Jasmine's reply came the following evening:

I informed my husband I'm taking a lover. He wasn't pleased, but even a hint of my wrath was enough to subdue him. I did not, however, reveal your name, per your request. Although telling him would be positively delicious, and memories of our date have already fuelled many a secret smile.

Harry had proposed taking her somewhere Muggle, to which she readily agreed:

I'll miss seeing you in robes, which you wear spectacularly well, so you'll have to make it up to me by wearing tight trousers. I also expect you to know your way around, since nearly all my forays into the Muggle world have been hampered by the worry that I or my companions are committing some gaffe. (By the way, I've never admitted that to anyone—I've learnt to project blithe insouciance on such occasions. But I'm trying to be more honest, as a favour to you.)

Harry had needed to look up both "blithe" and "insouciance," but that didn't bother him. Indeed, he was looking forward to what else he might learn from her, although they'd clearly need some ground rules, which he'd already started to draft:

1. Don't make excuses for my patchy education. I definitely could have worked harder at Hogwarts, even with everything else that was going on.

2. Don't overuse superlatives. For example, it's fine to say I'm a good Seeker, but please don't declare me "the League's best Seeker" unless that's provably true.

3. Don't praise my Light magic. It is very much a work in progress, and overconfidence is deadly.

He asked Hermione to review them the next day. "It's only a few rules, which I think will be enough," Harry said, "but I don't want to overlook anything."

Hermione's lips twitched when she read the first one. "Is it wrong that I'm glad you admit you didn't work hard enough in school?"

"Why are you asking me whether it's wrong? I'm the sodding Dark wizard."

"Harry, how many times do I have to tell you you're not a Dark wizard! You merely slipped a little."

"A lot," he said. "I'll spare you the details, but this morning in the shower I was trying to decide what to wear, and I got distracted thinking about which robes I look best in."

"WORF gala," she said automatically. "Although they wouldn't suit Ryan at all—he's too broad in the shoulders." She finished reading his draft, then said, "What about a rule against praising your sexual prowess? I mean, clearly you're good, but you're hardly the only one who knows what they're doing."

Feigning petulance, he said, "But that's the best kind of praise!"

Hermione laughed and pointed to the parchment. "Nice try, Silvercock. Add it to the list."

He inked his quill, then paused. "But wouldn't having a rule only call attention to it? And besides, it overlaps with the rule against superlatives."

"Fine, but if she goes overboard with the whole 'famous for the wrong reason' thing, refer her to rule two. And add a rule against trying to convert you to the Dark Arts."

Harry didn't anticipate a problem, given Jasmine's regrets about her own Dark magic, but he wrote it down anyway. Hermione seemed satisfied, so he set down the quill and said, "Thanks for the Lockhart book, by the way."

"Have you started it yet?" asked Hermione. "Frankly, it was better than I expected."

"I thought you loved all his books," said Harry innocently, and she swatted him. "Ow!"

"Totally deserved. That reminds me—did you hear back from Daphne?"

Harry sighed. "No. And according to the etiquette she taught me, that's how you let someone know you think their apology is insincere."

"I'm sorry—I know that must hurt. But really, Harry, what were you thinking!"

"Clearly I wasn't thinking, at least not with my brain. But I got the sense she'd be open to being 'friends with benefits,'" he said, wincing.

"Friends with benefits! With Daphne Greengrass?" she laughed. "And you needed Davina to point out that maybe your ego was out of control?"

"I know it sounds absurd, but I swear it made sense in context." A little desperate, he said, "Can we change the topic?"

She very kindly asked what he thought of Lockhart's book so far, but he'd only read the preface by Doctor Niffler. Which he had to admit was interesting—she used terms like "radical honesty" and "unflinching self-examination." He told Hermione as much, and she was pleased he was taking it seriously.

"Thanks again for your help," he said. "With you and Jamie, there's at least hope I'll turn things around. But I have to admit, it would be a lot easier with Fiona."

"Oh, Harry … you've had so much loss. I don't think you even acknowledge it. And you'd have to be superhuman to resist all the attention and adulation."

The words "attention" and "adulation" brought back a very recent memory. "The train ride," said Harry, embarrassed. "You'll see the photos soon enough, but it was like having a harem. Not that I slept with anyone but Marina, but during the shoot there I was, surrounded by lingerie models, nearly all of whom were vying over me. I swear, it worse than the brothel." He took a deep breath, then said, "And when they asked to me to glow–"

"They asked you to glow!" cried Hermione. "In a photograph, surrounded by lingerie models?"

"I know what you're thinking, but I promise my picture won't misbehave. They found a workaround." She gave him a dubious look, and he said, "We tested it first, but they put me under a partial Compulsion Charm, to, er, constrain my reactions."

"Your reactions! Are you saying they neutered you?"

"God no! Trust me, I triple-charmed my boxers. But my photo won't be able to get up and interact."

"What, did they handcuff you?"

"No, they had me at a desk writing letters, while the witches distracted me with an impromptu fashion show. There might be some quill shenanigans, but otherwise it's very tame."

"Except for the half-naked women prancing about," said Hermione with a chuckle. But her brows drew together. "Hang on, is that why you wrote me such a long letter?"

Harry bit his lips guiltily. "Er, maybe. But I swear, I would have written you anyway."

She groaned and said, "I should have known—it was far too long. There you were on the Supermodel Express, and you sent me three solid pages." Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh my god, you had an erection the whole time, didn't you?"

"Not the whole time," he stammered. "It took a while to work out the lighting, because of my glow. And there were costume changes—in a different carriage."

The corners of her mouth quirked. "Who else did you write to?"

"No children," he said quickly. "Mrs Thwip is furious I've fallen so far behind, but I just couldn't. I wrote to the Weasleys, though—don't tell them. And also Narcissa Malfoy."

"I think the real scandal is that you wrote to the Malfoys and the Weasleys back to back," she said. "But I interrupted you—what happened when they asked you to glow?"

"I think that's when it all came together," said Harry, realising it as he spoke. "The train carriage was like a work of art, with a stained glass dome and everything. It wasn't the Sainte Chapelle, but I was free to enjoy it completely. And the women, especially Marina ... sweet Merlin, she's gorgeous." Hermione was nodding emphatically, and Harry said, "Anyway, it was all too much, and this is the result."

