Author's note:

Congratulations to AO3 user dreamer89 for the winning entry in the Loose Cannon sequel title competition: 2 LOOSE 2 CANNON.

Harry was still getting used to his new team schedule, but he definitely liked it: half-day training sessions three times a week, with a liberal absence policy. Tuttle reserved the right to crack down on shirkers, but otherwise she trusted them not to take up binge-drinking or hardcore narcotics.

At first, Harry was unsure what to do with his newfound freedom. Hermione encouraged him to draw up a timetable, which he filled with alarming ease: Light Arts practice, visits with Teddy, dancing lessons, social obligations, meals and meetings at Pratt's, Wizengamot sessions, and evenings with friends. But when he showed it to Fiona, she pulled it from his hand and threatened to toss it in the fire.

'Harry, you've never had a break in your life, unless you count summers with your aunt and uncle, which I don't. Can't you let something slide?'

He knew she was right, but he was reluctant to cross anything off. 'I should see Teddy at least twice a week,' he began.

'Then bring him here. Trista's daughter Peri is the same age, and we can invite the twins as well. It'll be chaos, but I'm sure he'll enjoy it.'

He agreed, and together they carved out more time for themselves. 'Are you sure it's all right if I turn up late on Mondays?' he asked, looking at his Light Arts lesson. 'I don't want to treat you like a fille de joie.'

'What if that's what I want?' she countered. 'Maybe I like tucking my little boy into bed, then receiving my illicit lover.'

'When you put it that way,' he said. 'But what about the Wizengamot stuff?'

'Are you sacking your proxy?'

'No, but I really ought to attend sessions during the off-season. It'll dovetail nicely with forming alliances, not to mention I have to go to all these parties.'

'Will you need more robes?' she asked, with a saucy gleam in her eye.

'You are a terrible influence! Kreacher is bad enough—he's after me to retrieve cuff links and a gold watch from the vault, and this morning he tried giving me a walking stick.'

'So you'll look more infirm?'

'No, more posh. It matches the ring, after all.'

'I believe I'm the reigning authority on what looks good on you,' said Fiona. 'No ring, no walking stick. Yes robes.'

'What about no robes?' he asked, leaning close.

'No robes are brilliant, but probably inappropriate for those parties.'

She agreed to attend a few of them, but he would mostly go alone, or with Hermione. He was tempted to ask Luna Lovegood, but she'd given Darren bad news after the match.

'She's leaving,' said a dejected Darren on Wednesday.

'Who?'

'Luna. She's taking a job abroad.'

'I'm sorry, mate,' said Harry sincerely. 'Where is it, and when will she leave?'

'It's in South America, and she's leaving on Sunday. What should I do?'

Puzzled, Harry asked, 'Do you mean talk her out of it? I can't see that working.'

'No, it wouldn't. But maybe I could, I dunno, propose?'

'Propose! To Luna?'

'Yes, to Luna!' said Darren. 'I've never felt this way before! She's like no one I've ever met, and I, I–'

He trailed off, and Harry said, 'You love her?'

'Exactly, I love her! Oh god, I love her!'

'Does she know this?'

'Not in so many words. But she's so perceptive—I'm sure she's figured it out.'

'You never know with Luna,' said Harry. 'But what about her new job? I assume it has to do with magical creatures?'

'Yes, and she's thrilled. She's been corresponding for months with the editor of some Magizoology journal—Regina something—and she's found Luna a field internship.'

'For how long?'

'A year, with an option to stay if she's a good fit,' he said mournfully.

'Right. So how would proposing help?'

'I don't know. If we were married, maybe I could go with her? They play Quidditch over there, right?'

'Yeah, but what about your life here?'

'Besides Luna, you mean?' Darren shrugged and said, 'You know what it's like. The Cannons, my family. Going out.'

'Right, going out,' said Harry. 'You were working on becoming a man about town.'

'I still am, although it's not the same without the pulling.'

'Have you asked Luna about accompanying her?'

'I dropped a hint or two, but she didn't seem interested.' With a hollow laugh, he said, 'I think I was just a fling.'

