Author's note:

As you may have noticed, the last chapter provided more closure than usual, but that doesn't mean the story is anywhere near finished. I nevertheless considered marking Loose Cannon as "complete" and immediately starting a sequel—the only problem was I couldn't decide what to call it. (Looser Cannon? Suggestions welcome!)

However, I decided to mix things up a bit, starting with this chapter. So far I've only done Harry and Hermione POV, but this chapter has multiple points of view, and I do more POVs in future chapters. I still can't predict how long Loose Cannon will be, but I do have an end in mind and am committed to finishing it.

On a personal note, my mother died of cancer at the end of July, after a shockingly quick decline. I found I needed a break from writing for nearly two months, but now I'm back at it and expect to continue as before. BTW, if you left me a hate review in August or September, I hope you feel very guilty now :)

In some ways, the small differences affected Fiona the most. Harry's dental floss in the bathroom, for example—she and Rob only ever used charms, so Harry's small Muggle artefact stood out like a beacon. Or the occasional tiny petal she found on the bureau, since certain boutonnières tended to shed.

Even though she was naturally tidy, she never put away the spool of floss or Vanished the errant petals. Because these subtle signs of Harry somehow transformed her bedroom, formerly a shrine to Rob, into a space for the living.

And miraculously, Fiona had returned to life as well. Looking back, she realised that every interaction she and Harry had shared—from his initial drunken declaration to their most recent sexual interlude—was pouring life back into her. The Boy Who Lived doesn't cover it, she thought. He's also the Man Who Revived.

It was Saturday, and he'd left early to help Ron Weasley pack and move. He was thoughtful that way, leaving quietly before Matthew awoke so she and her son could have a morning alone. Harry had little experience of the parent-child bond, poor thing, but he clearly respected Matthew's need for 'Mummy time.'

Fiona also felt maternal towards Harry, if the term could apply to such an adult relationship. His complete focus when they were together—and the way he drank in her attention—reminded her of when Matthew was very small. Back then, it had been exhausting, since only she could console her infant son. But she also relished being the centre of someone's world; she told Rob at the time, 'As far as he's concerned, I'm the light of the universe, and I intend to enjoy it while it lasts.'

Fiona had plans to see Harry that evening, and she suspected she'd need to vent. Jill, bless her heart, still wanted to mend the rift between Fiona and their friends from school, and she'd invited several over that afternoon. They'd had an exceptionally tight social circle, and Jill still believed the main problem was miscommunication. She also hoped Fiona would be more receptive, now that she was in love, and Fiona agreed to try one last time.

She and Matthew arrived after lunch, and he was off in a flash to play with the twins. Meanwhile, her former friends rose to greet her. 'Fiona! You look fantastic!' said Meg, who was visibly pregnant.

'"The Stunning Mrs Dunning,"' quoted Trista, giving her a hug. 'Or is it "Mum Fatale?" Either way, it clearly suits you!'

'And that picture from the Quidditch match, of you and Harry in the stands! He looked like he was ready to drop down on one knee!'

'All the players were like that,' said Fiona. 'It turns out sleep-deprivation and non-stop flying turns people all gooey.'

They sat down, and Jill poured her a cup of tea. Fiona tried deflecting their questions, but her old classmates were persistent. 'I want your side of the story—did he really send you a gift every day?' asked Meg, plainly scanning her for new jewellery.

'Yes, but they were just little things, like stickers for Matthew, or a small box of chocolates.'

'How romantic!' said Trista. 'I can't remember the last time Kenneth bought me a gift for no reason.'

In a familiar sequence, Fiona's brain jumped from 'Trista and Kenneth' to 'long relationship' to 'Rob,' with the usual pang of loss. But then she remembered Harry—with his alluring green eyes, cheeky smile, and perpetually bed-mussed hair—and she melted inside.

'How's Matthew handling it?' asked Meg. 'This must be a huge adjustment for him.'

'It is, and it's not always easy.' She described his overt hostility when he realised Harry was more than just Mummy's friend, and they laughed over his accidental magic.

'He conjured water without a wand?' exclaimed Trista.

'Yes, for the express purpose of making it look like Harry had wet himself.'

'Still, that's impressive magic. And he's definitely a Dunning.'

'That he is,' said Fiona, with unexpected warmth towards Trista, who'd seen Rob's water affinity first-hand.

'How often does Harry stay the night?' asked Meg. 'Or do you sleep at his place?'

'No, I've never slept there. And we seem to be doing every other night, now that the Quidditch season is over.'

Questions followed about whether she'd seen his bed, and how large it was. She refused to give specifics, not wanting the press to find out, but she admitted it was comically vast. Next came the Sorceress part of the conversation, which focused less on Harry and more on how the article had affected everyone's marriages.

'It definitely shook up our routine,' said Trista. 'After Peri was born, we turned shagging into a science. Down for a nap, baby-proofing charms—in both senses of the word—and Bob's your uncle. But now we've got considerably more variety, thank you very much.'

'Quality, not quantity,' said Jill. 'That's been our motto since the girls were born, and it's served us well. But Owen definitely upped his game after that article came out—it's one thing to be outclassed on the pitch, and quite another in the bedroom.'

Fiona kept waiting for Meg and Trista to drop hints about meeting Harry, but none came. She supposed they'd met him at his drag party, or after a Quidditch match, but she was surprised they weren't using him as an excuse to reconnect. And yet she understood, since she'd rebuffed any number of prior attempts.

'What's it like seeing his adverts everywhere?' asked Meg. 'I can't say I mind—he's awfully fit—but it must be weird for you.'