"Harry, it's no wonder your magic got scrambled. There you were, still grieving for Fiona, but maximally aroused and experiencing all the emotions at once. Of course pride was in the mix—you're not a zombie, for heaven's sake."

The tension in Harry's brow eased just a bit. "Thank you. I still have a lot to dig out from, but it's easier knowing it's not all my fault."

But Jamie didn't share his relief. "Then what's my excuse? I remember the train, of course, but I wasn't on it. So why am I also experiencing Dark magic?"

"Er, I get the impression you lead a pretty wild life up there," said Harry, gesturing towards Jamie's frame. "Like, how different is it to the photo shoot? Minus the cameras, of course."

"There's no Marina," said Jamie. "Although I have actual goddesses—just wait till you see the temple."

"There's a temple!" exclaimed Harry.

"Oops, forget I said anything. And it might be years before you get to see it. But you're right about the adulation—no wonder I also got Dark magic. I guess we're pretty alike after all."

"Right," said Harry, wondering where in the house a temple might be hiding. "I suppose I should take you down a peg by pointing out how easy it is to seduce non-sentient goddesses."

"Not true," said Jamie. "I mean, yeah, Aphrodite is always up for it, and Freyja can be persuaded. But Athena's a tough nut to crack. And the virgins? Forget it."

"Do I even want to know what your body count is? Mine's bad enough, but you must be heading towards triple figures!"

Jamie shrugged. "I've decided doodles don't count, since they're basically the portrait version of wanking. But yeah, if I include them it's pretty high."

Harry slept better that night, knowing he wasn't fully to blame for his Dark magic. He still set a strong intention to overcome it, and he didn't stop asking for help, but he was more upbeat when he left for training the next morning.

His mood sank, however, when an uncomfortable-looking Gemma approached him, since he knew what she was going to say. "Hi, Harry—can we talk?"

"Clearly I'm in trouble, if you called me Harry instead of Toffer," he joked, and she relaxed a little.

"No, not at all. But I need to tell you something before Tuttle arrives. I'd rather you hear it from me first."

"You're leaving the Cannons, aren't you?" he said, and she nodded. "Which team?"

"The Catapults."

"Really? Even though Preston isn't ready to retire? I heard the Banchory Bangers want you to start straight away."

"Yeah, but in Scotland. That's just too far—not for me, but my family. I can't subject them to such a long Floo trip just to see me play."

"And Wales is much closer," said Harry, mainly to himself. "Not to mention the Catapults are a better team." He attempted a smile and said, "Congratulations. You definitely deserve it."

"Cheers," she said, blushing a little. "So, does this mean we can date now?"

Harry froze, and she laughed out loud. "God, the look on your face! Don't worry, Toffer, I'm still mad about Dave—and vice versa, if you can believe it."

Owen approached Harry soon after and said, "What are you doing next Tuesday?"

"Er, wearing my Invisibility Cloak and watching Seeker trials?"

"Good answer. Although you should skip the Cloak and just alter your appearance, so you can fly with them—we'll say you're a trainer. And can you join us on Thursday? We should have the finalists by then."

"Yeah, whatever you need."

All that morning, the Cannons feted Gemma, and Harry invited everyone to Grimmauld Place on Saturday to give her a proper sendoff. "That'll give you time to recover before your first day on Monday," Janet told her.

"No, she's off to the Continent, along with the rest of national team," said Ryan. "We'll be gone for nearly a fortnight."

"You're too popular!" Janet grumbled. "The Cannons never used to have this problem—no one wanted us on the national team, because of the curse. But now it's all changed: you're off to the Continent, we lost Snitchbottom for ten days, and Darren will probably vanish to the Andes to beg Luna to take him back."

"Oi!" cried Darren.

Janet ignored him and turned to Owen. "Promise you'll find a Seeker who'll stay put! Someone with their feet planted firmly on the ground." Owen raised a single eyebrow, and she said, "Metaphorically."

"Noted," said Owen. "But I'll leave that off the advert, just to be safe."

After training, Harry looked in on Mrs Thwip, who gave him a new sheaf of letters. "I can't guarantee I'll catch up over the weekend," he said, "but I'll do my best."

"There's one on top you might find interesting. It was forwarded from the Ministry of Magic."

"Oh?" said Harry, taking a closer look. The letter was still in a sleeve from the Ministry, and when he moved to examine it, Mrs Thwip stopped him.

"I believe you'll want privacy. It's not inappropriate, but your reaction might be"—she cleared her throat—"colourful."

Following her advice, Harry didn't open it until he was at home, and her prediction was correct. "Holy fucking shit!" he blurted, upon seeing the inner envelope. It was addressed to "Harry Potter, Wizard," and the sender was his cousin Dudley.

Inside was a sheet of computer paper, with a black and white photo of Harry and Marina, taken in Beverly Hills. Next to it, in a familiar scrawl, was Dudley's message:

Is this you? What the hell are you doing with Marina Lind (and can I meet her)? I don't even know how to send this to you, but get back to me, all right?

Harry nearly ran up the stairs. "Jamie, I hope you're decent, because you need to see this," he said aloud. "Okay, you've seen it already, but we need to talk."

The portrait was waiting for him, bursting with glee. "Dudley saw you with Marina!" he cried. "Bloody brilliant! I'd shake your hand right now if I could."

Seeing Jamie's reaction was all it took. "Oh my god, I know," said Harry, exultant. "I wouldn't have told him on purpose, but sweet Merlin, this feels good."

"You're going to see him, right? It would be rude not to, after all."

Harry was awash in conflicting emotions. Beneath his joy he felt a little guilty, since his joy was decidedly unwholesome—and probably Dark. But he also had a profound urge to witness Dudley's envy, having experienced so much of his own. I won't rub it in, he thought. But god, I need to see it.

"I have to see him, now that he's written," said Harry. "I can't ignore him, certainly, and it would be even ruder just to write back and say, 'Yeah, that's me.'"

Jamie cocked his chin towards the Muggle section of the wardrobe. "You should wear the clothes from L.A. I'm sure he's heard of Prada."

"No, that would be too much. Besides, he wants me to take him flying. Bugger! I should have bought that leather jacket Marina wanted me to get in New York!"

"I'm sure you could find one here. Just pop me and Aurora into the miniature, and we'll get you sorted."

