there's some truth to it. But I've dated a lot of witches in the last year, and only a few of them had red hair. And none of them looked like my mum."

Lee repeated his original question, and Harry told them about Valerie. "But it was just a fling," he concluded. "She's lovely, of course, but I was only in Chicago a few days, so we didn't even consider dating long-term."

"Which is fortunate," said George, "otherwise the Prophet couldn't have printed photos of your next girlfriend, which I know were popular. I even saw a few in my mum's clippings pile—I thought she only clipped things for the Weasley family scrapbook, but maybe I'm wrong."

"Or maybe she has another scrapbook, which you'll only find after she's gone," said Lee.

George looked shocked. "Are you suggesting my mum has a wank album?"

"No, but you just did. And I know Christmas is a long way off, but let me know if you need to spend it with the Jordans this year. Because something tells me you mightn't be welcome at home."

Addressing only the microphone, George said, "Mum, you told me to go easy on Harry, but my bad behaviour has to come out somewhere. And apparently you're tonight's victim—sorry about that!"

"It's all right, I can take it," said Harry. "After everything your mum has done for me, it's the least I can do."

"Well, all right then!" said George, rubbing his hands together. "Harry, tell us more about Marina Lind—specifically, how much taller she is than you."

"I don't know—maybe four inches without heels. And yes, I know she's completely out of my league, but I guess I got lucky."

"You guess you got lucky?" said Lee. "If you aren't sure, there may be a problem."

Harry laughed. "No, I definitely got lucky. But what we had was more than just physical. I need an emotional connection, otherwise I feel–" He hesitated. "Otherwise I feel cheap."

As soon as he said it, the mood shifted—not just in the booth, but in the entire shop. George must have noticed it too, because he didn't crack a joke. Instead he looked at Lee, as if to say, "You handle this."

"You've been called cheap," said Lee, his tone serious. "Possibly in this very booth. Does that bother you?"

"Not really. No one else is in my head, so they don't know what my experience is like. And I completely understand why people might see me that way, given my track record."

"It's quite a track record," said Lee. "Might I ask if you've ever been turned down?"

"Yes, recently." Without thinking, Harry glanced at the hyacinth on his lapel. "And I feel terrible about it. Not because I didn't get what I wanted, but because I betrayed her trust. She thought she was talking to a friend, but instead she got a manwhore."

"Interesting word choice," said Lee. "Is that how you see yourself?"

"I suppose I do," said Harry, recalling all the times he'd called himself that. "At least for now—I genuinely want to settle down when I'm older."

"Yes, that's obvious," said Lee, and no one mentioned Fiona. "But in the meantime, you're a shameless manwhore—although not a cheap one. That shopping trip in Los Angeles, for example ... I'm sure it cost plenty."

"It did," said Harry, a little embarrassed. "Although it wasn't Los Angeles, it was Beverly Hills, which was like nowhere I'd ever been." He described the shops, the cars, and how glamorous everyone was. "Everyone had a Lockhart smile—he'd fit in perfectly over there. Meanwhile, I was just a short Englishman with ordinary teeth."

"And a blonde goddess on your arm," said George. "Sorry Harry, but drop the false modesty."

"No, his teeth are genuinely ordinary," said Lee. "And he could barely reach the goddess's arm."

George looked at Harry and silently mouthed, "Was that all right?"

Harry nodded, then said, "I wouldn't quite call it false modesty—American Muggles didn't know what to make of me, since I just looked like an overdressed teenager. And even wizards seemed a bit underwhelmed. I think they were more interested in saying they'd met me than actually meeting me."

"Didn't they want to hear how you slew a Basilisk when you were twelve?" asked George. "Or how you recently played a three-day Quidditch match? Which you lost, I might add."

"I did," said Harry, laughing. "But they definitely don't care about Quidditch."

"Even though you pulled off the impossible?" said Lee. "Audience, raise your hands if you actually expected them to change the Quidditch rules."

Only a few hands went up, and Lee said, "Now, raise your hand if you're happy about the changes. And don't worry about offending Harry—he just spent five days in bed with a goddess."

Fewer than the half the hands went up, and George said, "All right, now let's see who thinks it's a bad idea." Maybe a quarter of the audience raised their hands, and George said, "And who has no bloody clue?"

Loads of people raised their hands, including Lee and George, and Harry sheepishly raised his own. "What?" cried Lee. "After going to all that trouble, you don't even know if it's a good idea?"