'It is weird,' said Fiona, faintly pleased by Meg's praise. 'I think it's worse for Harry, though. Poor thing—he really thought the adverts wouldn't run in Britain. But he didn't realise people would duplicate them magically, since they're just Muggle photos.'

'And you don't mind seeing him with another witch?'

'It's not ideal, but I really can't complain, considering they broke up before we started dating.'

'Not just that,' said Jill conspiratorially. 'He fancied Fiona for months—ever since they first met—only Owen didn't approve because he thought Harry wasn't serious enough. But after his last party, Owen finally gave in, and Harry ended things with Sophie the next day. He used the telephone to call her in Japan!'

Meg and Trista were suitably impressed, but Fiona was uncomfortable. Their smiles had an unpleasant whiff of 'I told you so,' as if they'd known all along she'd find someone else. No, you didn't, she thought irritably. Fate shat on me, and you'll never convince me Rob's death was part of some plan.

'Has he met your parents?' asked Trista. 'Or Rob's, for that matter?'

Well done, mentioning his name, thought Fiona, still hostile. 'Yes to both. My mum is thrilled, and Dad's bearing up pretty well, all things considered.' She didn't mention Rob's parents, partly because she feared gossip about their concerns, but also because she wasn't ready to confide.

Jill seemed to notice her change in demeanour, and she steered the conversation to another topic. Fiona remained seated but withdrew, as she'd often done in the previous year. But instead of feeling alone, she recalled an intense exchange she and Harry had shared the night before.

His kicking had roused her from sleep, and she had to shake him awake. 'Harry, wake up. Wake up—you're having a nightmare.'

It was too dark to see, but his muscles were rigid, and when she put an arm around him she felt his thundering heartbeat. 'There, there,' she murmured, and he burrowed closer. 'Was it the usual one?'

'Yeah,' he said, his breath ragged. 'You'd think I'd get used to it, but no.'

'I hope you never get used to it. In fact, I hope you stop having it entirely.'

'So do I,' he said, and she held him close. Rob had seldom had nightmares, but she'd often comforted Matthew, and the same instinct arose with Harry. He needs to feel safe, she thought, dotting the back of his head with kisses—until he turned around to return them. And then they were man and woman again, with no further thoughts of her son.

Her eyes closed as she remembered it, and the rise and fall of her chest must have been apparent. Trista laughed and said, 'Girls, does this remind you of anything? A certain birthday, perhaps?'

Fiona opened her eyes to see three grinning faces, and her cheeks grew warm. Before her sixteenth birthday, she confessed to Meg she was planning to have sex with Rob—they'd been dating for months, and she finally felt ready. Meanwhile, Rob asked their friend Jim for the sex manual he'd received from a bawdy uncle, which meant everyone knew what they were doing. In school the next day, they were met with every possible sex pun, to the point where even their professors caught on—mortifying the two lovebirds.

'Did you have a hard night?' asked Meg sympathetically. 'You look a bit shagged.'

'No, she spent the whole time just thinking of England,' said Trista.

'Except for that broomstick ride, and a long trip south. Did Harry try the mussels?'

'From the shell,' added Jill. 'By the way, how's your father?'

'Stop it!' laughed Fiona. 'Yes, I'm dating Harry Potter, and he's definitely earned his reputation.'

'Good for you,' said Meg. 'Will you see him later?'

'Yes—Ron Weasley's moving into one of his spare rooms, and we'll have dinner with him and his girlfriend. And Matthew will stay here overnight, although Harry wants to set up a spare room for him as well.'

'One of the impossible rooms? Or are you saving that for yourselves?'

'No, a normal room. There's a even a nursery full of toys, but we need to make sure none of them are evil.'

Fiona's irritation had mostly subsided, and the rest of the visit went smoothly. She wasn't ready to resume their friendships as if nothing had happened, but she mightn't avoid them as much as before. Which made it all the more surprising when she blurted, 'You should come to dinner sometime—either at my place or Harry's.'

For an instant, all four of them froze, but Meg quickly recovered. 'I'd love that. Just say when and where.'

Plans quickly took shape, dependent as always on child care, and everyone said goodbye. Meg and Trista left, and Fiona was grateful Jill didn't commend her for inviting them over. Good old Jill, she thought, following the children's voices upstairs. But it turned out they were preoccupied, so she joined Owen instead.

'Thanks for keeping an eye on them,' she said.

'No worries. And how are you?'

'Better than I expected. I managed not to tear anyone's head off.'

'Were you tempted?'

'Only a few times. That's progress, right?'

'It is,' said Owen. 'To what do we owe this newfound calm?'

'What do you think?' she said, smiling. 'To the relationship you tried to prevent.'

Owen held up his hands and said, 'I only meant well! I'm forgiven, right?'

'I haven't decided yet. Although I suppose he brought in more at the WORF auction than if we were already public.'

'Exactly, I was doing it for the orphans,' said Owen.

'Fine, but next time you meddle in my life, I'm cursing you.'

That evening she felt very naughty, packing for an overnight stay at Grimmauld Place. She was tempted to dress for dinner, even though they weren't going out, but Harry had said to keep it casual. 'Ron's still a bit skittish, and I'd like to ease him into things, particularly with the way Kreacher's behaving.'

Still, she wore a dress she'd owned since just after Matthew was born, which Rob had dubbed her 'yummy mummy' dress. She'd been complaining about how dowdy she felt, since she hadn't yet lost all the baby weight, and he surprised her with a wrap-style dress he'd spotted in a Muggle shop window. 'See, it has easy access,' he said, indicating the V-neck top. 'And for the baby as well.'