Harry almost moaned with longing. "Ugh, I should really get Hermione's advice. But what if she says no? Not to the jacket, but to seeing him at all. Because there's no bloody way I'd keep a pure motivation."

After a thoughtful silence, Jamie said, "Do you think it would be therapeutic? Like, maybe our current behaviour is an overcorrection, and seeing Dudley would—I dunno—soothe our inner child or something."

"He needs soothing," Harry admitted. "And we'll never get closure from Aunt Petunia, let alone Uncle Vernon." He looked at Dudley's letter again. "Is that a mobile number? It starts the same as Draco's number."

"Of course he has a mobile," Jamie scoffed. "Probably top of the line, too. And you're worried we're spoilt."

They agreed Harry should check with Hermione, and maybe Davina. "All right, so probably not this weekend, but maybe the next," said Harry. "Which is good, since maybe I'll have my Dark magic under control by then."

But Hermione was unconvinced. "Harry, I don't know," she said, looking at the letter. "What would your motivation be?"

"Well, I've been meaning to reach out, ever since I saw him back in August. He wants to go flying, remember?" She shot him a sceptical look, and he said, "Not on a racing broom, of course. I'll bring something more rugged."

"Why exactly do you want to take him flying?"

"Like I said, he asked. And after everything he's been through on account of wizards, he deserves a little fun." Another look from Hermione. "All right, 'deserves' is a strong word," he said, "but this would be a step up from death threats and nine months in hiding. Not to mention a pig's tail."

She seemed to be weighing his words. "It's true he's only seen the bad side of magic. And it's not inconceivable he'll have a magical child."

Harry nearly spat out his tea. "Dudley fathering a wizard? Uncle Vernon would have a coronary!"

"It would serve him right," she scowled. "But would Dudley be jealous if you showed him what magic is like? To say nothing of your life now."

"I couldn't even guess," said Harry. "He's heard all his life that magic is for freaks, and maybe seeing it would just reinforce that."

"Right, although it's more likely he'd be jealous. My cousins certainly are."

"How did that make you feel?" asked Harry. "I know you didn't have a good relationship with them growing up."

"I didn't, but there's no comparison." After a pause, she said, "I wouldn't say I was glad they were jealous, but it helped erase my leftover sense of inferiority. Because they were definitely better-adjusted than I was, back when we were little."

"Dudley was never little," he sighed. "I was, though."

Hermione placed a hand on his forearm. "What do you need?" she asked gently.

Harry touched into silence before answering. "I want to see him. I need him to know he was wrong about me. I don't need to rub his face in it, but I need him to see I'm not weak."

His breath hitched as he recalled the summer after Cedric died, and how Dudley had taunted him. "'Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!' Who's Cedric—your boyfriend?"

"That picture of me with Marina," said Harry, "that's something Dudley can understand. Obviously he can't relate—I mean, come on. But at least it's his language."

"What else would you tell him?" asked Hermione. "Would you show him the house?"

Harry knew what the correct answer was, but he gave her the real one. "Yeah, if he asked. I wouldn't give him the full tour, and I definitely wouldn't show him my bedroom. But yeah, I'd bring him here."

Her eyes lit with amusement. "What about your adverts?"

"Oh god," said Harry, rubbing his brow. "Maybe the one with Sophie, but not the solo advert." He looked at her again and said, "What do you think? Is this just the Dark magic talking, or is there a legitimate need here?"

She studied him for a moment, and he watched the tiny movements of her eyes. "It's not just the Dark magic," she said. "He's the only real link to your childhood, and you should keep it open. You mightn't ever be friends, like I am with my cousins, but there's at least hope for some healing." After a pause, she said, "For him as well. Because he was also abused."

"He was. And I'm his only other family, unless you count Aunt Marge, which I don't." Harry cast a charm to reheat his tea, which had gone cold. "I should probably wait a week before seeing him, to let things settle a bit." A little sheepish, he added, "And maybe get a leather jacket."

"Harry!" she scolded.

"For flying! All I have are robes, but I'm sure we'll meet somewhere Muggle."

"You are truly incorrigible," she said fondly. "But I would never stop you from wearing what makes you happy, particularly around Dudley."

Harry certainly dressed well for his date with Jasmine a few nights later, at her request. "Wear your three-piece Muggle suit," she wrote him, along with her requirements for the venue. "As you know, youth potions have certain constraints, and I won't look my best somewhere crowded or garishly lit. But soft lights or even candles will show me to advantage, and I'm sure you'll look enchanting as well."

"Jamie, are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, adjusting his tie. "She's probably old enough to be my grandmum. It's all right if you're a portrait, I guess, but this is real life."

"What about Alistair and his thralls?" Jamie countered. "He's nearly 300, and his thralls are in their twenties."

"That's true," said Harry, aware he was grasping at straws. "And she won't be sucking my blood, so far as I know."

They were to meet at a posh Muggle restaurant, where Harry had used his made-up name to reserve a table. He was first to arrive and stood near the door, watching for a young woman entering alone. Several arrived before Jasmine did, and each time he was relieved it wasn't her—a depressing reminder of how shallow he was.

Finally, an attractive young woman walked in. She wasn't a dead ringer for Kate Winslet, but there was definitely a resemblance; her face was thinner and her features more angular, but she was undeniably lovely and he didn't feel misled.

"Jasmine, I presume," he said when she approached him.

"Yes—what do you think?" she said, in a voice he didn't recognise. Her real voice, he thought, and not Kate Winslet's.

"I think you're beautiful, and I'm not surprised your suitors fought duels over you," he said, and she seemed to relax.

"May I kiss you now?" she asked. "Just a taste before dinner?"

"Er, all right," he said, a little flustered. Their kiss lasted only a couple seconds, to Harry's relief—not because she wasn't appealing, but for reasons he couldn't identify. He didn't know why, but it felt weird.

The hostess led them to their table, and even though it was a Muggle restaurant, he felt oddly self-conscious. It wasn't their age difference, since she looked no older than Fiona. But he felt like an accessory—or like someone she owned.

Then it hit him. Sweet Merlin, I'm a gigolo! He'd initially glossed over the financial transaction, since it was for charity and not for him. But when she asked for a kiss, he'd felt unable to refuse, which brought his status into startling relief.

