Nobody was there to comfort Harry when he woke from a nightmare early Wednesday morning. Unlike his usual Voldemort-themed nightmares, this one was about the Wizengamot, and it wove together elements from Harry's own experiences there and the memories he'd seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve.

Harry had appeared at the Wizengamot multiple times the previous summer. He'd testified on behalf of Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, and also on behalf of Sirius in the posthumous trial that exonerated him. He testified against Dolores Umbridge and the Snatchers who had captured him, but other than a private deposition about Lucius Malfoy there had been no need for him to testify against the inner circle Death Eaters. Strictly speaking, Harry hadn't been required at Umbridge's trial, since there were plenty of other witnesses, but Hermione had urged him to testify against the former Hogwarts High Inquisitor to get what she called 'closure.'

The trial had been particularly unpleasant. Nobody had testified on Umbridge's behalf, and she addressed the court with a long and vitriolic diatribe against Muggleborns, arguing that she'd been trying to protect wizardkind by rooting out the Mudblood menace. She looked ghastly after a month in Azkaban, which hadn't yet been cleared of Dementors, and her speech was repetitive and occasionally incoherent. At the end she addressed Harry directly: 'You unnatural, lying, vicious brat ... your Mudblood mother should have been killed by Fiendfyre for stealing the magic of a true-born wizard. And you, the so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World, are a filthy, lying abomination. Because only an abomination—a freak—could survive the Dark Lord's Killing Curse … not once but twice! Dementors, take his soul! I command you, rid the world of Harry Potter!' She was immediately silenced, and twenty minutes later, when she was sentenced to life in Azkaban, she spat in Harry's direction.

He'd felt no pleasure or even relief when she was sentenced and dragged away. He only felt weary from weeks of funerals and trials, and from exhausting Auror training sessions. Dolores Umbridge had been a waste of a human being and a waste of magic, and it would have been better for everyone if she'd never been born. It disturbed him deeply that she would probably live for decades but never be free from her own hideous thoughts. That evening he'd told Ginny about the trial, lying on the sofa with his head in her lap as she rubbed his aching brow and scalp.

'You can't let her into your head like that,' Ginny told him. 'You only just got Voldemort out, and he never belonged there in the first place.' She lovingly dried his tears, and that night she wrapped her body around his and stroked him gently until he fell asleep.

When he woke from his nightmare that morning, more than a year later, he reached for her groggily. 'Ginny,' he moaned, fruitlessly extending his hand along the smooth surface of his bed. It took him half a minute to remember that Ginny was long gone, and that a series of others had taken her place.

In his dream, he'd alternated between the chair where he'd sat as a defendant during his own trial for underage magic and the booth from which he'd given testimony. He kept seeing the leering, scornful faces of the Wizengamot members, with cruel eyes and too many teeth, and sharp claws emerging from the ends of their voluminous sleeves.

'You are Harry James Potter, of number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey?' announced the voice of a speaker he couldn't see.

He knew that wasn't right, but he couldn't identify the error. Speaking more sternly, the voice repeated, 'You are Harry James Black, of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, Little Whinging, Surrey?'

That also seemed wrong, but he nodded in agreement.

'The accused will speak when addressed!' ordered Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic.

'Yes,' replied Harry, 'I'm Sirius Orion Black of number four, Grimmauld Place.' He looked down and saw gaunt, waxy-looking arms, held in place by shackles.

From the witness booth he described how Sirius had tortured him with a blood quill and mistreated his own house-elf. 'And then he lured Snivellus Snape to the Shrieking Shack during the full moon! Sirius Black is an abomination who deserves the Dementor's Kiss!'

Two Dementors approached his chair, and Harry saw his own arms shackled to it. 'This is a mistake! Expecto Patronum!' he cried desperately, and a glowing silver ferret leapt from his hawthorn wand. But the ferret ran away and went to protect Sirius, who was wearing a funny hat and sitting next to Lucius Malfoy.

The Dementors removed their hoods, and for a moment they were Ginny and Helena, their red and reddish hair shining. Harry felt a surge of desire but couldn't decide who to kiss, and in his hesitation they turned back into Dementors and leaned towards him with rotting lips.

Awake, he cried for Ginny, and then for Helena and Sophie. 'Ma chère,' he mumbled hopelessly, knowing there was nobody to soothe him.

And then, unexpectedly, he felt the glow of accidental Light magic. 'Oh god, yes,' he exhaled, overcome by transcendent bliss. He opened his eyes and saw soft light illuminating the canopy above, and he remained in that state for some time before falling back asleep. When he awoke it was morning and time to get up.

After showering, he made a sincere attempt to comb his hair, in spite of Benedict Thimble's instruction not to, but it made no difference. His new robes and shoes, however, looked terribly smart, and Harry eagerly anticipated the uproar he would cause. Snape was right, he admitted to himself. I do like attention.

After breakfast, he travelled by Floo to the Ministry and strode confidently towards the lifts. He avoided eye contact but could see his robes were attracting stares, both from Ministry employees and people wearing traditional Wizengamot robes. In the lift he heard whispers before an older witch finally said, 'They won't let you in, dressed like that.'