Harry had a similar reaction when she stepped from the fireplace. 'I like this,' he said, tugging open the top. 'Easy access.'

'Stop!' she laughed. 'I'm staying the night, so we'll have plenty of time.'

'I know, but you've sold me on stolen moments of pleasure,' he said, kissing her neck. 'And Ron and Janet might turn up any moment.'

She met his lips, setting aside her worries about who might walk in. Because both Rob and Harry had taught her to live in the present, and she was delighted to do just that.

'Where in Merlin's name did you get this?' exclaimed Janet, holding up a t-shirt.

Ron made a face. 'That was from Fred and George,' he said, with the flash of sorrow that always accompanied memories of Fred. 'They found it at some Muggle souvenir shop and decided I should have it.'

The shirt said 'Mice Mice Baby' and featured a pair of anthropomorphic mice wearing sunglasses, tracksuits, and enormous gold chains. And between them, inexplicably, was a London Beefeater.

'It's fantastic,' said Janet, pulling it on. 'I wonder if we can go to a Muggle restaurant instead of eating in, because I'd love to see Harry pretend not to know us. Only I'd stand right next to him and make sure everyone knew we were mates.'

Ron was moving into his room at Grimmauld Place, which felt almost nothing like the room he'd used during the war, in spite of the similar layout and furnishings. For one thing, he'd never hung any Chudley Cannons posters the first time around, except for a failed attempt in which the players flew out of frame, never to return.

But now the house felt completely different, as did Ron. He was no longer jealous of Harry, even though Harry's life was far more enviable than before. But Ron had chiefly been jealous of Harry's relationship with Hermione, which was laughable in hindsight, since he was so much happier with Janet.

'What's this?' she asked, opening a small jewellery box.

Ron's first instinct was to pull out his wand and Stun her, but instead he froze. '"My Sweetheart,"' she read, frowning. 'Oh my god, this is fucking brilliant! Is it really yours?'

'Er, yeah,' he said sheepishly. 'It was a gift.'

She started laughing. 'For me?'

'No, from Lavender,' he said, and her face fell.

'I'm sorry,' she began, but Ron shook his head.

'Don't be. She gave it to me for Christmas, and it's a good thing she didn't see my reaction, which I'm sure you can imagine.'

Janet examined the necklace. 'Did you ever wear it?'

'Yeah, but I always kept my shirt fully buttoned and my necktie on, so no one could see it. I was afraid she'd catch on, but instead she liked how dapper I looked, so I didn't argue.'

Assessing its length and weight, Janet said, 'Didn't it, you know, get in the way?'

'It did, but Lavender liked that. She used to grab hold of it with her teeth to pull me closer.'

'Then she had good taste,' said Janet, pulling him closer. 'Not in jewellery, mind you, but boyfriends.'

After a brief snog, they resumed unpacking, and Ron reflected on Janet's unfailing ability to surprise him. Within minutes of slagging the t-shirt from Fred and George—and putting it on—she saw the equally-naff necklace from Lavender but did something sweet and affectionate.

'Have George and Lee given you a first assignment?' she asked as they worked.

'George hinted at a "secret mission" but says they won't reveal it till Monday morning. I'm sure they're planning something dreadful, but it'll be nice to have a mission that mightn't get me killed.' Ron's last day with the Aurors was on Friday, and he still hadn't adjusted to the new sense of freedom.

'I'm looking forward to seeing your family tomorrow night,' said Janet. 'My plan is to bring champagne for a toast, thereby planting the seeds for lubricated Sunday dinners.'

'No, you'll never crack Mum. It's the cardinal rule.'

Janet rolled her eyes and said, 'I've never met a family with so many cardinal rules. I mean really, no wands in the loo?'

'That was Fred's fault. After he and George came of age, they enchanted the downstairs toilet to comment on whatever went into it. Which was bad enough, but Fred found a way to make it talk in my mum's voice, right before Auntie Muriel came to visit. And I guess she'd eaten too much the night before, because Mum gave her an earful.'

When her laughter subsided, Janet said, 'God, I wish I'd met him. I thought George and Lee were bad, but you make Fred sound worse than the two of them combined.'

'He really was. In fact, that's how I could tell them apart, before George lost his ear. Not by what they said, but how they interacted. They'd come up with one crazy idea after another, but it was always Fred who pushed it over the top. And then George would give in, and I'd make a note of who was wearing what. Which mostly worked, unless they switched clothes midday, which they did pretty often.'

Together, Ron and Janet unpacked his things, and they looked at the room with satisfaction. 'I like it,' she declared. 'Posh, but thoroughly Weasley.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

She must have noticed his annoyance, because a sly smile crossed her lips. 'Oh, did I touch a nerve?' she said innocently.

'Of course you didn't,' snapped Ron. 'I just want to know what "Posh but thoroughly Weasley" means.'

'I'll give you a hint. How many Blacks were left before Harry fixed the tapestry?'

'Er, two? Harry and Draco Malfoy. And Harry's a stretch.'

'Right, and how many Weasleys are there?'

This time Ron smiled. 'A lot. What's your point.'

'I think you know what my point is. But if your room was like the rest of the house, I'd feel like an impostor and start worrying the furniture would scold me for having Muggle grandparents. Particularly now that Kreacher's being so formal.'

'"Miss Lindhurst,"' said Ron with a chuckle. 'I wonder how he'll like that shirt.'