He mechanically performed all the courtesies he'd been taught: assisting with her coat, pulling out her chair, and so forth. But the moment he was seated, he said, "I have a new rule."

"Oh?" she said, arching an eyebrow.

"No payment. Not to me, not to charity. I may be a manwhore, but I'm not a gigolo." She only blinked, and he said, "Not that there's anything wrong with that, if it suits them. But it's not for me."

Her expression frosty, she said, "Then where does that leave us?"

"On equal footing. We're on a date, and we both have the right to decide where it leads."

"You never promised sex," she countered. "In your letter, you said–"

"I know what I said. But when you asked to kiss me, I felt like I wasn't allowed to refuse."

"That's why I asked," she said, a trifle sharply. "If I were issuing an order, you'd have known." Then she sighed. "It's my age, isn't it?"

"Maybe," he admitted. "But really, you look great. Ten points to Ravenclaw."

"Thanks, but I don't care for sugar-coating. If you can't stomach the idea of kissing me again, I should probably just leave."

"No, really, it's not like that. I just need my agency back. Otherwise I feel like a house-elf," he said, with fresh mortification over the six elves who called him "Master."

She was silent for a long moment, but then a smile graced her lips. "You're absolutely right—ten points to Slytherin. I don't want you to feel obligated. I want you to want me."

He also smiled, but it was because he was imagining the similarly titled song by Cheap Trick. Maybe I should play it for her later, he thought, and he knew the evening was back on track.

"Don't get me wrong," Harry said, "you're still allowed to give to charity if it makes you feel better about cheating on your husband. But I don't want to hear about it."

"Understood," she replied, casually examining the wine list. "Do you know any of these? I know nothing of Muggle wines."

He didn't, and they asked the waiter for advice. They ordered drinks, and then their meals, and the conversation flowed freely.

She eventually asked about Fiona, and he told her how hard it had been. "I know it looks like I bounced back quickly, and in some ways I have done. But in other ways not at all—I suppose it'll just take time."

"So you're not in a hurry to find someone new?"

"No. But you were clever to realise I'd want a fuckmate."

Jasmine nearly spit out her drink, and when she stopped coughing, she said, "I would have said 'paramour,' but clearly I'm behind the times. I do hope you'll educate me—in music, for example. I bought several of the records you mentioned, but they're hard to appreciate without a native guide."

Sensing an opening, he said, "How old are you anyway? Perhaps I can ease you in with Muggle music from when you were my age."

"I was born in 1928, which makes me 71," she said, holding his gaze.

She's younger than Walburga, Harry noted, although they'd have gone to Hogwarts together. But then another thought struck him. "Does that mean you knew Tom Riddle back in school?"

"Yes, he was a year above me—and a year below my husband in Slytherin. And no, I never fancied him."

"Why not? He was good looking back then."

"And poor. With my looks and background, I had no reason to settle. And I didn't."

"Were you in love?"

She took a sip of wine. "Yes. My husband was handsome, and heir to a noble house. I knew it would be years before he'd inherit—decades, as it happened—but I'd live in a manor and want for nothing. Which was important, since I didn't care to sink beneath my original station."

Harry was puzzled by her answer. "But what does that have to do with love?"

"The way he made me feel. He wanted me desperately, and he promised I could live however I liked. If I wanted to brew potions all day—or carve runes, or study the stars—that was fine with him. And he worshipped me, which dovetailed perfectly with my Dark magic."

Bloody Dark magic, thought Harry. "Is that still how you define love?"

"No, not after motherhood. And my husband's worship didn't last. Although I'm still permitted to do whatever I want."

"So I gathered. What was it, then—Potions, Runes, or Astronomy?"

"All of the above. But lately it's Potions. This one, for example," she said, indicating her youthful appearance. "I also took your advice and started brewing Wolfsbane, for your friends at FLOOF."

"Brilliant! I should probably admit I took your advice as well."

"Oh?"

He paused to admire the curve of her lips, and the intrigued look in her eyes. "I had my portrait painted."

Her look of delight was even better, and Harry realised he was leaning towards taking her home. "But there was a problem," he continued, and he revealed what had happened with Jamie.

Laughing, she said, "I simply have to meet him, if you'll allow it!"

Their eyes met, and her smile was replaced by a longing expression. He responded with the Look, causing her cheeks to flush, and he said, "Yes, I believe I will."

They nevertheless took things slowly, by mutual accord. Instead of taking her up to his bedroom, he led her to the library, knowing Ron was unlikely to barge in.

"You really know the way to a Ravenclaw's heart," she said, looking at the vast quantity of books. But she was easily distracted, and they made themselves comfortable in a reading nook.

I'm actually doing this, he thought, his mind wandering as they snogged. "I think you'll be good for me," he said during a pause. "I'm still frightfully ignorant, and my tutor and I mostly focus on Muggle culture."

"Are you expecting a Potions lesson?" she said breathlessly.

"Potions is a bit fraught, but I'll take anything from year seven. I skipped it, you know."

"You should have gone back. I abhor scholastic laziness."

"Then what are you doing with me? I'm the poster boy for scholastic laziness."

"You are, but you have redeeming virtues," she said, kissing him again. But he pulled away.

"Ahem, you've broken rule number one: no making excuses for my patchy education."

At first she didn't answer, which gave him the opportunity to study her up close. My god, she's pretty, he thought, impressed by the youth potion she'd brewed. Her skin was alluringly soft, without the slightest wrinkle, and he could scarcely believe she'd gone to school with Tom Riddle.

"You're right," said Jasmine, which a delightful sneer that reminded him of Lydia. "And it shan't happen again."

He brought her upstairs to meet Jamie, who immediately expressed his gratitude. "You're the whole reason I exist!" he said. "Otherwise Harry would never have been painted so young. By the way, brilliant job on the youth potion—I'd shag you in a heartbeat."

"Jamie, you're a treasure," she said. "I wish I could bring my own portrait over, to get you acquainted, but she still sleeps most of the time."

He raised his eyebrows and said, "Any chance your portrait will be displayed at the Ministry, or maybe Hogwarts? I'm sure they'll hang me there after Harry pops off, and I'd love to create a scandal."

"Jamie!" snapped Harry. "I'll be married by then, hopefully for decades! Which means you shouldn't still be running around."