Harry sighed, remembering how Alex had seen him. 'That's rough, mate—I wish I could help.'

Darren brightened and said, 'Really? Could you talk to her for me? Maybe sound her out?'

I was speaking figuratively, thought Harry, who had no idea what he'd actually say. 'Er, yeah, all right.'

He saw her the following afternoon, and she told him about her new job. 'It's better than I could have hoped. I'll be part of an international expedition, and we'll spend almost a year in the Andes with a magical tribe who's agreed to introduce us to the regional flora and fauna.'

Luna spoke in her usual dreamy tones, but her words flowed almost without a pause. 'But first I need to learn the language and some of the customs, which will be a lot of work, but at least I can come home for Solstice, since Daddy and I want to photograph Turduckens, but then I'll go back and we'll head into the mountains late January. Communication won't be easy, since it's a long way for an owl—or a condor, which is apparently what they use—but I'm so excited.'

'That's great,' said Harry, but she wasn't done talking.

'And they have a method for flying without a broom, which may or may not be the one Voldemort used, or Snape for that matter, but I don't care if it was because I still want to learn it. Imagine being able to fly anytime you wanted! I could track animals without making a sound, or paint the ceiling more easily, or just be a few inches taller. I'll be sad to leave Darren, of course, and he's sad too, but I'm sure he'll be fine, considering how he carries his Wrackspurts.'

'Really, you're sure? He seems pretty broken up about it.'

Her energy seemed to settle. 'I know. But it was always going to end, and this way is the cleanest.'

'So you're not amenable to anything long term? I get the sense he'd go with you, if you'd let him.'

Luna shook her head and smiled. 'I wouldn't. He's very sweet, and an exceptionally fine specimen, but I'm not what he wants. Not really.'

'Then what does he want?'

'Darren needed a window into a larger world,' she said. 'His world was very small, for all that he's a wizard. And when I leave, I think he's afraid it'll go back to how it was.'

'Will it?'

'That all depends. In fact, I have a favour to ask—could you teach him to cast a Patronus? I think that'll help.'

'Of course, I'd be happy to,' said Harry, struck by how normal she sounded. 'And what do you want?'

'I also want a larger world. That's what Lythian showed me,' she said, referring to the centaur she'd fallen in love with. 'We'd gaze at the stars, and he'd tell me legends from his herd, and I felt so wonderfully small. That's why I want to travel—there's so much more than just Britain, or even Europe.' She looked at him again and said, 'You're seeing that now, aren't you?'

Harry knew she wasn't referring to travel. 'I am. My world is so much bigger than before.'

'I know,' said Luna, putting her hand on his arm. 'I met Fiona at the match, and she's definitely the next leg of your journey.'

She was evasive when he asked how long a 'leg' was and she enquired instead about his plans for the off-season. He told her about his political objectives and the parties he had to attend, but Luna just shook her head.

'That's not how you'll change people's minds. By all means, go to parties if you like—I'm sure you'll encounter some lovely traditions. And you might even make a difference in the Wizengamot. But the most important thing you can do is live your life and be happy.'

Harry frowned. 'But isn't that selfish? Now that I'm so fortunate, shouldn't I be helping people?'

'Aren't you?'

'Well, yes. I give a lot to charity,' he began, opting not to mention the dowries. 'But otherwise, not really.'

'What about Light magic?' she asked. 'That's helping people, certainly.'

'By example, you mean?'

'In part, but also when you experience it. We're all connected, after all. In fact,' she continued, her voice dreamy again, 'maybe that's why you're so famous.'

Harry blinked. 'I'm sorry?'

'You're oddly relatable, even now, which means that when you describe Light magic, other people resonate. I do hope you'll keep doing the broadcast.'

'Er, I was going to take a long break, actually.'

'No, you should keep at it. Not least because everyone listens, and there's a power in that. All those minds, trained on the same object ... it's beautiful, really.'

'But I'm starting to feel like a megalomaniac,' said Harry, thinking of Vampire John Lennon. 'People don't need to hear about me all the time.'