As it happened, Kreacher did not like the shirt, and his efforts to make Janet change were comical. 'Does Miss Lindhurst require Kreacher to do laundry?' he asked, bowing low.

'No, I have heaps of clean clothes, but thank you.'

'Kreacher is also gifted at transfiguring clothing,' said the elf. 'Into robes, perhaps.'

Harry intervened and said, 'Thank you, Kreacher, but I think Janet's all right. Tonight is casual dress, as we discussed.'

'Yes, Master,' said Kreacher, disappearing with a loud crack.

'Poor Kreacher,' said Fiona. 'Do you think this phase will last long?'

'I have no idea,' said Harry, fidgeting yet again with his ring. Ron still didn't understand Harry's definition of 'casual,' since he was wearing robes and flowers as always. But that's new Harry for you, he thought, shrugging.

Dinner was good, but Kreacher kept dropping hints about the silver cutlery, or lack thereof. By the time he served pudding, the hints were so overt that Harry looked fixedly at the elf, and there was a long silence between them.

'He's doing that thing again,' said Janet, in a stage whisper.

'So it seems,' said Fiona. 'How long does it normally last?'

'It varies,' said Ron. 'Usually it's quick, but I once saw them go for a full five minutes. I sometimes pass the time by making up dialogue, based on the faces they're making.'

Kreacher was particularly fun to watch, since his ears were so expressive, as were Harry's eyebrows. Still whispering, Janet said, 'Kreacher, we've discussed this before, and you can't massage my feet at the table.'

'But Master's feet seemed tense,' said Ron. 'And Kreacher always massaged Mistress's feet at parties.'

'How are you even able to see my feet?' asked Janet. 'I'm wearing shoes.'

'House-elf magic, Master. And the fact that Kreacher shaved Master's feet just this morning.'

'Kreacher doesn't shave Harry's feet!' blurted Fiona, laughing.

'Shh, don't give him any ideas,' said Ron.

After Kreacher disappeared, Harry said, 'Sorry about that. I'm determined not to lose our telepathic bond, but it's requiring a lot of negotiation.'

'Does this mean you'll be shopping for silver tomorrow?' joked Fiona.

'No, that's a line I'll never cross.' He sighed and said, 'I asked Andromeda for advice, and she says this is why she doesn't want a house-elf, particularly with Teddy. They crave subservience, which can bring out the worst in some people. She's convinced that's part of why Bellatrix turned out so badly.'

Fiona was frowning. 'What about Matthew? If he's going to stay here, I don't want him bossing around house-elves and getting spoilt.'

'They can wait on us instead,' said Janet. 'Not for my sake, but I really want to see a spoilt Ron Weasley.'

Harry chuckled and said, 'That could be interesting. What are you picturing?'

'Like if he'd been first-born, or an only child. Although on second thought, one of the things I like about Ron is how he never expects anything good, and spoiling him would ruin that.'

'Oi, I'm right here!' said Ron. 'And I'm not twelve anymore.'

'There you're wrong,' said Janet. 'You're twelve at least five times a day.'

'That makes sixty,' observed Harry, and Fiona laughed.

'When was I twelve today?' snapped Ron.

'Er, right now,' said Janet. 'Or maybe fourteen, if I'm being generous.'

'Ron, don't take the bait,' said Harry. 'She's provoking you.'

'I know she's provoking me! She's Janet, isn't she?'

'Harry, don't calm him down!' said Janet. 'This is our version of foreplay.'

'Then two can play at this game,' said Harry, offering Fiona a chocolate-covered strawberry, which she ate from his fingers. She fed him one in return, leaving Ron and Janet to argue.

'I know you're provoking me,' said Ron. 'But there's always a grain of truth. You think I'm immature, don't you?'

'Of course I do! You got upset just this week over a game of Exploding Snap.'

'Because you cheated!'

'Why shouldn't I cheat? It made things more fun, didn't it?'

'Fun for you, but you were still fully clothed, and I was down to my boxers.'

Harry and Fiona were on the verge of kissing, but Fiona turned and said, 'You were playing strip Exploding Snap? That sounds like a terrible idea.'

'Yes, that's why I cheated,' said Janet.

'This is what I'm up against!' pleaded Ron, as if to a judge. 'Admit it, she's evil!'

'Only sometimes,' said Harry, wiping a bit of chocolate from Fiona's lip. 'And you seem pretty happy to me.'

'That's right,' said Janet, loading a plate with strawberries. 'You'll just have to cope with the odd bit of evil. Shall we go upstairs?'

'Yeah, all right.' They said goodnight to Harry and Fiona, then went to Ron's new bedroom. 'You know, you were wrong,' said Ron, closing the door.

'Of course I wasn't. What are you talking about?'

'When you said I never expect anything good. That's not true anymore.'

'Oh? Then what are you expecting?'

'I'm expecting you to stay the night,' he began, taking the plate of strawberries from her. 'And I expect you to feed me a few of these, and vice versa.'

'Go on,' she said, and colour rose to her cheeks.

'I expect that shirt to come off sooner than later. Because as much as you provoke me, you've made it very clear what you want.'

Her answer was nearly a whisper. 'Have I?'

Ron set the plate on the night table, then answered her with a kiss. 'You want me,' he murmured, and Janet didn't contradict him.

Draco still wasn't used to all the noise. He'd silenced as much as he could before Vicki arrived, but there were sounds he couldn't dampen. The hum of electricity, for example—how could Muggles stand it? And the refrigerator, which alternately groaned, clunked, and rattled. Draco was mystified by the third one, until Vicki opened the top door and revealed a tray full of ice.