"Honestly, we never thought it would go through. It was just a mad idea the other Seekers and I had, and I mentioned it to Viktor Krum. But then there was a petition, and the team owners got involved, and here we are."

George gave him a stern look. "I'm sorry, Harry, but I'm about to tear into you. And Mum, I know I promised not to, but it's either this or your wank album, so here we go." Harry braced himself, and George said, "What the bloody hell were you thinking? All you had to do was sit back, collect your underwear cheques, and shag models—but instead you paint a new target on your chest! Because everyone's going to blame you if these rules backfire somehow!"

"Yes, I realise that now," said Harry. "I just thought it was unfair that Seekers get so much of the glory when we do so little of the work."

"Of course it's unfair! It's also unfair you inherited two vaults, a townhouse, and a Wizengamot seat!"

"And lost his parents," Lee added.

"That too," said George, still worked up. "And you have magic, which is also unfair—it's not like any of us earned it. So why is it suddenly so important to make Quidditch into something it's never been—not ever!—after nearly a thousand years?"

Harry glanced at Lee, who was clearly lost as well. "Do you mean ... sensible?" Lee asked.

"Exactly!" cried George. "It's never made a single lick of sense! For Merlin's sake, they used to literally chase after a bird! And they whack irons balls at people—at children, even! Complete madness!"

"No one's trying to get rid of Bludgers," said Harry, feeling more relaxed knowing George was joking.

"And thank God for that! It's not a real sport if you can't easily die!" George raised his wand and said, "Although I could kill you right now, with this little stick we all carry around."

"No, he's a Light wizard," said Lee. "I'm sure he'd annihilate you somehow."

"You're right that Quidditch doesn't make sense," said Harry. "And yes, maybe it was foolish to try changing that. Like, maybe it's a house of cards, and fixing one bit of nonsense will bring the whole thing crashing down. But why not try?" he said fiercely, matching George's tone.

"Because you're asking for trouble! I've literally got a hole in the side of my head from trying to keep you alive," he said, poking his wand into the cavity where his ear used to be. "But that wasn't enough for you! You're deliberately hacking off the entire magical world—save Americans—to promote 'fairness', when the most fair thing you could do is sign over your massive income to help the less fortunate!" He paused, then said, "Or at least stop hogging all the underwear models."

"It was only two!" countered Harry. "And you have no idea what I'm doing with my 'massive income.'"

"Actually, he's giving a ton of it away," said Lee. "At least, that's what I've heard through the grapevine."

"Be that as it may," said George, "you're putting yourself at risk for something that doesn't ultimately matter. During the war you were at least saving lives, but the Quidditch changes are meaningless!"

"That's why I did it!" said Harry. "Why not take a risk, when there's so little at stake?"

George leaned back in his chair. "Well said!" he declared, no longer angry. "And you've passed the test—you're still a Gryffindor."

But Harry was still riled up. "I'm a Slytherin!" he cried, brandishing a handkerchief. The audience was roaring, and Harry said, "And the rules change might be a bloody disaster! They'll probably add a line to my Chocolate Frog Card that says, 'And he completely bollocksed up Quidditch, all because he couldn't handle a few whinging Chasers.'" Harry took a deep breath, then said, "By the way, I feel awful about the part where some people might lose their jobs. Seriously, talk to me—maybe I can introduce you around, help you find something new."

Lee looked impressed. "Harry, I have to say, it's great to see the old fighting spirit. I was a little worried you'd lost your edge, but I'm guessing a night in jail brought it all back."

"It did, actually," said Harry, relaxed again. "And now that I'm safely back in England, can I say what bastards the MACUSA Secrecy Patrol are?"

"Sorry, no," said Lee, holding his finger over the delay rune. "Just kidding—shout it from the bloody rooftops!Although that's how you got arrested in the first place, no?"

"Something like that. But believe me, it was worth it. I've never been tempted to fly through London like that, but Chicago had all these skyscrapers, each one taller than the next. And these were some of the world's best flyers—I only wish my teammates had been there as well."

"Brilliant," said George, beaming with pride. "So, tell us about these bastard cops."

Harry recounted the night's events, sparing no harsh words for the guards. "And then they stole the letter I wrote Kreacher! All night he believed I was dead, and let's just say he'll never be the same."

"Really? I'd have thought a tearful reunion with his loving master would put things to rights," said Lee, and the audience laughed.

"Oh god, that," said Harry, and he tactfully explained Kreacher's need for subservience.