'You're not you,' she said firmly. 'You're just the conduit.'

She startled him into silence. He understood intuitively what she meant, but he couldn't find words for it. Somehow it had to do with the contrast between his own solidity—including his ordinary thoughts—and the ethereality of Light magic. The source, he sometimes called it, and he longed for it to flow through him, into the world.

Luna was nodding excitedly, as if she could read his mind. 'Yes, exactly! The degree to which you vanish is the degree to which it can enter. Which is why it's so perfect that you're everywhere.'

Again, her words made no sense—being everywhere was the opposite of vanishing. But Harry knew what she meant: that every presence contained an absence, through which light could flow. She was radiating love and, not for the first time, Harry wondered how she experienced the world.

'Luna, do you have Light magic?' he asked. 'I get the sense you do, but you've never talked about it.'

She shrugged. 'I couldn't say. All I know is that other people don't see things the way I do.'

'Nargles, you mean?'

'Yes, but more than that. I see probabilities, and improbabilities, which is confusing sometimes—for a long time I didn't know what it was. So it's not Light magic like yours, or necessarily Light magic at all. Which is a shame—I'd have loved to snap wands in the Department of Mysteries. So much tidier.'

His heart sank when she mentioned the DOM, and a horrible thought seized him. 'Er, if you see probabilities, does that mean–' He hesitated, not even wanting to say it. 'Does that mean you knew?'

Luna's large eyes filled with compassion. 'About your godfather?' Harry nodded, and she said, 'I knew he would probably die. But that was why you wanted to go there in the first place: to rescue him.'

'So you didn't know he was actually safe at home?'

'No, Harry. I'm sorry.'

They sat in silence, until his mind settled again. He said, 'I'm sorry we haven't spent much time together since I joined the Cannons. Or before that, even—I was always with Ginny. I wish you weren't leaving the country, now that I have more time to be a better friend.'

Luna looked so puzzled that Harry wondered at first whether she'd heard him. 'What makes you think you aren't a good friend?' she asked. 'You're one of my best friends.'

He was ready to explain, but something in her expression stopped him. He recalled the paintings on her ceiling of their gang at Hogwarts, linked together by the word 'friends' written over and over in golden ink. She doesn't need to see us to feel our friendship, he realised. Just knowing we exist is enough.

'Still, I never want to take you for granted,' said Harry. 'You were there for me during some of the hardest times of my life, and I'll never forget that.'

'Of course you'll forget—we all do, in the end. But then we remember.'

I will never understand Luna Lovegood, he thought affectionately. He'd met heaps of people since joining the Cannons, but no one was even remotely like her.

Certainly there was no one like her at the first party he attended—a reception hosted by Ernest and Livia Prewett. He went alone, which was challenging, but the Prewetts' guests were all Light-leaning, so the conversation was free of tension. And without Quidditch the next morning, he was free to have more than just one drink.

He was therefore relaxed when he got home, and unprepared for a confrontation. 'Banthora, how are you?' he asked, beaming at her.

'I'm well, thank you. But you should make haste for the drawing room—Typhon Black is waiting for you.'

'Oh?' said Harry, instantly on alert.

'Yes, he's returned from his travels, and he's keen to talk.'

Harry ran a hand through his hair and checked his breath for alcohol. 'Of course, I'll go right up.' He cast several sartorial charms to polish his appearance, then dashed to the drawing room.

As soon as he entered, a commanding baritone voice said. 'You're well enough dressed. And I see you're wearing the ring, despite rumours to the contrary. Harry Black, I presume.'

The portrait was on a large and heavy stand, which meant Harry could look it in the eye. 'Harry Potter-Black,' he said, Light energy filling his torso. 'And you must be Typhon Black.'

'I am.' He surveyed Harry's appearance, which Harry knew was impeccable, and said, 'What do you know about me, young man?'

Harry's brain was slightly fuzzy from drink, but his memory supplied the essentials. 'Hermione says you advised King Henry VIII, and that you skimmed off the top when he dissolved the monasteries. You provided guidance to other heads of house, but after a century they stopped listening to you.'