'Yes they will,' replied Harry. 'These are fully compliant with the Wizengamot by-laws. The traditional robes are just that—a tradition. Nothing more.'

A young wizard, who was wearing fitted black robes and flowers, chuckled and said, 'Bloody brilliant. And to think, those poor bastards have been dressed like ottoman footstools for hundreds of years.'

'I hope you're right,' said the witch ominously before exiting at her floor.

When Harry arrived at the entrance to the main Wizengamot chamber, both Victor and Sandra were waiting for him. 'Excellent, you're early,' said the solicitor. 'Did you get enough sleep?'

Harry tried to ignore their knowing expressions. 'Yes, thank you.'

'And do you have the text, or do you need another copy?' asked Sandra.

'I have it right here,' he said, patting his pocket.

Sandra leaned towards him and said, 'I hope the robes weren't a miscalculation, but I'm glad you wore them. Someone needed to put an end to those tea cosies everyone wears.'

'You should demand kickbacks or free merchandise from all the wizarding tailors, in thanks for the new orders they'll get in the next few days,' joked Victor quietly.

'Should we enter?' asked Harry.

'Yes. Sandra and I will sit in the gallery, and the Proctor will lead you to your seat. If they try to make you sit with the lords, tell them you aren't invoking lordly privilege and that a regular seat is fine.'

Just then an elderly wizard wearing traditional Wizengamot robes and a lord's hat approached. He looked critically at Harry, and although he didn't sneer, he raised one fluffy grey eyebrow. His companion opened the door for him, and after the lord passed through, Harry held the door for Victor and Sandra.

When they entered, Victor and Sandra walked directly to the gallery, and Harry was approached by a middle-aged witch wearing special black-trimmed robes. She registered surprise upon seeing Harry's outfit and smiled mischievously.

'I see you consulted the by-laws, Mr Potter,' she said, with a gleam in her eye.

'The Cannons legal department did, yes.'

She leaned towards him and whispered, 'I tried owling you an anonymous tip when I learnt you were coming, but apparently your home address is protected.'

'That was very thoughtful,' he said warmly. 'Next time you can send it to me in care of the team.'

'Noted. Now let's get you seated. Are you invoking lordly privilege this morning?'

'No, it's just a standard complaint.'

'May I assume then that you'd rather not sit amongst your fellow lords? There's a special seat in front with the Black family crest.'

'I realise I'm here as a Black and not a Potter,' said Harry, 'but I'd much rather sit with the commoners, so to speak.'

'Excellent, right this way.' She led him partway around the chamber to a seat in the second row. He scanned the gallery for Victor and Sandra, and when he saw them he smiled and Sandra waved at him. But his smile vanished when he noticed Rita Skeeter, seated next to someone he recognised as a photographer, although he didn't have a camera visible.

Photographs aren't permitted during sessions, Harry recalled. He supposed the photographer might take pictures before or after the session, but something told Harry he was going to try to take a photograph during, even though he'd surely be kicked out.

Do they know something I don't? he thought with a hint of paranoia. It was possible the photographer only wanted a picture of Harry making his complaint, in which case he could relax once it was taken. But if he spoke without being photographed, that meant something was afoot.

It was still ten minutes before the session was to begin, and Harry did his best to relax. Some of his neighbours introduced themselves, and he interacted amiably with them, but there were also a lot of whispers and disapproving glances. He saw a handful of young witches and wizards among the Wizengamot members, and he assumed they'd lost one or both parents during the war. His heart automatically went out to them, and he felt the early stirrings of Light magic, but he clamped down hard on it. The last thing he needed was to start glowing in the dark and gloomy chamber.

He peeked at the lords' section and saw they were eyeing him with scorn and what he feared was a note of triumph. They probably think I'm dressed wrong, he told himself, hoping it was true. He also looked at the Chief Warlock, who'd been appointed immediately after the war. Tiberius Sledge was a pure-blood and notably conservative, but he'd opposed Voldemort vocally enough that he was considered a good compromise as Chief Warlock. Harry had found him condescending the few times they'd met, but perhaps that was to be expected from someone at least fifty years his senior.

At nine o'clock, one of the lords struck a small gong, and Chief Warlock Sledge called the chamber into session. Sandra had told Harry that this might be when he'd be reprimanded for inappropriate dress, and she was right.

'Mr Potter,' said Sledge, 'I'm afraid you can't participate in today's session without wearing the proper robes. You may stay in the gallery, if you wish, but you won't be able to make your complaint until you're suitably clothed.'

Harry rose and responded as Sandra had instructed him. 'Chief Warlock, I beg to differ. My adviser consulted the Wizengamot by-laws and verified the requirements for how voting members need to dress. I can assure you that my outfit meets all the requirements.'

'But you're not wearing a hat,' sputtered an elderly wizard, who was wearing the triangular hat worn by non-lords.

'The hat's not required,' said Harry. 'It's only a tradition.'

The Chief Warlock turned to the Proctor who'd greeted Harry that morning. 'Is this true?' he asked sharply.