"I've been married for decades," said Jasmine, with a sly smile. "And I'm only starting to run around."

But she didn't get very far that night—Harry kicked her out before she could take her dress off. "We had an agreement," he said when she protested.

"That was before we got started," she grumbled. "And it's not as if I were a virgin."

"No, but I have Quidditch practice in the morning. And besides, anticipation is good. So, you'll just have to wait until Wednesday," he said, referring to their next date.

Harry was eagerly anticipating practice that week, because of the new Seeker trials. He already had ideas about how he'd behave while disguised as a trainer, and he was eager to share them with Owen.

"Not so fast, Snitchbottom," Owen said. "I talked it over with Tuttle, and the new plan is for you to pretend you're one of the prospects."

"During the open trials?" said Harry, intrigued.

"Yeah. You'll show up with a shit broom—or no broom at all—and we'll lend you a good one, same as everyone else."

"Will it look suspicious if I don't use the Firebolt?"

"I doubt it—the weird behaviour is only visible through Omnioculars. Just use it for a few minutes and try something else."

"How well should I fly?" Harry asked. "Top tier, or middle of the pack?"

"Good enough to make the initial cut, but you won't make the final round, since that's when they'll fly against you for real. In the meantime, you'll see what they're like when they don't know we're watching."

Harry made a face. "Are you sure that's a good idea? They won't like finding out we were spying on them."

"Honestly, they should expect it—we all have magic, after all. What they won't expect, however, is that it was you all along."

"Which means I'll get to hear them slag me," Harry groaned. "Is this part of your plan to derail my runaway pride?"

"Two birds with one stone," said Owen, chuckling. "And I'm sure you'll have fun."

Owen supplied a potion to change Harry's voice, and Kreacher transfigured his appearance the next morning, while Pinelle looked on.

"No, Master still looks too much like himself," she told Kreacher. "The head of a noble house must look distinguished."

"I'm not supposed to look like the head of a noble house," said Harry, ignoring the insult. "I'm supposed to look like an ordinary bloke who wants to play Quidditch."

"Then give him red hair, like Master's lodger," she ordered. "He is very ordinary."

"Ron is my friend, not my lodger. And I've asked you before to treat him with respect."

"Pinelle serves Master's lodger according to Master's orders," she said cryptically, and Harry let the subject drop.

"Sure, you can make me a redhead," he told Kreacher. "But keep my height and weight the same."

The end result was a red-haired but otherwise nondescript wizard, which suited Harry perfectly. And with the voice potion, no one would guess who he was—only Owen and Tuttle would know his identity, thanks to the name they'd told him to use.

Even Lara didn't know him when he arrived at Chudley Stadium. "You'll get a broom in there," she said, indicating a large shed on the pitch. "There'll be open flying until half ten, which should give you enough time to see which one you like."

There was already a crowd of prospective flyers, excited to get their hands on a top-of-the-line broom. "It's worth coming just to try all these brooms," said a witch. "My mate wanted to come as well, but there's no way he'd pass for a Seeker. Which one will you try first?" she asked Harry.

"I guess the Firebolt, if it's available," he said. "I hear it's the most aggressive, and that's what teams are looking for now."

"You're not afraid of getting Light magic?"

"Not really. Are you?"

"Well, if I get the job I'll be flying with Potter every day, and Gemma Rees caught it."

Another wizard said, "Well, we all know how she got it. But flying the Firebolt's the best way to beat him, and that's how you get a starting position."

"With the Cannons?" the witch laughed. "I'm pretty sure Potter has a lock on that."

"Obviously," said the wizard. "No, the idea is to get trained by Barrowmaker, beat Potter on the regular during practice, then get picked up by another team—just like Rees did."

"So you wouldn't want to stay with the Cannons?" Harry asked. "It'd be an easy gig—no real pressure, and it's the best reserve pay in the league."

"That's why I'm here," said the witch. "I don't need to be famous—I just want to fly. I was pretty good in school, but I couldn't afford the kind of broom you need to go professional, so I never had a chance before this."

Harry introduced himself using his false name, taking care to remember the wizard, since the Cannons didn't need someone who was already planning to leave.

"Where did you play?" asked the witch, named Corinne.

"You'll laugh," said Harry, who'd rehearsed his cover story with Owen. "America. Michigan, to be specific."

"You don't sound American," she said, wrinkling her brow.

"No, but we moved there when was I was ten. No one follows Quidditch over there, but my dad's a huge fan, and I played in a club at school. It wasn't like the school teams you have here, though."

"Why are you back in England?"

He told her his parents had returned to look after his ageing grandparents. "England seems like fun now that the war is over, so I thought I'd give it a try. And if I don't like it, I can go home again."

When they reached the head of the queue, Harry selected a Firebolt, then flew off alone. It was hard not to keep using it, since he liked it so much, but after a reasonable interval he returned to the shed and asked for the Nimbus 2200.

"Take mine," said a wizard, holding it out. "And I'll try the Silver Arrow," he told Bruce, who was in charge of the brooms.

"What did you think of the Nimbus?" Harry asked.

"It's all right—wouldn't rule it out. But I might as well try 'em all, long as I'm here."

The wizard was older—nearly 30, Harry guessed. Players that age weren't unheard of, particularly in positions like Seeker and Keeper, which were easier on the joints. But Harry got the sense he was there for a lark, particularly when he flew to join his mate.

"Look sharp!" he cried, nearly ploughing into him, and Harry had to laugh. That's a foul, he thought, and even though the wizard probably wasn't a contender, Harry resolved to spar with him later.

He eventually settled on the Silver Arrow, and at half past ten everyone gathered on the pitch. It was a good-sized crowd—more than fifty flyers. But based on what Harry had seen, at least half of them weren't good enough.

Owen took charge of the trials, dividing them into groups and teaching them drills. Harry deliberately made some false moves, not wanting to seem too practised, and he enjoyed the challenge of flying tolerably well but not at his usual level.

"Not bad, Yank," said Corinne, after completing a drill with him. "You only fucked up twice this time around."

"Twice like this?" said Harry, raising two fingers at her, and she laughed.

"I thought you used the middle finger in America," she taunted.

"Yeah, but I'm saving that for next time, when I only fuck up once."