'Correct. They were ambitious, and they certainly enjoyed the fruits of my cunning, but they lacked both diligence and ingenuity. Or they were touched by the family madness, like your godfather.' Harry frowned but couldn't argue, and Typhon continued. 'You, however, are the scion of a lesser branch. And while you're unconventional—iconoclastic, even—you're not erratic.'

But I'm erotic, thought Harry, and he had to stifle a smirk. 'Perhaps, but I'm not prepared to crash the Muggle stock market, which I know you'd like me to do.'

'Would it help to know there are Muggles attempting similar manipulations?'

'Not really. I know as well as anyone how bad Muggles can be, so I'm hardly inclined to imitate them. But I think you might be interested in my venture with Draco Malfoy.'

Typhon leaned forwards within his frame. 'I am—not least because he's also my descendant. Tell me more.'

'Right,' said Harry, with more than a hint of cheek. 'There's something I'd like in return. Access to the Star Chamber.'

'That's not my domain,' said Typhon loftily. 'I divided my time between the Manor and my apartments at Hampton Court.'

'But you have access,' persisted Harry. 'Grant it to me.'

His tone was demanding—similar to one he might use in bed with a willing partner—and Typhon bristled. 'I want more than your stories,' said the portrait. 'I demand your ear.'

At first Harry did a double take, thinking of George. 'I'll listen, but I won't follow orders.' On an instinct, he added, 'I'm Head of House, after all.'

For a long moment they just held each other's gaze. Harry studied the tiny cracks of the painting's surface, which was yellow with age, and Typhon studied him in return. But Harry must have impressed him, because his ancestor nodded. 'Indeed you are,' he said. 'I only ask that you weigh my counsel and not dismiss it out of hand. Do I have your word?'

'You do,' said Harry respectfully. He was tempted to add, 'Godric's honour,' but he knew Daphne wouldn't approve. 'Shall we go to the library?' he asked, knowing the Star Chamber was just beyond it.

'No, that's not how you access it. You'll need the staff.'

'The staff?' exclaimed Harry. 'Do you mean the walking stick that matches the ring?'

'Yes, it's a powerful artefact. If you've used it, you'll know it fits you perfectly.'

Harry had, in fact, used it—after breaking his pelvis—and it was the ideal height. 'So if Sirius were still alive, it would be several inches longer?'

'If he were wearing the ring, yes. But go on—send for it.'

Kreacher had tried getting him to use the walking stick that very week, and Harry wondered if he'd been hinting at an entrance to the Chamber. Kreacher, he called silently. Would you be so kind as to bring me the walking stick that matches my ring?

The elf appeared with a loud crack, holding the staff and wearing a huge grin. 'Yes, Master!' he said joyfully. Harry took it from him, then sent him away silently.

'What next?' asked Harry.

'Approach the tapestry, and find your own name.'

Remember to thank Lucinda, he thought, recalling the charm she'd found to repair it. He went to the spot with his name—Harry James Black—then turned to face Typhon again.

'When the Manor was lost in a foolish wager, the family tapestry fell from the wall, and the elves brought it here to the townhouse. This room was reconfigured to accommodate it.' The portrait's eyes found Harry's name and he said, 'Really, must you hyphenate? The tapestry has powerful enchantments, and you really shouldn't cross it.'

'Walburga crossed it,' said Harry dryly. 'Half a dozen times at least.'

'Still, it knows who you are. I'm not saying the tapestry would harm you, but there's power in a wizard's true name.'

This sounds like faerie bollocks, thought Harry. But he remembered his name on the Marauder's Map—Harry Black—and resolved to ask Davina about it. 'I'll keep that in mind,' he said, impatient to see the Chamber.

'Very well. Press the handle of the staff to your name—anywhere will do. Then repeat the family words.' With a glance at the top of the tapestry, Typhon said, 'Thank Merlin you fixed it. Toujours pur ... it sounded positively ecclesiastical.'