She was holding a large book, which Harry recognised as the one Sandra had consulted. 'Yes, your honour. Mr Potter is dressed in full compliance with the chamber by-laws. All that's required is the colour of the robes, and the matching trim and necktie. There aren't any rules about cut, style, or wearing a hat.'

There was a quiet explosion of whispers, and at least a dozen witches and wizards immediately removed their hats, including everyone near Harry's age. Harry stifled a smirk as some of them ran their fingers through their hair to remove all traces of hat-head, and he noticed that one of the young wizards deliberately messed up his otherwise docile hair.

'I stand corrected,' said the Chief Warlock stiffly. 'You may be seated, Mr Potter.'

Harry sat down, pleased to have got through that part. But he was concerned that the photographer hadn't taken his picture, even though it had been a good opportunity. Maybe he's waiting for me to make the complaint, he hoped.

The next half hour was filled with a mix of Wizengamot business and ceremonial drivel, including several more bangs on the gong. A witch seated near him was given the opportunity to make a complaint, as Harry planned to do, and he observed the proceedings with interest. She requested a full hearing about a property dispute, and the entire chamber voted to allow it. The hearing was scheduled for the next session, and the witch smiled and returned to her seat.

That looked easy, thought Harry optimistically. It matched what Sandra had described as the 'best case scenario,' and he hoped his complaint would go as smoothly. But there were butterflies in his stomach when the court secretary called his name.

'Harry Potter, please rise and describe your complaint,' said the secretary.

Harry stood and was about to speak when he was interrupted by the lord he'd seen at the doorway that morning. 'Chief Warlock Sledge, I request to be heard.'

'Yes, Lord Wynter,' said Sledge, 'that is your privilege.'

Lord Wynter stood slowly from his ornamented seat and cleared his throat. 'Mr Potter,' he said carefully, as though questioning whether that were Harry's real name, 'am I to understand you're forgoing lordly privilege for this complaint?'

'That's correct,' said Harry in a clear voice. Now would be a great time to take that photograph, he thought nervously.

'That is certainly your right,' acknowledged Lord Wynter. 'However, the magic of the chamber requires that you remove your family ring to do so.'

Harry reflexively touched his left middle finger, even though the ring was hidden and he couldn't feel it there. 'I can't. It's charmed to be unremovable unless I relinquish my claim as Head of House.'

'Oh dear,' said Lord Wynter with mock concern. 'Then I'm afraid you'll need to take your seat with the lords and ladies of the Wizengamot.'

Harry glanced at the Proctor, who nodded soberly. He looked defiantly at Lord Wynter but dutifully walked across the chamber floor towards the seat with the Black family crest. I never could have seen the crest from this far away before I had my vision fixed, he thought absently.

There was chatter throughout the chamber as he walked, and it only quietened with another bang of the gong. Harry was about to enter the lords' section when he found his way was magically barred. 'I can't enter,' he said, not sure whether this was a good or bad development.

'Yes,' replied Lord Wynter. 'You'll need a hat.'

Before Harry could explain that he didn't have one, he felt a hat magically appear on his head, compressing his hair. He scowled and was about to reach up to feel it when he heard the snap of a camera.

'Eject him!' cried the court secretary, and two guards apprehended the photographer and escorted him from the chamber at wandpoint. Rita Skeeter, however, remained, and she grinned cheekily at Harry. Very funny, he thought. I still look better in these robes than any of these corpses do in their upholstery.

Once hatted, Harry was able to enter the lords' section, and he felt the Black family seat welcome him as he sat down. The seat became more comfortable, moulding itself to his body, and Harry felt the ring become visible on his finger. He didn't bother trying to conceal it, though, knowing instinctively the charm wouldn't work.

Lord Wynter, who was watching Harry with amusement, turned again towards the full court. 'I humbly apologise for the disruption,' he said unctuously. 'I was only upholding my sacred duty as a lord of the Wizengamot. I hereby cede the floor to Lord Black.' He sat down and looked haughtily at Harry.

Harry was looking desperately at Sandra and Victor, who'd been whispering to one another, and Sandra encouragingly motioned for him to stand up. Harry stood and pulled the text from his pocket.

'I, Harry James Potter,' he began, and he felt a mild but unpleasant shock from the family ring. 'I, Harry James Potter,' he repeated, only to experience a more severe shock, which lingered. Sighing, he said, 'I, Harry James Black, hereby request the attention of the full Wizengamot.' The pain in his finger subsided and was replaced by a rather pleasant warmth.

'I wish to make complaint against Rita Skeeter for repeatedly performing illegal charms on more than two dozen Muggles over the past year. She performed Compulsion and Obliviation Charms on my old neighbours, classmates, schoolteachers, and—most grievously—upon two of my blood relations, as well as my uncle by marriage. I request the court's permission for a full hearing to investigate these charges and determine whether Miss Skeeter's actions merit civil or criminal punishment.'

There were more whispers among the Wizengamot members, and Harry could see that many of them seemed sympathetic towards him. People glared at Rita in the gallery, but she kept her eyes fixed insolently on him.