The older wizard also proved fun. His name was Ian Harkness, and it was clear he'd only come for a good time. "This is fucking amazing," he said during a break on the ground. "My mates think I have a screw loose, and the only reason they'll fly with me is because I have a shit broom. But top speed on a racing broom, with a bunch of Harry Potter wannabes gunning for a job? Fuck yeah!"

The team supplied lunch indoors, which everyone appreciated. "Hats off to the Cannons," said Corinne. "Giving us a fair trial, and even supplying the brooms? It's nice to know someone actually means it when they say they're trying to even things out a bit."

"Do you think it was Potter's idea?" asked a wizard named Rick. "He's always on about making wizarding Britain more equitable."

"Yeah, but what's he actually done about it?" asked Harry, deliberately stirring the pot.

"He got rid of those wards at Hogwarts," said Corinne. "And he told off all the lords."

"That was months ago," said another wizard. "All he's done since then is flog underwear and get his wand polished."

"More power to him," said Ian, raising his water bottle in a mock toast.

"There's also the werewolf thing," said a witch named Polly. Then she lowered her voice and said, "And I heard he's been helping domestic abuse victims."

"What, like, in person?" said Rick.

"No, but people write to him in care of the Cannons, and he hooks them up with help. He even pays for a lot of it."

"Where'd you hear that?" asked Harry. "Sounds like PR."

"No, it's real," said Polly, and she related a story about her nephew's classmate, omitting the particulars. "Turns out his stepfather was abusing them. The kid wrote to Potter and within days they were somewhere safe—getting counselling, you name it. People laughed when Potter auctioned off that date, but that's what it's paying for."

"Shagging an old crone for a good cause," said Rick, chuckling. "I hope she used Polyjuice."

No, a youth potion, Harry thought. And we haven't shagged yet.

After lunch, the trainers tested everyone's spotting ability, and the results were underwhelming. Harry was one of the best, and he deliberately missed a fair amount.

"It looks like Yankee Doodle might make the cut after all," said Steve—the wizard who'd mentioned using the Cannons as a stepping stone. Although he'd clearly realised his mistake, because he didn't repeat it later, and he even echoed Harry's line about the pay.

Harry carefully circulated amongst the aspiring players, looking for hints about who'd be a good fit. Ian Harkness was one of his favourites, against all odds. His spotting was mediocre, and his age was an open question, but he was obviously fearless and up for anything.

Later that afternoon came the interviews, which were brief, due to the number of candidates. When Harry's turn arrived, he was directed towards Owen, rather than Tuttle or Bruce, and Owen quickly cast a privacy charm.

"And what's your name?" he asked, looking down at a list.

"Roger Wilton, sir," said Harry. "It's an honour to meet you."

Owen smiled. "Give Kreacher my compliments—I'd never have recognised you. So, what's the inside scoop?"

Harry told him what he'd learnt, and Owen was disappointed about Steve, who was otherwise a strong candidate. "What about Ian Harkness?" Harry asked.

"Can't spot for shit," said Owen, "but that was true for Gemma. Do you like him?"

"I do, but I'll understand if you're not interested."

"We'll see what Tuttle has to say—I think she's interviewing him."

Indeed, Ian ended up making the cut, along with Harry, Corinne, and a handful of others. They were told to return the next morning, when they'd face off against the players who'd been recruited.

"That'll be where the road ends for me, I reckon," said Ian. "But it'll be fun going out with a bang."

Day two was more of the same, only with a new crop of flyers. This time, no one was foolish enough to admit they didn't plan to stick with the Cannons, but there was more speculation about Harry's longevity.

"I've heard they want him in America," said a wizard. "The rumour is they've offered him shedloads of gold to make Quidditch popular over there. I wouldn't be surprised if the Cannons were auditioning two Seekers today and not just one."

"Yeah, I heard Singapore is after him too," said a witch, and Harry had to hide his shock. Where do people even hear this rubbish? he wondered.

Owen ensured he flew with as many of the recruits as possible, and he did his best to talk to them between drills. Most of them seemed all right, and there were some first-rate flyers, but Harry feared they wouldn't be content as reserves for very long.

He deliberately flubbed several manoeuvres that morning, and during lunch he joked about his ruined chances. "It's a miracle I even got this far, seeing as I never really played in school."

"Yeah, neither did I," said Ian.

"Really? But you grew up in England, right?"

"Born and bred. And yeah, I tried for Beater, but look at me," he said, indicating his compact physique. "They wanted me for Seeker, but I got bored flying in bloody circles all day when I mainly wanted to fuck shit up." Harry laughed, and Ian said, "I've had proper fun, flying with you lot—I'll probably get a better broom after this, now that I've given 'em a go."

They chatted about brooms for a bit—Ian favoured the Comet 990—and he said, "Any idea when we'll get out of here today? I could use a bit of sleep before work."

"You work nights?"

"That's right."

Harry stared at him for a moment. "Does that mean you didn't get a full night's sleep last night? Or the night before?"

"I got a quick kip after trials yesterday, and another this morning. Wasn't a big deal—the work keeps me on my toes."

"What do you do?" Harry asked, supposing he was a security guard or something.

"I drive the Knight Bus."

"You drive the Knight Bus!" blurted Harry. "Since when? What happened to Ern?" he asked, recalling the elderly, myopic driver.

"He can't drive all day and all night, can he?"

He can barely drive at all, Harry thought, but all he said was, "I suppose daytime would be better for him, what with his eyesight."

Ian nodded and said, "It's not a bad job, though. The pay is decent, and I can drive as fast as I like. Scares the shit out of the passengers, but that's a bit of a tradition, as you've probably noticed."

"I can see why you got bored flying in circles back in school," said Harry, still astonished.

"League Quidditch might have been all right, especially with the new rules, but I expect I'm too old. Coming here was a change of scene, at least."

Harry was starting to realise Ian would make a fantastic Seeker, and he told Owen as much during their interview that afternoon. "I don't care how old he is," said Harry. "And yeah, he can't spot for shit, but he's literally never been trained."

Owen narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure this isn't just a ploy to get the Knight Bus job for yourself?"

"He wanted to be a Beater!" Harry continued. "The man is fearless! How old is he anyway?"

"Twenty-nine," said Owen. "Which mightn't be a bad thing, since no one will try stealing him away from us. And if he can keep from getting injured, he could easily have five good years ahead of him, or more."

"What does Tuttle think?"