Harry chuckled, feeling unexpectedly fond of his ancestor. 'Toujours puissant,' he said, and in burst of light he was elsewhere.

It was probably the most pleasant displacement he'd ever felt—no crushing tube of Apparition, nor the dizzying whirl of Floo powder. And the room itself was unusual, with a high domed ceiling dotted with stars. But in a curious display of magic, the room was well-lit by wall sconces and only the ceiling was dark, as if the light couldn't touch it.

In other respects it was simply an elegant and very masculine room, like his own private Pratt's. There were books and a display case, which he hoped didn't contain any Horcruxes, and a well-stocked bar. A large desk beckoned, along with several leather chairs and even a sofa. And between the sconces were portraits, many of which Harry recognised.

'So you found it,' said the medieval wizard he'd previously met. 'Typhon, no doubt.' The wizard glanced at an empty spot on the wall.

'Yes, sorry to invade your clubhouse,' said Harry, not bothering to hide his disdain. But he belatedly remembered Daphne's training and said, 'Now that I'm here, though, I hope we can get along.'

'We'll see, half-blood,' said a sneering portrait. 'But do fetch your sponsor. I'm sure he'll enjoy witnessing his triumph.'

I think you meant my triumph, thought Harry, still flush with victory. 'Oh, look,' said another portrait. 'The half-blood thinks he's the victor. But no one beats Typhon Black—you'll see.'

Harry silently asked Kreacher to transport Typhon's portrait, which appeared on the wall. 'Thank you,' said Typhon. 'And do look around—there's more here than meets the eye.'

'I noticed the ceiling, certainly,' said Harry, looking up again. 'How can it be so dark with the lights on?'

'Family magic,' said Typhon. 'We Blacks can conjure darkness.'

Harry's eyes shot open. 'You mean in broad daylight?'

'Yes, or anywhere else. I can teach you the incantation.'

'But, but,' sputtered Harry, his mind reeling. 'How come Sirius never used it in battle? And does that mean Narcissa Malfoy can do it as well?'

'No, it's only passed to wizards, not witches. And truth be told, it's not very useful in battle, since it affects the caster as well. Unless he's carrying a Hand of Glory, like the one over there.'

'Gah!' cried Harry, jerking back. 'I have a Hand of Glory?'

'House Black has a Hand of Glory,' said one of the portraits, indicating the display case. 'And an Orb of Despair, Vorpal chessmen, a Velvet Mask–'

'What's a Velvet Mask?' asked Harry, trying not to think about the other items.

'They're useful at a masked ball—if you're wearing it and you look at someone, they'll be unable to look away.'

'Merlin, that's that last thing I need!'

'Then don't use it,' said the portrait. 'It won't be the first family gift you're unwilling to use.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'I'll never practise the Dark Arts. So stop hounding me about it.'

'Enough,' said Typhon, waving his hand. 'Harry, have a seat, and tell me about your business ventures.'

Nearly all the portraits were awake, and they watched Harry with interest. 'Er, can we go somewhere private?' he asked Typhon. 'I don't fancy having an audience.'

'Then banish them. You control the Star Chamber.'

Now we're talking! thought Harry. Over a chorus of protests, Typhon told him what to do, and soon they were alone in the Chamber. Harry sat in one of the chairs, which seemed made for him, and they began to talk.

Harry didn't relish explaining what a condom was, but Typhon was better informed than he'd anticipated. 'Obviously wizards never needed them, but in my time the French Disease was a terrible scourge, and after my death they became popular. Made of linen or, later, intestines, but I understand now they're made from latex rubber.'

'They are,' said Harry, impressed. He described the plan's evolution, starting with an enchanted condom for wizards to use with Muggles. Next came Lee's suggestion to enhance the size, and finally his own idea to sell a more discreet version to Muggles.

'And young Malfoy will know who to bribe,' said Typhon approvingly. 'But what about production?'

'Goblins,' said Harry, and he explained their partnership.

Typhon frowned. 'They aren't trustworthy. What leverage do you have?'