Harry expected the secretary to ask the court to vote, as he'd done during the previous complaint, but Lord Wynter cleared his throat again. 'I believe Lord Black is unaware of his particular privilege at this juncture.' Harry looked blankly at the elderly lord, who continued. 'As a lord of the Wizengamot, it is your inviolable right to have your request voted on exclusively by your peers.'

Fuck! he mouthed involuntarily, before regaining his composure. 'Am I permitted to decline this right and request a vote from the entire court?'

'Yes, by removing your ring,' replied Lord Wynter coldly.

'Madam Proctor,' asked Harry desperately, 'is Lord Wynter correct?'

She was already looking through a small book and said, 'Yes, according to the 1707 amendment to the Wizengamot charter.' Harry felt his heart sink, and he was unable to appreciate all the sniggers when she said '1707.'

'Lord Black,' repeated Lord Wynter. 'Are you indeed unwilling to remove your ring?'

Harry sighed heavily, knowing he'd lost. 'That's correct.'

'Then please be so kind as to request lordly privilege. Lord Flint, please give Lord Black the required text.' A beefy, middle-aged wizard sneeringly handed Harry a parchment.

Filling in the blanks, Harry glumly read, 'I, Lord Harry James Black, hereby invoke lordly privilege and request a vote exclusively from the lords and ladies of the Wizengamot. This is my sacred right, earned by my forbears and passed unerringly to me, and I humbly supplicate my noble peers to impartially evaluate my demand.'

The court secretary announced, 'Those lords and ladies in favour of granting Lord Black's request for a full hearing, please raise your wands.' Three people raised their wands, including a witch Harry suspected was Daphne Greengrass's mother.

'Those opposed, please raise your wands.' Ten wands rose, and the secretary announced, 'Lord Black's request is denied.'

'Rita's a viper, you know,' blurted Harry. 'You're not any safer from her than I am. Merlin knows there have to be secrets about your families, like how they paid for their lordships in the first place.'

'Lord Black!' admonished the secretary, 'You will be silent or leave the chamber.'

'With pleasure,' scowled Harry, rising from his seat. He turned to the lords and said, 'You've really proven how noble you are, by voting to allow Rita Skeeter to manipulate Muggles for a good story. If only I could serve wizarding Britain as well as you did just now.'

Numerous people laughed, and nearly everyone in the gallery applauded. 'You tell 'em, Potter,' cried a grey-haired wizard. 'You'll get the last laugh anyway, with their granddaughters most likely.'

Now there's an idea, mused Harry, thinking of Lydia Travers. Pulling off his hat and concealing his ring, he marched out of the courtroom to the sound of repeated gongs. At least a dozen spectators followed him, crowding around to offer their support. 'You made those lords look right petty,' said a witch. 'All because you burst their bubble last month—I hope you don't regret it.'

'Are you kidding?' replied Harry. 'I'd do it again in a heartbeat.'

He craned his head looking for Victor and Sandra, but before they arrived he felt someone put a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw it was Rita Skeeter.

Before he could speak, she said, 'Harry, I simply love those robes. Who made them for you?'

'Benedict Thimble,' he said automatically. 'But why should I even tell you, when you're just going to make something up?'

'I think you've forgotten how well we work together,' she replied. 'Don't you remember that interview Hermione Granger forced me to write and publish in the Quibbler?'

'Yes, and I remember the interview last year, which you turned into a lurid exposé about Hermione, Ron, and me.'

'Darling, I had to! All you talked about was months of eating mushrooms in some shabby tent. And besides, you were so boring back then, with your Auror job and your sweet little girlfriend. But you're so much more entertaining now,' she gushed. In a lower voice, she added, 'I'm sure we can find a way to satisfy both our needs.'

His eyes widened in alarm. Is she propositioning me? he thought, horrified, and she burst out laughing. 'No, not like that, dearie. I don't flatter myself I'd appeal to someone with your range of options. Though you should really check your partners for Polyjuice Potion, because I've heard a lot of matrons are interested. Including the wife of one of the lords who voted against you.'

'Thanks for the tip,' he said archly. 'I'd send you an autographed Chocolate Frog Card in appreciation, but I'm too busy having threesomes with a vampire and an underaged Veela.'

'The threesome was true,' she hissed. 'And the rest was just for fun. I've heard you on the radio ... you and your mates are having a ball with everything I wrote about you.'

'You mean about how I was abused? Yes, that's been a laugh riot.'

'That was also true. And I did you a favour, ripping off the plaster like that. In my line of work, I've seen how secrets destroy lives. Imagine how much happier Dumbledore would have been if he hadn't been so stupidly private.'

She has a point, he thought. And I hardly have any secrets left. 'I'm willing to talk,' he said cautiously. 'I have causes I'd like to promote—werewolf rights, for example. But I'd demand a binding civil agreement through Gringotts, inflicting penalties if you lie.'

'I'm certain I won't need to lie with a subject like you, dearie. You've exceeded my wildest expectations. And yes, I know about the witch on Monday night, and why you were so tired in practice yesterday.'