"She liked him well enough to bring him back, but we'll have to see if she's willing to keep him in the final round."

"How about me?" asked Harry, batting his eyes. "Will I make it?"

Harry did not, in fact, make the final round, but Ian did. "Fuck me!" blurted Ian, when Owen called his name, and Harry laughed.

"Congratulations, mate," said Harry. "I'll be rooting for you."

"I can't believe it," Ian said, mostly to himself. "I just came here for a lark."

"Do you actually want the job?" asked Harry quietly.

"Chuffing hell, yeah! Fly around all day, every day? Maybe play a match or two, when Potter needs a break? Sounds like heaven."

"What about Potter—do you think you'd like working with him?"

"Barely thought about it. I mean, sure, he seems all right. Bit of a ponce, but he's earned it."

Harry was so accustomed to being called a ponce that he barely considered it an insult. "Well, good luck," he told Ian. "And see you around."

He had another date with Jasmine that night, and they enjoyed a candlelit dinner in the conservatory. "I never even saw this room until a fortnight ago," he said. "But the house keeps showing me more and more—I can't help wondering when it'll stop."

"Do you want it to stop?" asked Jasmine, who looked lovely in the flickering light.

"Yes and no. I mean, personally I love it, and the house-elves don't seem to mind. But I'm going to raise kids here some day, and I don't want them growing up spoilt," he said, thinking of Draco.

"I raised my children in a manor," she said, tilting her chin.

"And were they spoilt?"

She took a moment to answer. "They were entitled, certainly. But that's only right, given their place in the world. My son will inherit a noble house, and my daughters both married to advantage."

"I don't care if my kids marry to advantage," he said. "I just want them to be happy."

"I'm certain you do. But you know what their real challenge will be?" she said, looking him in the eye.

He sighed. "Me?"

"Precisely. May I offer some advice?" Harry nodded, and she said, "Give them room to surpass you. They mightn't be a Quidditch star, or a war hero ..."

"I hope they're not war heroes!"

"... or a sex symbol," she continued.

"Gah! Even worse! These are my kids you're talking about!"

Jasmine laughed and said, "Trust me, you'll have to get over that one."

"I'm sure you're right," he said, pushing a hand through his hair. "The good news is there's heaps of things I'm rubbish at, which means I just need to keep at it."

She leaned forwards, drawing attention to her daringly low neckline, and her eyes darkened with desire. "I know something you're not rubbish at. Have you decided what I'm in for tonight?"

Amused by her turn of phrase, he said, "In for a penny, in for a pound?"

She wasn't familiar with the Muggle expression, but she quickly grasped its meaning. "I'll gladly take a good pounding—or several."

"That's not what I meant," he laughed. "And I'd rather just take things as they come."

"As would I," she said. "Repeatedly."

They spent more time in his bedroom that night, and he was once again impressed by the youth potion she'd brewed. "What makes blood magic Dark?" he asked, admiring her bare torso. "They used blood magic to correct my eyesight, but it wasn't Dark."

Still flushed with pleasure, she said, "It's the magic I use to craft it. A youth potion goes against nature, more than other potions do. It requires a sort of hubris."

"What's hubris?"

"It's a form of exaggerated pride," she said, and Harry tensed. Jasmine clearly noticed and said, "Relax, I doubt you have it. Although if anyone ought to ..."

"Stop it!" he said. "No superlatives."

"No undeserved superlatives," she countered. "And if you hadn't interrupted me, I'd have told you that hubris—in its classical form—involves the belief that one is on a tier with the gods themselves."

"Blimey, I'm not that bad!"

"But maybe you should be. You survived the Killing Curse twice, after all."

"Both times were a fluke. And I'll kick you out of bed if you keep talking like this."

Jasmine was twirling a lock of hair, and she brushed him with the end of it. "No, you won't. But I'll retract my statement and merely say the potion is Dark because it's fuelled by the power of seeing myself as a sort of goddess, defying time itself."

"Sounds a bit like Voldemort," Harry said. "Although you're considerably hotter than he was."

"I don't appreciate the comparison," she said sharply. "And he's a classic example of hubris, since the gods struck him down. And you were their instrument."

"Do you believe in the gods?" he asked.

"Not as such. But I believe in the order of things, and I know I'm defying it. But I simply can't resist," she said, arching her back to entice him.

Harry nevertheless sent her home before doing everything she would have liked. "I think I've given you enough memories for one night. Fiona and I also took our time, even though she wasn't a virgin either."

"You're giving sex-mad Seekers a bad name," she pouted, using her wand to gather her clothes.

"And you're giving pure-blood matrons a bad name," he said. "Or maybe a good one—I can't decide."

After seeing her off, he looked in on Jamie. "Why did you kick her out?" Jamie asked. "Was it her age or the Dark magic thing?"

"A bit of both, I think. It's just a big step somehow."

"I get it," said Jamie. "This could be the last time you can truthfully claim you've never shagged a youth-potioned Dark witch." Chuckling, he added, "Ludo Bagman might even have odds on that."

"Merlin, this can never get out! Promise you'll never tell anyone, all right?"

"Mum's the word," said Jamie, pretending to zip his mouth shut. "Or 'grandmum,' as the case may be."

All the next morning, Harry was impatient for a call from the stadium. He was to meet the final three candidates, whom he'd already met, only they didn't know it. Last time, when Gemma was hired, both recruits seemed nervous around him, and he wondered whether the new group would behave similarly. Although it was hard to imagine Ian Harkness being cowed by anyone.

The call came after lunch, and Harry popped through the fireplace within minutes. He made his way to the skybenches and took a seat next to Tuttle, who was watching the three candidates through Omnioculars.

"How are they doing?" he asked, and she turned to face him.

"Your man Harkness is insane," said Tuttle, rolling her eyes. "Either he doesn't know what the fouls are, or he doesn't care."

"I know—isn't it great? Has he found the Snitch yet?"

"A few times, but not as often as Collier or Hobart," she said, indicating the other two candidates.

"Right, but they've had training. Ian hasn't," said Harry, grinning.

Tuttle glared at him. "You've made up your bloody mind, haven't you?"

"I'm sorry, I should be more objective," he said, turning his attention to the three flyers.

After a minute of watching in silence, Tuttle said, "I like him too. And we can afford to gamble, since you're not going anywhere." She looked at Harry again and said, "Right?"