'I'm promoting legislation to scrap the treaties and start over. British goblins lack freedoms that are common in other countries, all because our treaties prohibit them. Consequently, wizard-goblin relations are considerably more contentious in Britain than they are abroad, which is just asking for trouble down the road,' Harry said, largely parroting Hermione.

'Yes, but why do they trust you?' asked Typhon. 'Goblins hate wizards.'

'Er, I gave them a goblin-made drinking horn I found in the vault. They knew I was just trying to smooth things over, but they were really impressed. And now I'm their favourite wizard.'

'Aha!' said Typhon. 'Your condom scheme sounds promising, certainly, but a true goblin alliance would be a goldmine. I urged Vituperus Black to engineer one—long after my death—but he was careless, and Aurelius Malfoy took the prize.'

'Yes, that's how the goblins persuaded Draco to sign the deal. But I'm not promoting goblin freedoms for the gold—I'm doing it to address inequality throughout magical society.'

'Sentimental hogwash,' scoffed the portrait. 'And that's how the goblins will exploit you, since all they care about is gold.'

'Because they're not allowed to own land, or even live above ground!' retorted Harry.

'That may be true, but don't surrender your advantage just to be a hero. Your first duty is to House Black—not to the goblins. And I can guarantee they'll never put you first.' With an amused look, he added, 'Or did they?'

Well played, thought Harry sourly. During the war, the goblins had been neutral at best, and Griphook's treachery had nearly cost them their lives. Although Harry had planned to renege as well and take the Sword of Gryffindor.

'No, they didn't,' he replied. 'And I acknowledge your point. But will you agree there's a way to benefit all sides? Wizards, goblins, and House Black?'

Typhon leaned back in his throne-like chair. 'It's an interesting challenge. Although I suspect our goals for House Black are different.'

'You mean, do I want my heirs to be richer than the Queen? No.'

'But that's how you ensure continuity! If I hadn't quadrupled the family fortune, House Black would have been ruined more than a century ago.'

'Or maybe the Blacks would have developed a work ethic. Like the Potters, for example.'

'Oh? What was your father's career?' asked Typhon, smirking.

'Er, he didn't have one. But there was a war on, and he was only twenty-one when he died, so I'm sure he'd have found something.'

Typhon just chuckled and said, 'I don't begrudge you your family pride. And a good Potter will eventually make a good Black. But tell me, how much do you expect to earn from those advertisements? I spend part of my time at the Ministry, and I've heard considerable speculation.'

Harry didn't have the numbers in front of him, but he gave Typhon a rough estimate. 'I know it's not dignified, but my reputation is already in tatters, and it's easy gold.'

'I approve entirely,' said the portrait. 'And same with the dowries—a noble house mustn't have poor relations. A propos, have you designated an heir?'

'Er, no,' replied Harry, feeling tired all of a sudden. 'And I ought to.'

'You are hereby forgiven for acting like you're immortal, given your history. But I suggest you formalise things at once, assuming you don't want Draco Malfoy to inherit.'

Harry raised one eyebrow. 'I'd have thought he'd be your first choice.'

'In fact, no. He's a Malfoy first and foremost, and he too has a fortune to rebuild. Choose someone who's a Black already.'

'Should I even tell them?' asked Harry, who had no idea who to pick. 'It seems unlikely they'd inherit, after all.'

'No. The last thing you need is someone with a reason to murder you.'

Harry laughed, imagining Marvin Black serving him a poisoned sandwich. 'I'm always at risk, to some extent. But between Light magic and my telepathic bond with Kreacher, I feel pretty safe.'

'Perhaps, but never grow complacent. You still have any number of enemies, as did I.'

'Were you assassinated?' asked Harry, noting what a weird question that was.

'No, but I readily killed my enemies, which I assume you won't do.'

'That's right. I'll never kill again.'

They were silent again, and the portrait studied him. After nearly a minute, he said, 'You're not who I'd have chosen as an heir. We Blacks practically invented the Dark Arts, yet you reject them. But I believe you bring other assets, and perhaps the prophecy about you is right.'