'Are you planning on printing that?' he asked, not particularly concerned.

'No, but she is. Apparently she learnt that several publications have a bounty for a first-hand account of a night with the Boy Who Lived—excuse me, the Man Who Lived. Your previous partners didn't take the bait, but someone was bound to eventually. I hope you satisfied her.'

Harry couldn't help smiling. 'I did. Repeatedly.'

Rita laughed and said, 'This is why I don't need to make things up anymore. Although I'd be glad to take down a few of those lords if you'd like, as a show of good faith.'

'No thanks. Revenge is a waste of time, as far as I'm concerned. But tell me,' he added, 'do you know if Lord Travers was there?'

'Yes, he was seated behind you. The Blacks paid more for their lordship than the Traverses did.'

'And how did he vote?'

'Against you.'

Harry smiled again, and Rita studied him a moment before exclaiming, 'You devil!'

'She started it,' he replied. 'And nothing's happened yet.'

'Let me know if you need my help getting the word out. I'm certain we'll make much better friends than enemies.'

'Perhaps we will,' said Harry. 'But first, Gringotts.'

'I'm glad to see you're learning from your mistakes. Some wizards never do.'

After speaking with an apologetic Victor and Sandra, Harry dashed up the stairs up to the atrium to avoid sharing the lift with anyone. Before exiting the stairwell he took a moment to catch his breath and drink some water, and he emerged to find several reporters and photographers waiting for him. He answered their questions:

'Yes, I was disappointed in the outcome ... I had no idea I'd be forced to invoke lordly privilege ... No, lordships are bollocks ... The robes are fully compliant ... Benedict Thimble ... We decided on a pocket square instead ... I'd enjoy seeing her again but I have no current plans to return to Paris ... I'm very happy for Hermione and Ryan, and there's never been anything like that between us ... That's correct, not until I'm twenty-one ...'

He finally had to shoo them away, 'I'm late for practice,' he said, walking towards the fireplaces. He travelled home and quickly changed into a tracksuit and managed to arrive just as his teammates were finishing their calisthenics.

Harry approached Tuttle and said, 'I'm fully rested and can run laps or do calisthenics if you like.'

'Did you win your vote?' she asked.

'No, the lords were ready for me. I should have known better than to take a fight to their stronghold.'

'You'll outlast those geezers,' she said. 'Go fetch your broomstick and knock my socks off during the drills.'

He caught up with Owen at the locker room. 'Is it official yet?' he asked eagerly.

'It is,' replied Owen. 'Tuttle made the announcement this morning.'

'Brilliant, and congratulations again.'

'Cheers, and thanks also for that little gift from Prongs last night.'

'Did it work?' asked Harry.

'Yes, not a peep out of the girls until sunrise. Jill sends her thanks as well.'

Harry put his all into the flying drills that morning, partly to work out his frustration from the Wizengamot session. He was more upset by how petty the lords were than he was about Rita Skeeter getting away with it. He knew there was nothing personal about Rita's antics, but the lords had acted out of pure spite. Harry wondered whether he should attend the Wizengamot more often, just to be a thorn in their side. Perhaps Sandra could check the 1707 amendment to see if there was any wiggle room around the hat.

He didn't need to shower before lunch, having missed the running and calisthenics, so he looked in on Mrs Thwip. 'I'm afraid I fell behind on my correspondence last weekend, but I've no further plans to leave town and I'm staying in tonight.'

'I'm glad to hear it, Mr Potter. I can't help you if you won't hold up your end of the bargain,' she said sternly.

Hoping she wasn't preparing to sack him, he dictated a letter to the FLOOF directors, asking about a tutor. 'Could you send it by express owl?' he asked. 'And instruct them to reply to my home address? I'd like to get started straight away.'

'Yes, and I commend the effort.' She pulled out large envelope and said, 'You've received some letters we need to discuss. Please, have a seat.'

Concerned, Harry sat opposite her. 'Is it hate mail?' he asked.

'No, not at all. But you should read one for yourself,' she said, handing him a parchment from the envelope.

Dear Harry Potter,

I am ten years old and live near Tinworth. My dad died almost two years ago, because he was Muggle-born, and my mum has a boyfriend named Roger. I don't like Roger, and I don't know why my mum likes him because he's mean to her too. I once managed to knock him over with accidental magic, but usually he's the one doing the thumping. My mum says Roger's only angry sometimes and that he's all right the rest of the time, but the problem is you never know when the sometimes are going to be.

The reason I'm writing is because I know you had mean relations and I thought maybe you'd know how to help.

Sincerely,
Christopher Spotswood

Harry felt shaky after reading it. 'How many are there?' he asked. 'Are they all from children?'

'There are fifteen so far. Most are from children, but two are from grown women, and one's from a teenage Squib.'

Fifteen! thought Harry hopelessly. 'In a single week?' he asked.

'Since last Sunday, yes.'

I have infinite guest rooms, he thought, but something told him that wasn't the solution. 'What do you recommend? Naturally I want to help, but I wouldn't know where to start.'