"Subservience, eh?" said George, stroking his chin. "Someone to boss him around, all whilst going on about their own superiority?"

Lee tented his hands and tapped his fingers together. "Someone he waited on hand and foot for her entire life? To the point where she still orders him to cast people into dragon pits, even from beyond the grave?"

All three of them looked up at Walburga's sleeping portrait. "I have no idea who you're talking about," said Harry. "But I'd like to say hi to Walburga, since it's been ages since we last spoke."

The audience went wild as Harry straightened his robes and necktie. He also checked his motivation, not wanting to upset Narcissa or, worse yet, reinforce his Dark magic. I want to extend kindness to Walburga, even though she mightn't be able to receive it.

Before awakening her, Harry said, "I have to warn you, this might not be as funny as usual, since I'm trying a new approach."

"A new approach?" said Lee. "Whatever for? She's so fond of you already!"

"Actually, I'm not sure I've ever tried being nice to her. I first met her while Sirius was still alive, and of course he treated her like crap, so I did too. Not to mention she was always shouting at me."

"So, maybe a little kindness? Sure, why not? And if it doesn't work, just turn on the charm."

Tapping the portrait with his wand, Harry said, "Excuse me, Walburga? Is now a good time?"

She awoke with a sneer. "You!" she growled. "The very ruin of House Black!"

"Actually, it's doing pretty well, at least financially. But that's not why I woke you up. I wanted to apologise, believe it or not."

"For your very existence, I assume!"

"No, I can't apologise for that—that was my parents' decision, not mine. But I am sorry for never trying to get along with you. I think we got off on the wrong foot because of Sirius–"

"Wretched offspring! I curse his very memory!"

"Understandable—he was a bit of a dick where you were concerned."

"He most certainly was! The only comfort in my final years was knowing he was in Azkaban!"

"Er, right," said Harry, horrified. She's not sentient, he reminded himself. "I really can't back you up on that one. And I'm starting to doubt this whole apology thing—not because I'm not sorry, but because I don't think you can hear it."

"All I hear are the natterings of a filthy blood traitor! Begone from my sight!"

Lee held his wand the entire time, and at Harry's nod he silenced her. "Well now, that was interesting," said Lee, and George looked equally surprised.

"What, you actually expected her to forgive me?"

"Of course not! But did you catch what she called you?"

It took Harry a moment, but then his eyes shot open. "She called me a blood traitor, and not a half-blood!" he exclaimed. Shit! Is this a Dark magic thing?

Both Lee and George studied him, as if trying to spot what was different. "Do you think it has anything to do with Prongs's antlers?" asked Lee.

"I can't see why," said Harry, genuinely puzzled. If she knows I'm Dark, surely she wouldn't call me a blood traitor, he thought. "Although I've heard other people call me that as well. All I can guess is they're realising I'm less radical than they thought."

"Right, because there's nothing radical about changing the rules of a thousand-year-old sport," said George.

"Or maybe they realise you don't have many ties with the Muggle world," suggested Lee.

"That's not true—I met heaps of Muggles in America, thanks to Marina. I also watch Muggle films and listen to Muggle music," he said, and then mentioned a few of his favourite bands, in case Jasmine was taking notes.

"But I assume you're not close with your relations," said Lee, and Harry saw the apology in his eyes.

"No. And you're right—I think that's what worries blood purists the most. Not the actual Muggle blood, otherwise they wouldn't marry the occasional half-blood, which even the Malfoys do. The right kind of half-blood, of course."

"Of course," said Lee. "But yes, they fear ongoing family ties more than anything, which isn't likely in your case."

Harry took a moment to consider it. "Now I'm tempted to reach out to my cousin, just to see if Walburga starts calling me a half-blood again."

"Do it," said George. "And show him pictures of you and the blonde goddess." Harry shook his head vehemently, knowing that would be disastrous for his pride, but George persisted. "Oh, come on. You wouldn't let anyone curse your Muggle relations—which I commend—but the whole wizarding world wants you to rub your success in their faces."

Fierce nods from the audience, who clearly agreed. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted," said Harry. "Which is exactly why I shouldn't do it."

"Ugh, Light wizards are the worst," said Lee. "We need more villains on this show."

They'd ticked off all the items on Lee's list, so Harry was free to go—which he deemed prudent. He felt good about the broadcast and didn't want to ruin it by staying too long.