Harry didn't point out that their definitions of 'House Black reborn' mightn't match up, and he asked instead how to cast darkness. 'That's not Dark magic, right?'

'No, but it goes back to the very origins of the family, and it's how we got our name.'

'How old is the family?' asked Harry. 'The tapestry goes back to the Middle Ages, but Banthora thinks the family's much older.'

'Yes, we've had magic since before the Romans came to Britain. But we seldom discuss the years before Merlin, since we freely interbred with Muggles.'

'Ha!' cried Harry. 'I knew it!'

Typhon described the family's origins as a priestly clan who used their command of darkness to inspire fear. 'But after the Statute of Secrecy was enacted—thanks to your blighted ancestor, Ralston Potter—we no longer cast it in public. And frankly, it's not good for much else.'

He taught Harry the incantation and, after a few attempts, Harry was able to cast a sofa-sized blob of darkness. 'Could anyone do this, if I taught them the charm?' he asked.

'No,' said Typhon. 'It has to do with your true name. If you were still Harry Potter, you wouldn't be able to cast it.'

A wave of grief, and Harry wondered what he might have lost with his original surname. Not that there's anyone left to teach me Potter family magic, he thought sadly. 'What about witches?' he asked. 'Is it really limited to wizards?'

'Not magically, but it's an ironclad family tradition: girls are never taught. After all, they'll lose the ability when they marry and take a new name.'

A chorus of objections arose in Harry's mind. What if she doesn't change her name? Or if they just move in together, or she's like Banthora and never marries at all?

Typhon instructed him to vary the size and practise casting it silently. 'Eventually you'll do it wandlessly—I trust you'll get it quickly, as Head of House.'

Harry nodded, resolving to master what he'd been taught. I'm sure Fiona and I can put a bit of darkness to use, he thought with a smile. 'I'll add it to my schedule,' he said. 'Thanks again for teaching me.'

'Don't thank me,' snapped Typhon, his voice deep and stern. 'You are House Black. You're prophesied to restore the family glory. The greatest mistake you can make is to forget that and think small.'

Harry was surprised not only by the vote of confidence but also by the swell of energy in his chest. While he had little loyalty to the house Sirius rejected—Toujours pur—he was proud of the house he'd begun to rebuild.

After allowing the other portraits to return, he left the Star Chamber by pressing the walking stick to a carved family crest. He could have Apparated, now that he'd gained access, but using the staff was more comfortable, and in a flash he was back in the drawing room. After placing the walking stick in a stand he'd never noticed before, he stepped out to the landing.

'Blimey, where'd you come from?' exclaimed Ron, holding a glass of milk.

Harry stammered, unsure whether to mention the Star Chamber. 'Er, I was talking to a portrait.'

'In the drawing room? I came past here just a few minutes ago, and the lights were out.'

There's no use hiding it, thought Harry. 'No, I was in a secret room. I learnt about it last month, but none of the heads of house would allow me access until tonight.'

'There's another room? Where is it?'

He told Ron the essentials but said little about Typhon Black, since their conversation was personal and he wasn't yet ready to share. But he should have realised Ron would spot the omission—he was a trained Auror, after all.

'Hang on, tell me more about this Typhon bloke. Why is he helping you?'

'He's obsessed with restoring the glory of House Black, and he thinks I'm a good bet. For centuries he's watched his descendants squander everything he earned—or stole, rather.'

Ron asked for the details, and Harry felt oddly like Hermione as he explained the Protestant Reformation and the Dissolution of the Monasteries. 'It was probably the biggest heist in British history, other than the Empire, and Typhon took two huge scoops off the top.'

'Shame the Weasleys didn't get in on it,' muttered Ron. 'Does he want you to do stuff like that?'

'Yeah, but obviously I won't. He was impressed with the condom scheme, though,' said Harry, not wanting to discuss the goblin alliance.

'That's because it's a bloody goldmine,' said Ron with plain satisfaction. 'Have you talked to Percy yet?'

'No, did something happen?'