'I've some experience with this,' she replied. 'One of my previous clients periodically received letters from women in abusive relationships, hoping he'd come and curse their husbands.'

It had to be Lockhart, thought Harry. 'And how did your client respond?'

'He took the first one seriously—he fancied himself a hero, and the witch had included her photograph. But he wasn't as good at duelling as you'd have thought, and he wound up in St Mungo's for several days. After that he told me to handle them.' At Harry's prompting, she said, 'The Ministry is useless—the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol will respond to a complaint, but they haven't any services for finding people a new place to live. But there are several charities that do good work.'

'Are they on the list you gave me?'

'Yes, the Wizarding Orphans Relief Fund was included. The other ones hadn't yet contacted you when I prepared that list, but they've written to you since.'

'Since the article about my relations came out, you mean?'

'Correct.'

'Obviously I'd like to help them,' he said. 'The letter writers and the organisations. Could I authorise you to send drafts from Gringotts on my behalf? I'm not keeping up well enough on my own.'

'Yes, Mr Potter. Gringotts has a procedure for standing orders, which protects us both from any potential misconduct.'

'I'm sure you wouldn't do anything unethical,' began Harry, but she interrupted him.

'I wouldn't, but you've no way of knowing that. You'd best learn not to be so trusting.'

'All right,' he said. 'And can you refer the letter writers to the appropriate organisations?'

'Yes. The organisations don't have infinite resources, but your steady support would help. Would you also like to reply directly?'

'I would, but is there any risk of someone intercepting it?'

'Several of the letter writers offered alternative mailing addresses.'

Mrs Thwip gave him advice about how to reply, and Harry dictated letters to the three agencies she recommended.

'I wonder if I can raise money for those organisations as well,' he mused.

'I'm certain you could, Mr Potter. For example, you could donate signed merchandise to WORF's annual Hallowe'en Auction.'

'Interesting. When I had my vision fixed, the Optimancer suggested I auction off my old eyeglasses. Do you think someone would bid on them?'

'I've no doubt of it. People waste money on all sorts of rubbish.'

He put the envelope of letters into his bottomless pouch and thanked her. 'I'd really be lost without you, Mrs Thwip. Please give me advance warning if you're planning to sack me.'

She assured him she would, and he left for lunch with his teammates, who were sympathetic about his failure at the Wizengamot. 'That was really bloody stupid of them,' said Darren. 'You have far more power and influence than they do. The only thing they have going for them is that they're rich and have seats on the Wizengamot, but that's true of you as well.'

'But I don't want to go to the Wizengamot,' groaned Harry. 'I know that's the best way to annoy them, but talk about a waste of time.'

'There are other ways to annoy them,' suggested Janet. 'Lure their offspring over to your camp, for example.'

I'm one step ahead of you, thought Harry, but he knew she wasn't just talking about seducing their granddaughters. 'What do you propose?'

'Throw more parties. Win over some big-name Dark family heirs. Show them your side is more fun than theirs.'

'You're asking me to out-Slytherin a bunch of Slytherins. I'm not that subtle.'

'You don't need to be subtle,' argued Suresh. 'You just need to be fabulous.'

'Fabulous?' said Harry incredulously.

'Yes, and completely shameless,' continued Suresh. 'Invite them to Cannons matches. Go out drinking with them, but pace yourself because you're a bloody lightweight. Take them out Muggling with you, once George Weasley figures out that condom. See if you can set up a cinema screen on your rooftop and show them films.'

'I don't know if I can spend time with a bunch of people who sided with Voldemort. They'd probably try to Body-Bind me and steal my blood for Dark rituals.'

'That only happened once,' snapped Janet. 'Why do you keep harping on it?'

'You're right,' agreed Harry. 'Maybe Doctor Niffler could teach me how to let it go. But back to your point, I have a few acquaintances from Dark families. I could ask whether they think it could work.' He was thinking of Theo Nott, Daphne Greengrass, and Lydia of course. 'I could even invite them to this weekend's match.'

'Perfect,' said Ryan. 'We're counting on you to stop the next war before it starts. But no pressure.'

After lunch, Harry and Owen dove into Seeker training. 'What do I need to know about Jerome Wither?' he asked, referring to the Wasps Seeker.

'Pure-blood,' replied Owen. 'I'm not sure which school he attended. He's a bit of a dark horse, actually.'

'Did Spencer play him?'

'Yes, but the first time we lost in less than twenty minutes, and the second time was when Spencer was experimenting with deliberately avoiding the other Seeker.'

'How would that even work?' asked Harry.

'It didn't,' said Owen.

'Wither ...' muttered Harry. 'I don't remember that name from the war trials or any Auror briefings. I suppose he could be the non-Dark kind of pure-blood. How's his flying?'

'Pretty good. But the Wasps have had bad luck with injuries this season, and they have a losing record.'

'Technically so do we,' observed Harry.

'True, but the Wasps aren't on a five-game winning streak.'

'I know,' said Harry smugly. 'I just wanted to hear you say it.'

'You arrogant bastard! I reckon Rita Skeeter was right about you.'