'And it'll make more, all on its own?' he asked, holding the conjoined cubes.

'Yes, as much as you like. I think it draws more electricity than the usual fridge, which is why most people don't have them. But you've got the top of the line.'

She was floored when he first showed her the flat—she'd been impressed by the hotel in Manchester, but the flat was far more luxurious. Draco never talked to the decorator, to preserve his anonymity, but the instructions through his solicitor were clear. 'I want elements of nature, and as little metal as possible,' he said, in a nod to faerie folklore. 'Wood furniture, and multiple shades of green.'

He'd vaguely pictured the Slytherin common room, but the result was much warmer, with rich golds rather than cool silvers. 'It's like a forest,' said Vicki, running her hand down a velvet curtain. 'Is this what your manor is like?'

'No, the rooms there are much larger. But this is just for us.'

He lay in bed on Sunday morning, watching her as she slept. The ticking clock was still an irritant, but unlike at the Boudoir, where the clocks were silent, time did not equal money. The words were too mortifying even to think, but his heart rang with them: I'm not paying her. She's here for me.

Draco hadn't gone to Pratt's on his seventeenth birthday, since his father was still in Azkaban. But he went later that summer, after the Ministry fell, and it was everything he'd hoped. Gone were Pansy's maddening restrictions—'No, Draco, not there!'—and in their place were witches with no constraints at all.

Except for the clock. They were all ardour before nine, but when the clock struck they withdrew. 'A la prochaine, Dragon,' they'd say, with a lingering kiss goodbye. And he grew accustomed to the transaction, which made him feel powerful and important. After all, the Boudoir didn't admit everyone—you needed gold, social standing, and still more gold.

Admittedly his flat wasn't cheap, and furnishing it had cost a fortune. His father would have been horrified by how much he'd paid for Muggle electronics, for example, when Confunding was so easy. But the solicitor advised against it—probably because he took a cut—and Draco was glad he'd done things properly. Vicki was a Muggle, after all, and taking advantage of her ilk seemed like a poor way to start.

Lying next to her, he sometimes forgot she was a Muggle. She looks so normal, he thought, and he could imagine her using a wand. But when she was awake, the illusion shattered. She did everything the hard way, from tying her shoes to combing her hair, and her speech was Muggle as well. For example, she once described them as 'being on the same wavelength,' which ironically he didn't understand.

'What's a wavelength?' he asked, bewildered. 'Like waving my hand? Or a wave on the ocean?'

'There's all sorts of waves, but it refers to electromagnetic waves, specifically radio.'

'But we have radio, and it doesn't use "waves,"' he said without thinking. 'Oh bugger—pass.'

'You have radio?'

'Pass!'

'Fine,' she said petulantly. 'But you know the price.'

'I do indeed,' he said, leaning in for a kiss. 'Although it's not exactly a punishment, or even a fine.'

'The last thing I want is to fine you,' said Vicki. 'You've bought me far too much already. I've run out of space in my wardrobe!'

'Then keep it here—especially the lingerie.'

He loved taking her shopping, as he'd longed to do for Catherine but hadn't been allowed. Furthermore, his solicitor had given him a rectangular plastic card, which spared him the nuisance of Muggle bank notes. Paper currency made him feel stupid, since he was so slow with it, but handing over a card felt almost like magic. Although it took all his his self-control not to sign his name wandlessly and without a pen, which he'd practised for weeks under house arrest.

'Do you want breakfast here?' asked Vicki, finally awake.

Draco longed to call an elf, so they could remain in bed, but it was out of the question. 'We can go out if you prefer—I hate for you to cook.'

'It's no bother,' she said, getting up. 'It's all canteen at uni, so I enjoy the autonomy.'

He found it terrifying watching her cook, casually using knives and flames as if they couldn't kill her. He'd already resolved to use magic if a grave accident occurred, since he couldn't just let her bleed to death. Only a few days earlier she'd had a mishap with a cheese grater, and he was beside himself as she dug through her purse for a plaster.

'Really, Draco, it's nothing,' she said, holding a tissue over the wound. 'It's barely even bleeding—I only need a plaster because it's my knuckle.'

'And you just have to wait?' he asked in horror.

She turned to face him. 'Don't you?'

'Er, pass.'

After staring a moment, she resumed her search. 'Right, another mystery to work out. Clearly you're vulnerable, or else you wouldn't have those scars, although I'm guessing they're from the metal in the sword. And yes, I know iron's not a problem, but maybe some other kind is.'

'Pass,' he said, still fretting about her finger.

Draco wished he knew his late grandmother's trick for wandless healing, which she'd used on him as a child. Normally when he cut a finger or scraped his knee, his mother cast a quick Episkey. But when Cordelia Malfoy came to visit, she healed his wounds with a kiss. I'd love to do that for Vicki, he thought, resolving to teach himself how.

In the meantime, he'd purchased two first-aid kits—one for the kitchen and another for the bath—and Vicki made breakfast without incident. 'What shall we do today?' he asked as they ate.

'I need to study,' she declared.

'Surely not all day!'

'Yes, Draco—all day. Not all of us live in a manor and are heir to a lordship.'

It's a bollocks lordship, he thought, though he'd never admit it. 'Can't you study here, then? I could fetch takeaway later.'

'All right, but no distracting me. I really need to get work done.'