"I'm not going to America, if that's what you're asking. Or Singapore, or anywhere else."

"And I know you like the Cannons," she continued.

"Wouldn't play for anyone else."

She raised her Omnioculars and resumed watching the flyers. "It's going to be a fucked-up season, with the new rules. We think we know how it'll work, but no one has an actual clue. It's entirely possible we'll win all our matches but not get the Cup."

Sceptical, Harry said, "I sincerely doubt I'll catch the Snitch every time."

"That's not what I said—I said 'win all our matches.' Because it'll be a lot easier to win without the Snitch."

"Good point. I keep forgetting."

Tuttle sniffed and said, "That's another reason to go with Harkness. He doesn't actually know how to play the bloody game, so he has less to unlearn."

Owen blew a whistle and instructed the three candidates to fly to the skybenches. Harry stood and said, "I guess that's my cue. Any last words of advice?"

Her expression fond, Tuttle said, "Try not to make it too obvious you've already made up your mind."

When everyone landed, Owen introduced them to Harry. "And this is the notorious Harry Potter-Black," he said. "Don't be afraid of him—just tell him he's God's gift to wizardkind and he'll be eating out of your hand."

"Oi!" cried Harry, and everyone laughed.

"Sorry, I had to break the ice," said Owen. "Anyway, you'll take turns with interviews, then we'll get you back in the air."

Harry spoke first with Jess Collier, whom they'd recruited from Wipperham, and she seemed fine. So was Doug Hobart, who'd attended St Egwine's. Both were from schools that were normally overlooked, and Harry felt confident they'd mature into good Seekers.

Ian Harkness, however, was a whole other story. "So, you never played in school?" Harry asked. "Have you watched a lot of Quidditch?"

"Sure, same as anyone else. You can't avoid it growing up magical. But to be honest, I prefer watching Muggle sports."

"Oh? Which ones?"

"Rugby. Handball. A bit of Hurling," he listed. "Have you ever seen roller derby?"

"No, but I've seen the others. On television, anyway."

"Ah, it's summat else—some people only watch because of the girls, but it's a proper sport, make no mistake."

"I'll have to check it out."

"You'd love it—not because you're a letch or anything, but 'cause it doesn't matter how big the player is. It's all in the movement."

"It sounds great," said Harry eagerly, tempted to ask Ian when they could go. "So, why do you want to play Quidditch now?"

Ian's mouth quirked into a half smile. "Well, I hadn't actually thought of it before coming—I just came to give the brooms a go. Never thought they'd bring me back. But then they did, and I got to thinking: why the hell not? I always liked flying, the faster the better. And league Quidditch is where the action is—I've seen how you play."

While Harry was considering his next question, Ian said, "I know what you must be thinking—that I'm too old and don't have enough experience. But I work hard, and when I say I'm gonna do something, I do it. And I stay in shape," he said, hitting his own stomach, which made a solid thump. "Otherwise I'd look like a kid, all skinny like."

"What about spotting?" asked Harry. "It's definitely a mental discipline. Are you up for that?"

"Yeah, I am. I know it's not the same thing, but one of the best parts of my job is driving through a big city like London or Birmingham. You need every bit of brain to keep going at top speed, and sometimes it just clicks. Like, I just know when someone's gonna pop out of nowhere, and I'm ready for it."

Ian leaned closer and said, "Little secret: the Knight Bus is charmed so it won't hit anything, but it also keeps score. So I can tell at the end of my shift whether I really dodged 'em or not. Any blind fool can just blow through it—that's why Ernie's still driving. But for me it's a point of honour to do it clean, and believe me, I do it."

"I believe you," said Harry, wishing he could hire him on the spot. "Ready for some flying?"

They joined the other candidates, who were waiting with their brooms, and Owen gave them their orders. To make things interesting, Harry had been told to disrupt their manoeuvres to see how they'd react. It took them a while to realise what he was doing, and all three of them ably adjusted. But Ian took it one step further and responded in kind.

"You realise that's a foul," Harry called, after Ian clipped him with the tail of his broom.

"Didn't they name a foul after you?" he called back.

"It's not a foul!" said Harry, laughing. "It's a legitimate tactical move."

"My arse it is!" said Ian, and they spun into another manoeuvre.

When everyone landed, the two other candidates exchanged uneasy glances—clearly they knew what was up. I'm sure another team will want them, Harry thought guiltily. And it's not my fault Ian and I get on so well.

Indeed, there was no hiding their rapport, and even though Harry trounced him at spotting the Snitch, no one was surprised by Owen's announcement.

"Ian, congratulations—you're the Chudley Cannons' new reserve Seeker," he said, then offered his thanks to the others. "Word will get out you made the final round," he told them. "So I'm sure you'll get more chances."

Harry thanked them as well, then turned to face Ian. "Well done," he said. "I look forward to flying with you."

Ian looked dazed. "I can't believe it. I came here for a lark."

"How soon can you start?" Owen asked.

"Er, Monday? I'm sure they can replace me by then."

Before Ian left to sign his new contract, Harry took him aside. "I have a confession to make," he began.

"What, is this all a prank?" Ian asked. "It's got to be, right?"

"No, it's real. But ... I actually met you already. Yesterday, and the day before. I was Roger, the redhead from America."

"That was you! What, were you spying on us?"

"Well, yeah. I apologise for deceiving you like that."

"I figured someone would be watching us—you'd be daft not to. But I didn't reckon it'd be you specifically. I didn't slag you, did I?"

"You called me a ponce, but that's nothing. Wait till you see how the other Cannons treat me."

"I'm looking forward to it, mate."

Harry was disappointed Ian wouldn't be at practice the next day, but his teammates were eager to hear about him.

"He's never played Quidditch?" exclaimed Janet.

"No, and you'll love him," said Harry. "Have you ever seen roller derby? Because he's a big fan."

"I have!" she said, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, Snitchbottom, you are going to have so much fun this season! Who cares if your stupid new rules destroy the game we all love! You and this Ian are going to tear the skies apart!"

"We are," said Harry, grinning—and for the moment, nothing else mattered. Not the Quidditch rules, not Dark magic, not his 71-year-old girlfriend. I'm just going to fly like a madman, he thought, nearly glowing with excitement.