Harry spent the next hour searching for a modified Snitch while avoiding independently operating Bludgers. Owen monitored his progress from the ground and used a remote device to adjust the settings on the three balls. It was a useful exercise, and Harry upped the ante by flying aggressively, to make up for his poor performance on Tuesday.

'Nice work,' said Tuttle when Harry landed. 'I'm hoping we can replace Barrowmaker with someone who isn't afraid of their own shadow.'

'That would be fun,' agreed Harry. 'I'm getting tired of having to calm him down whenever a Bludger appears in his peripheral vision.'

'Oi!' cried Owen. 'You try getting crushed by two of them. Bludgers are my version of ... I don't know, what are you afraid of?'

'Black fluttering curtains,' said Harry without thinking. 'And Dementors.'

Owen was puzzled. 'Because they're wearing black fluttering curtains?'

'No,' sighed Harry. 'When Sirius died he fell through a black fluttering curtain in the Department of Mysteries. I have panic attacks around them.'

'Blimey,' exclaimed Tuttle. 'Thank Merlin I've never seen one over a Quidditch pitch, but don't let Gilstrap find out about that.'

'You should really try to get over it,' suggested Owen. 'I'm sure there are methods for desensitising you.'

'I'm sure there are,' said Harry, not intending to investigate them.

Harry won the practice match, in spite of a few close shaves with the Bludgers. 'We only have two more matches against each other,' he said to Owen forlornly. 'After that, who's going to call me Voldemort's soul-linked bitch? I can't see myself telling the new reserve about my Horcrux.'

'No, but I'll test all the recruits for their ability to take the piss. The last thing you need is to practice against someone who's scared to insult you.'

'Because I might kill them?' asked Harry. 'No, those days are over. Light magic is my bag now.'

'Potter, don't even think of selecting a reserve Seeker based on how beddable she is,' warned Owen.

'Ugh, can you imagine, having to fly against an ex day after day? No thank you.'

'It's a good thing your ex is a Chaser. We play the Harpies in a few weeks, you know.'

'Yes, and I'm glad I don't have to fly against her,' said Harry. 'I'd probably start crying and beg her to take me back.'

'Really? I thought you were over her.'

'Apparently not ... she showed up in a dream last night, and when I awoke I'd forgotten we even split up. It was an unpleasant realisation.'

'First loves are hard,' sympathised Owen. 'Just give it time. And of course distraction helps,' he added slyly.

No distraction tonight, thought Harry. He'd been tempted to move up his date with Lydia, but he really needed to catch up on his fan mail—particularly the letters from people in abusive households.

In the shower that afternoon he reflected on what Rita had said: 'I did you a favour, ripping off the plaster like that. In my line of work, I've seen how secrets destroy lives.' Harry knew he'd never have willingly revealed his history with the Dursleys, but perhaps something good would come from it. If I can help even one child get out of a bad situation, it'll be worth it.

There were two letters waiting for him at home. One was a quick note from Hermione, expressing sympathy about the Wizengamot session. 'Send Prongs if you want company—I'm busy after six but I'd be glad to listen to you whinge for a short while.' The other was from FLOOF, in response to his request for a tutor:

Dear Mr Potter,

I'm pleased you wrote to us about finding a tutor. We have an ideal candidate—he taught for many years at Binglingham but was sacked after being infected in 1995. His name is Simon Longclaw (yes, really), and he ran their supplementary studies programme, covering both Muggle and wizarding culture. Simon recently returned to England after several years on the Continent and is an active FLOOF volunteer, and he's keen to return to teaching.

Please let us know when you're available to meet him and evaluate whether he fulfils your requirements, and we'll make the necessary arrangements.

Yours sincerely,

Darryl Macaulay
Director, FLOOF

Harry thought Simon sounded perfect, and he wrote back to invite him to dinner on Friday. It's the night before a match, but even Tuttle can't object to a quiet evening at home with a male tutor.

Next he sent Hermione his Patronus. 'Yes, the Wizengamot session was frustrating, mostly because I should have realised the lords would find some way to thwart me. I don't need to whinge, but feel free to drop in if you like.'

She found him in the sitting room a few minutes later. 'I can't believe how petty the lords were,' she scolded. 'I almost hope Rita goes after them.'

'Actually, she and I spoke afterwards, and she offered to do just that,' replied Harry.

'You spoke with Rita? And you didn't hex her?'

'I'm more annoyed with the lords than I am with Rita. She proposed an alliance.'

'Surely you're not going to accept it. She can't be trusted!'

'No, but she's willing to sign a binding civil agreement that imposes penalties if she tells lies about me.'

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'Was that her suggestion?'

'No, mine—she commended me for learning from my mistakes.' He sighed and added, 'It's not actually the worst thing in the world that she told everyone about the Dursleys. I've started receiving letters from people in abusive households, mostly children.'

'Oh, Harry!' she exclaimed. 'How will you reply?'

He told her what Mrs Thwip had advised, and that he'd pledged monthly support to the organisations she'd recommended. 'I've half a mind to accept more sponsorships, just to raise more gold, but for now my income is sufficient.'