Draco was slowly learning to entertain himself without magic, but it wasn't easy. Normally on Sundays he read the Quidditch news, but the season was over, and of course he couldn't let Vicki see moving photographs. He'd made a useful connection at the Cannons-Puddlemere match, though: Jasper Fleet, of the Daily Prophet. Fleet wrote about Quidditch, but he focused on the cultural aspects of the sport, unlike Draco who excelled at the technical side.

Indeed, Draco had gained instant fame amongst Quidditch analysts for predicting the match would run long. He wasn't the only one who'd read the treatise about observational magic, but no one else had considered the 'Harry Potter effect,' which was why Fleet sought him out at the match. Draco initially feared questions about his friendship with Harry, but Fleet was more interested in his Quidditch expertise.

He ended up quoting Draco in three separate articles, with a suggestion that Draco write one of his own. 'You're lucky I don't write technical pieces,' said Fleet, 'or else I'd never give you a platform.'

'Why not?' asked Draco warily. Mustn't let commoners get too close.

'Because you'd be competition. Between your name and the fact that you don't need to churn out drivel to pay the bills, you could probably get published anywhere.'

'I somehow doubt that,' said Draco, never lowering his Omnioculars. 'I'm rather unpopular in certain quarters.'

'Yeah, maybe so,' said Fleet. 'But Potter vouched for you, which probably counts for something, right?'

It worked with Vicki, he thought. And it turned out Fleet was right—on Wednesday at Pratt's, Draco asked Barnabas Cuffe whether people would publish him, and the Prophet editor assured him they would. 'Just don't bugger things up like your father did, and everyone will fall over themselves to stay on your good side.'

'What about my Dark Mark?' he asked, indicating his sleeve. His Mark was gone, of course, but Nitta provided a facsimile, except when he went to see Vicki.

'It's an asset, as you're well aware,' said Cuffe. 'By the way, well done handling Potter. The trick is knowing how to wield him, which you've clearly mastered. Did your father advise you, or was it your own doing?'

Draco had visited Azkaban that morning, and his father's reduced state had depressed him as always. But out of loyalty he said, 'Father taught me everything I know. I spent more than a year pondering his successes and failures, and I've learnt from both.'

'Time well spent,' said Cuffe. 'As for your career, I can give you a weekly column, at least until the season starts. We always have plenty of space to fill during the winter, and we can revisit in the spring.'

The pay he offered was less than what Fleet had called the minimum, but Draco accepted it. He told himself that haggling over Sickles was beneath his dignity, but he was also afraid Cuffe would change his mind. And everyone read the Prophet, so it was the ideal first job.

He was also pleased by Cuffe's praise for manipulating Harry. It wasn't the first time Draco had heard it, but it soothed his intermittent fear that Harry had won. Not the war—Harry was clearly the victor there—but what promised to be a lifelong battle for political power.

Draco and Lucius had discussed it on Wednesday. 'If Potter is smart—which I still can't believe I'm suggesting—he'll use his Quidditch success to build more alliances. Do you know if he's flying for England?'

'No, he decided against it. Word is it'll be Routledge and Gemma Rees.'

'Two Mudbloods!' Lucius spat. 'Scandalous! We should really get you onto the advisory committee—start cultivating Quentin Montague straight away. I once helped him coerce Buttonwood to overlook some import duties, which probably isn't enough to get him in trouble, but you might let slip you know about it. Not that I want Potter representing England,' he continued, 'but I'd have preferred to keep him distracted. Have you met his girlfriend, by the way?'

'Yes, and she'll definitely keep him busy,' said Draco. 'He really has no self-control.'

'He's as bad as his father,' said Lucius with contempt. 'The witch is a pure-blood, at least, but I'm told her husband was a shameless blood-traitor.'

'Oh?'

'Rookwood knows all about him—they were both at the DOM, you know. Apparently he kept poking about where he oughtn't. I'd have expected better from a Dunning, but this one was as bad as a Gryffindor.'

'Did Rookwood kill him?'

'Not with his own wand. But he suspected Dunning was working against us, so he began planting bait. Which Dunning followed, to his untimely demise.'

'Did someone else kill him, then?' asked Draco, trying not to think about the young widow he'd met.

'No. The Department of Mysteries is a deathtrap, and Dunning got caught. Someone dies there every decade or so, for one reason or another.'

Draco had mixed feelings about his weekly visits to Azkaban. Seeing his father was depressing; he still wore the Malfoy ring, but it looked almost pathetic with his dull prison robes and scraggly, grey-streaked beard. And unless Draco pulled off a miracle and got him released, he'd only become more ragged.

Furthermore, he and the other Death Eaters saw Draco as their best hope for revenge. Once they got over their shock he was friends with Harry, they encouraged the relationship, which would surely end in betrayal. Using a code he'd taught Draco as a child, and which they'd perfected during the final year of the war, Lucius described Dark artefacts and bezoar-proof poisons, to be administered according to plan. And then he and his allies would escape—with Draco's help—and reestablish pure-blood supremacy.

But Draco wanted none of this. Yes, he wanted his father back, but not the one who'd prostrated to a monster and nearly beggared the family. Instead he wanted the man he'd worshiped as a child: tall, powerful, and always in control. The man his mother still loved.

The only thing Draco liked about seeing his father, other than childish affection and the sense of fulfilling his duty, was the reminder of his own importance. Lucius wanted him to reclaim wizarding Britain for the Dark Lord, but Draco had a grander ambition: restore House Malfoy. Father had nearly destroyed it, and Draco would bring it back.

There was no point explaining that revenge was useless, and that opposing Harry would destroy the family for good. But Draco's plan was more cunning: use Harry to restore the family fortune. The venture with George and Percy was a start, and their bargain with the goblins was another. By attaching himself to Harry, he'd be the most successful Malfoy in more than a century. And Mother says I'm not a real Slytherin, he thought with disdain.