After wrapping up the interview, George escorted him from the booth. "Was that all right?" he asked quietly. "I tried not to go overboard, but you know how I get sometimes."

"You were fine. I'm genuinely uneasy about the rules change, and that was the perfect opportunity to explain it."

But George still looked concerned. "Is everything all right?" he asked, and Harry knew he was asking about Prongs.

"I had a bit of a shock yesterday," he admitted, "but yeah, I'll be fine."

"Well, you did a great job tonight, as always. And really, come back anytime."

Harry felt good as he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron, and passers-by expressed their approval. "Good to have you back," they called out, and when he arrived at the pub, the motherly-looking witch looked him over again.

"Much better!" she declared. "You were a bit down in the mouth before the show."

"I guess I was nervous—it's been a while."

"Well, don't be a stranger!" she said, and he promised to return soon.

He felt even better when he got home. There was a small parcel on the console, but Harry ignored it and lay on the settee, still reviewing the show in his mind. He felt particularly good about his offer to help the other Seekers find jobs, which he hadn't previously considered. Everyone knows who I am, and I have heaps of influence. Might as well put it to good use.

Harry was also glad Lee had mentioned his charitable donations. Months prior, when he'd told Mrs Thwip he wanted to give away more gold, she asked whether he wanted to give anonymously. But he'd decided against it, since people might otherwise decide he was a miser. Nothing was public, of course, but he assumed word would eventually get out, and clearly it had. Well done, Snitchbottom, he thought, and satisfaction spread through him.

"Fuck!" he cried out, sitting up. "Bloody Dark magic! I can't even think about giving to charity without turning into Lucius bloody Malfoy!"

The small parcel on the console caught his attention again, and he realised what it was: Lockhart's book. Predictably, Hermione had covered it in cloth to protect it during Floo travel, and Harry fetched and unwrapped it. The cover photograph didn't wink or even grin—reflecting Lockhart's new persona—but he was perfectly coiffed, and his eyes were azure pools of wisdom.

"Unvarnished: My Journey from Lies to Liberation," was the title, and Harry sniffed in derision. I'm not a liar, he thought—he'd taken Alistair's advice to heart—and he wondered if Hermione wasn't barking up the wrong tree. Lockhart was a complete fraud who'd Obliviated people, and even now his main motivation was to make a lot of gold. Meanwhile, all I did was develop a big head—and with good reason.

"Fuck! There I go again!" he said aloud. "Jamie, are you having as much trouble as I am?"

Harry didn't get an answer until he went upstairs, book in hand. "Yeah, it's been a challenge," said Jamie, running a hand through his hair. "It's hard not to feel superior to portraits of people who behaved like most of the Blacks did. Whereas we're a legitimate hero—not to mention the part where we're making the Blacks greater than before."

"I know, right?" said Harry, also running a hand through his hair. "Honestly, I'm glad you're here, since I don't know who else I can talk to about this. I don't exactly have secrets from Hermione, but she really doesn't know what it's like."

"Yeah, I spent some time reviewing your memories today, and sweet Merlin! That party in New York was something else, and they didn't even know who we are!"

Harry paused to recall it, and he felt the familiar stirrings of pride. "Ugh, there it is again. Do you suppose we should take turns insulting each other when it happens? You have all the memories, which are bad enough, and I could tell you some of the thoughts."

"Good idea," said Jamie. "That'll also help with my portrait training, which has been a little patchy so far."

"That's my fault," Harry admitted. "By the way, do you want a copy of Lockhart's book? Maybe we should read it together and compare notes."

"Couldn't hurt," said Jamie. "I've got more time on my hands, now that I've broken it off with the Three Graces. Although it's tempting to check in on the Three Fates. I'd been avoiding them, since they're a bit of a downer, but they might be just the ticket."

"Jamie!" snapped Harry. "No more doodles, at least not till we get this under control."

"You're right—they're basically the portrait version of C-squareds."

Harry stayed up a bit too late that night, hoping for a letter from Daphne, but none arrived. He wrote to Jasmine, however, agreeing to a date on condition she tell her husband about it. "I can't guarantee we'll have sex, but we can at least spend time together without my prior constraints," he wrote, a little embarrassed by his penmanship.

He still wasn't sure why Hermione had given him permission to shag a Dark witch who was using blood magic to look young again, but he wasn't going to argue. "Yes, I know my life is completely mental," he told his parents on his way back upstairs. "But thanks for giving it to me," he added, with a thrum of gratitude he knew could only be Light.