'I'd never have thought you'd do more good as a professional Seeker than as an Auror, but you're proving me wrong,' she admitted. 'By the way, I can't believe what you said to the lords ... everyone was talking about it.'

'Oh dear, what did I say exactly? I'm afraid I lost my temper.'

'You said, "If only I could serve wizarding Britain as well as you did just now."'

Harry smirked. 'And does everyone think I'm an arrogant prat now?'

'Yes, in the best possible way. I can't think of a better time for your obnoxious Seeker persona to make an appearance. And people were raving about your robes—apparently one wizard took his off the moment he left the chamber and set fire to them.'

'Please tell me he was wearing something underneath.'

'Y-fronts, or so I'm told. He rode the lift all the way to the Atrium and then Flooed home.'

'That's one way to get a lift to yourself,' he observed.

She looked at Harry's ordinary Muggle outfit. 'I gather you're staying home tonight?'

'Yes, I need to catch up on fan mail.'

'Surely you have plans tomorrow night,' she said. 'I can't see you staying home three nights in a row.'

'I do, but I'm not telling you about them.'

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 'Why not? Will I be concerned about your safety or merely scandalised?'

'Probably both. But don't worry, I'm taking precautions. I haven't forgotten everything I learned in Auror training.'

'I don't like the sound of that. Do I need to ask Ron to follow you?'

'I'll be fine. We'll be in public—I'm certain you'll read about it on Friday morning.'

'All right,' she said cautiously. 'Which robes are you wearing?'

'The white ones.'

'You mean you're willing to be seen in them more than once? How disappointing.' He glared at her and she laughed. 'All right, I should leave you to your fan mail, Professor Lockhart. See you on Saturday, if not sooner.'

After she left, he wrote letters to Theo Nott and Daphne Greengrass, inviting them to the match. At this rate I'll be inviting Blaise Zabini, he thought sourly. But a few minutes later he realised he still had an extra ticket, on top of the one he'd tentatively set aside for Lydia.

Dear Blaise,

I have to grudgingly admit you know your whisky—so far the only bottle I've touched is the single-malt you gave me. Admittedly it got me into trouble with Rita Skeeter, but that's hardly your fault. And I'm told you were helpful that night while I was otherwise engaged, so in appreciation I'm inviting you to Saturday's Cannons match against Wimbourne. Owl me if you can't make it, but otherwise you'll find the ticket waiting for you at the stadium. I've invited Theo and Daphne as well, so you needn't worry you'll be flanked by savage Gryffindors.

Best regards,
Harry

Before he could change his mind he sent Lysander off with the stack of letters. I'll probably need another owl at this rate, he mused.

Harry spent hours responding to his fan mail, and the letters describing abuse broke his heart. 'My family calls me a freak too,' wrote the sixteen year-old Squib. 'I can't believe your relations thought you were a freak for having magic, but I guess it's a matter of perspective. I don't mind being a Squib so much—I've got used to it, and Muggle school is all right. But it's two years before I start university, and I don't know how I'll manage at home that long.'

He wrote back to her, incorporating the advice Mrs Thwip had given him but also speaking candidly:

Dear Celia,

I'm glad you wrote to me, and I'm terribly sorry your family treats you so poorly. I've been called a freak more times than I can recall, and not just by my relations, so I know how much it hurts.

I hope this is all right, but I've asked my assistant to forward your letter to an organisation that helps people in situations like yours. They're very discreet and won't take action on your behalf unless you authorise it, and I'm told they've helped other kids find a safe and supportive place to live. I only wish I'd known about them when I was younger.

I'm glad you're planning to attend university—my friend Hermione is Muggle-born and often complains about how limited wizarding education is. I feel the same way, and I've even decided to engage a tutor to fill in the huge gaps in my education. I was recently in Paris and saw truly marvellous cathedrals and works of art that were created entirely without magic, and I'm convinced that human greatness has very little to do with whether you can use a wand.

You deserve to be around people who value you, and who see everything you're capable of rather than the one thing you're not. But I hope you won't leave wizarding society altogether. I'd love to see better relations between wizards and Muggles, to the extent that secrecy allows, and I think Squibs have a crucial role to play. And you'll be cheating yourself if you never go to Paris and travel by Magipolitain, which you should have no trouble doing.

Thank you for writing, and please keep me posted about your circumstances.

Yours sincerely,
Harry

P.S.: You didn't ask for a signed photograph, but I've enclosed one just in case your family asks why you received post. But feel free to discard it if you don't like the Cannons.

Harry wrote long letters to each of the fifteen people who'd written to him about being abused. His hand was sore by the time he finished, but he was glad he'd responded personally. I might get attention for catching the Snitch or telling off lords, he thought, but this is far more meaningful.

As he prepared for bed that night, he admired the peacock feather wallpaper Kreacher had installed in his room. I don't care if it's sybaritic, thought Harry defiantly. It's pretty, and Hermione doesn't have to see it. He was enjoying doing things his own way, regardless of what other people thought, and as he drifted off to sleep he wondered idly what other rules or conventions he might break next.