All told, he was terribly pleased with himself that Sunday. While Vicki studied, he outlined his first Prophet article; she loved seeing his quill and parchment, which he'd decided weren't a violation of secrecy. And to his delight, she proposed an afternoon break. 'Get over here, faerie-boy,' she ordered.

'I'm not a boy,' he said defiantly.

'Prove it.'

One condom later, he lay in bed admiring her. She wasn't perfect like Catherine—she was pretty rather than beautiful, and her bloodlines were catastrophic. But there was no risk they'd marry, which was oddly freeing.

'You're like no one I've ever met,' he said tenderly.

'That's not true—you've met loads of humans by now.'

'That's not what I meant. I mean no one else has made me feel so ... so wanted.'

'Without wanting something in return, you mean?' He nodded, and she said, 'That's a pity. Because you're lovely, even without the lordship and the flat and all the presents.'

He could scarcely grasp who she was referring to—this Draco who was somehow free of all his trappings. But part of him knew who she meant, and he was grateful to be seen at last.

Gemma took a final pass through her childhood bedroom. 'I think that's everything,' she said with satisfaction.

Her brother Davy eyed her boom box. 'Does that mean you're not taking this? And, more importantly, can I have it?'

'No, because you'll break it. And I might still need it, if my next flat has electricity.'

'Come on, Gemma—you'll probably be a world-famous athlete by then, with million-Galleon endorsement deals.'

'Not bloody likely! That's five million pounds—I doubt even Harry gets that much.'

'Still, you'll be rich enough to buy an actual stereo. And I won't break it!' said Davy. 'Admit it, you're just resisting out of spite.'

'Fine, I'm resisting out of spite. And no, you can't have it.'

'So it'll just sit here, all alone?'

'I haven't decided. I think Tyler might want it, since it'll work at his place. And I want to thank him for helping me move.'

'Did he even lift anything, or was it all Abracadabra?'

'Don't say that!' she snapped. 'And yes, he lifted things.'

'Your shirt, maybe,' he scoffed, and she glared at him.

'Are trying to ensure I won't miss you?'

'Go on—you'll be back all the time. If not for me then for Mum.'

'Not true. With that anti-nausea potion, she can come visit me. And if you play your cards right, you won't see me till Christmas.'

'No, I want to see your flat, and all the weird magic you can't do at home. Will you have an owl?'

The answer was yes, and she'd have heaps more magic besides. Gemma hadn't set out to rent from wizards—she had so many other requirements that she couldn't rule out a Muggle landlord. But she was thrilled things had worked out this way, since she'd always envied her friends with purely magical houses.

She'd spent the previous day shopping—and constantly apologising to her mates for spending so much. 'It's all thanks to the Weasleys,' she explained more than once. 'Ron's leaving his furniture, and his relations don't need it back anytime soon. I might have to replace the odd piece here and there, but otherwise it's mine for the duration.'

'Gemma, stop apologising,' said Ingrid. 'It's high time you had magical gadgets, and it's fun helping you pick things out. And you might as well spend that bonus!'

All the Cannons had received a significant bonus after the match, in thanks from the team owners, who'd earned a fortune from food and drink sales. Gemma suspected Harry was behind it, based on his knowing look when it was announced. Typical Toffer, she thought, with the usual hint of sadness.

The acute phase of her crush was long past, and she'd stopped deluding herself they'd get together. But she still wanted him, and it was hard to generate interest in someone else. Not that the wizarding world wasn't littered with Harry Potter wannabes—everywhere she looked were young men in fitted robes, much like his. But they lacked his ... she couldn't say what. Some had his swagger, but not his vulnerability. Others were taller, or better looking, but they weren't her Toffer. They were just boys in fancy dress, while he was the real thing.

But Harry loved Fiona, and even if he didn't, there would always be someone else—someone besides her. I'm not his type, she recalled for the millionth time. He claimed his taunts were untrue, and she'd believed him, but now she knew better. Too short. Not pretty enough. Too working-class. Too Mudblood.

She knew Harry wasn't a snob like that, for all she teased him, but she also knew how the wizarding world saw her. When the national roster was announced on Thursday, there were coded messages in the Prophet and on the radio about how unorthodox it was. Routledge got a free pass—he'd just won the League Cup, after all—but they described her as more of a gamble.

'Depending on her broom,' they warned, as if Harry didn't have the exact same problem. 'Limited league experience,' they said, ignoring how she'd flown more than 25 hours over three days. 'Only one win,' said a radio host, prompting her to shout, 'During my first fucking match!'

'Don't take it personally,' said Miles, who was with her. 'They're just in collective mourning that Harry isn't playing.'

'He's the backup reserve,' said Gemma. 'Which means you should place your bet now that he'll somehow win the World Cup.'

Miles was one of the friends who helped her move on Sunday, after Lodie gave the flat a good scrubbing. Thanks to magic the move went quickly, and her friends went overboard helping her, to the point where she spent more time on the sofa than standing.

'Really, I can do that myself,' she told Caroline, who was hanging a picture.

'You broke your pelvis,' said Caroline. 'And you spent hours packing.'

'My pelvis is fine—I've been cleared to fly since Wednesday.'

'Then let us spoil you,' said Ingrid. 'And besides, you're taking us to dinner, so we need to earn it.'

Gemma hadn't glowed in more than a week, so she offered to take them to the Muggle restaurant where she once worked. 'I haven't been since I joined the Cannons—they were terribly sweet about letting me quit on the spot, and I've always meant to come back.'

'What do they think your new job is?' asked Tyler.

'Software testing, at a dot-com,' she said, then explained what that meant.

'And the pay is good?'

'It's all right, but I can say I got a bonus because we finished a project. Which is true, really.'

Between the pay rise Harry had negotiated in October, her end-of-season bonus, and now her pay for the national team, Gemma was earning more than ever before. She'd spent a lot on household goods but still had plenty of savings, which she hoped never to touch. She also arranged a monthly transfer from her vault to a Muggle bank, in case the world went haywire again and she needed to emigrate.

Her friends left to prepare for dinner, and Gemma went home to confirm she hadn't forgotten anything. 'Are you sure you'll be safe without a phone?' asked her mum when she inspected the flat.

'I do have a phone,' said Gemma, indicating her mobile.

'Yes, but it only works near the window. What if something happens and you need help?'

'I'll have my wand. And also this safety doodad from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, which I can use to call Ingrid in a pinch. We already worked out a code, and three flashes means "Get your arse over here, pronto."'

Rose was still frowning, but she nodded. 'I guess that'll do. But you can't blame your mum for worrying. You're the first of my brood to live alone.'

If Davy had been present, Gemma would have joked about how he should have been first, but she didn't. 'I know, Mum. But I'll be all right—I promise.'

'I just wish this flat weren't so ... part of their world. Between your background and being famous, someone might target you.'

'Ron Weasley lived here, remember? Trust me, it's got every protection you can imagine, and more besides.'

'That's a relief,' said Rose, enfolding Gemma into her arms. 'You're my little gemstone, you know. My magical gemstone.'

'I know,' said Gemma, feeling her cheeks grow warm. 'And I'm sorry you have to live in fear because of me.'

'I worry about all of you. But I'm so proud ... selected to fly for England! Just stop getting hit by iron balls—and consider yourself lucky I wasn't there to see it.'

After her mum left, she showered and changed for dinner. She wore the dress Caroline had insisted she buy—the shop even gave her a discount, to congratulate her for making the national team. 'Where was my bloody discount when I was skint?' she grumbled afterwards, but she wasn't actually upset. She still loved when people recognised her, and it was especially touching when fellow Muggle-borns thanked her.

'We should have a parade for you and Routledge,' said a clerk quietly. 'Only we'll do it in a Muggle district, and it'll just be for people like us. Badge of pride, you know.'

The dress fit her in all the right places, and part of Gemma wondered if maybe Harry would have fancied her if she'd worn it when they first met. Knock it off, Rees—it wasn't meant to be. And you couldn't exactly wear a fuck-me dress to a Quidditch trial, she thought, chuckling at the mental image.

'Holy boobs, Batman!' exclaimed Dessie, the restaurant hostess. 'You look great!'

'Cheers,' said Gemma, greeting her with a hug. 'Have my friends arrived yet?'

'Yeah, they're at sixteen, but stay here a moment. How are you doing? Do you like the new job?'

Gemma told her as much as she could, and Dessie shared all the restaurant gossip. Several other servers spotted her, with similar praise for her dress, and Gemma was moved by their warm reception. She'd worked there only a few months, and she never felt like she fit in, since she was a few years younger. But they welcomed her like a friend, which as a lifelong misfit she never took for granted.

It was a perfect evening of drinking and dining with her wizarding friends at a Muggle restaurant. They raised ambiguously-worded toasts to Gemma for being named to the 'software testing national team,' and she thanked them profusely for their support these last few years. 'I know I haven't been the easiest friend, but you've always been there for me—even when it was technically illegal to be in touch. And you've come to my matches, even though I barely played until this last one.'

'That's all right,' said Miles. 'We got to see Potter instead.'

Gemma threw a bread roll at him, and Ingrid said, 'I love seeing you like this. Not just because you have amazing tits—and I think I might be gay for them—but also because you are the coolest person I know, only you don't realise it. And I'm glad the Chudley Cannons—er dot-com,' she added hastily. 'I'm glad they realised what a talent you are, in spite of your dubious East Ket origins.'

She went home to her new flat, which smelled nothing like Ron Weasley, and peeled off her form-fitting dress. Wearing a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, she brewed a tisane in her magic kettle, then put a record on the wizarding phonograph. It was one Harry had introduced to her, during his celibacy vow when they'd spent so much time together.

He's probably with Fiona right now, she thought, imagining them on a sofa somewhere. Or in bed, more likely. She'd never bought Sorceress, and she only read it once, when it first came out. Similarly, she avoided his underwear adverts—even the solo one without Sophie—to spare herself the pain of seeing what she couldn't have.

Still, it was getting easier. She had her own flat, a spot on the national team, and Buzz Stebbins was confident Randolph Spudmore would make her a new broom. Loads of people recognised her now, and hardly anyone asked what Harry Potter was really like. She also had Light magic, even if she hadn't glowed in more than a week, and her mates agreed she needed to wear low-cut tops more often.

The tisane relaxed her, along with the wine she'd drunk, and she automatically expanded into awareness. God bless Owen, she thought, recalling how she'd struggled with spotting the Snitch. They'd never have hired me without him.

On a whim, she set a new intention: I will meet and fall in love with an absolutely brilliant wizard who fancies me back. And I'll thank the high heavens Harry wasn't interested, because I'm so much happier with my mystery man. She had trouble imagining him, but that wasn't a problem; like the Snitch, he'd turn up precisely when he was supposed to.