'Huh, he must be waiting for confirmation—I only know because of George.' Harry looked at him expectantly, and Ron said, 'The goblins found a partner to get it onto shelves. Nothing's been signed yet—it's still with the solicitors—but we may be in shops as soon as March.'

Harry's eyes shot open. 'Are you serious? Does Draco know?'

Ron's shoulders sank, and Harry knew he'd said the wrong thing. 'You'll have to ask him yourself, next time you see him,' said Ron. His eyebrow twitched as if to say, 'Probably tomorrow.'

'Anyway, that's great news,' said Harry. 'I guess I'll wait for the official word from Percy, but keep me posted.'

He did, in fact, hear from Percy the next day, in a magically-encoded letter. Percy had taught him a complex series of wand movements, along with a time-sensitive incantation: 'Use the five-syllable Latin incantation during even-numbered daylight hours, and the six-syllable one during odd daylight hours—you can remember because it's the opposite. And then at night you'll use the Norse incantations, only the syllables match up with whether the time is odd or even. But don't get it wrong, or else the letter will self-destruct, which I consider a necessary safeguard given the topic.'

Miraculously, Harry managed to cast the right charm, but the contents were underwhelming. 'Significant progress from our partners. Expect satisfactory conclusion by early next week, thereby launching phase two. Will coordinate with Welsh Green. More to come.'

Harry rolled his eyes. Did he really need to encode it? he thought, turning the letter over to confirm there was nothing else. 'Welsh Green' was a codename for Draco, and 'phase two' referred to the bribes. Their first contact worked for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office and would file a report proving their product wasn't illegally charmed. Entry-level employees combed Muggle newspapers and magazines for products that 'worked like magic,' and the first step was to check for prior investigations.

The next bribe was to the Department for International Magical Cooperation, to authorise imports. Gringotts was in charge of production, but British goblins couldn't own land, which meant the condoms would be manufactured in France. Muggle transport, however, cost far more than magical transit, and it was cheaper just to grease a few palms. And with an inexpensive product like condoms, margin was everything.

There were also bribes to establish a shell corporation, since Draco insisted they pay taxes. At first Harry was shocked, until Draco explained that even illegal income was taxable. 'Father used to punish his rivals by getting them audited,' he said with a hint of pride. 'It won't get you thrown into Azkaban, but the Ministry can fine you into ruin.'

Draco's experience was proving invaluable, and he seemed to enjoy talking about his father's exploits. 'You should have seen him with Cornelius Fudge,' he said, in the smoking room at Malfoy Manor. Harry had finished his dancing lesson with Narcissa and had an hour to kill before seeing Fiona, so he joined Draco for a drink.

'I did see him with Fudge, at the Quidditch World Cup.'

'Yes, that was the turning point. Years earlier, Fudge was installed as Minister by the Light faction—they'd wanted Dumbledore, but he refused, so they installed a puppet instead. And for several years Fudge did whatever Dumbledore told him. But Father saw an opportunity and kept encouraging him to "be his own man."'

Harry sniffed. 'Your father's man, more like.'

'Exactly. But it was all gradual. For example, when Fudge took office, he didn't belong to Pratt's—he couldn't afford it, for one thing, and Dumbledore didn't approve. But Father's allies would talk about Pratt's where Fudge could overhear them, then hastily change the subject. So naturally he started feeling left out, which made him very receptive when someone offered to sponsor him.'

'Yes, "someone,"' drawled Harry, trying to contain his emotions. As much as he appreciated Draco's candour, it was hard to enjoy hearing about the conspiracies to ruin his life.

'Fudge didn't know it was Father, or else he'd never have accepted. But once he crossed the threshold, he was easy prey. And of course you know the atmosphere there—people set their differences aside—which meant Father finally had his ear.'

'Didn't your father also make a huge donation to St Mungo's?' asked Harry, recalling what he'd overheard at the Quidditch World Cup.

'Oh, that was genius! There was a budget shortfall that year, and the Wizengamot was considering a Ministry-wide pay cut, with the biggest reductions at the top. But Father's very generous gift meant St Mungo's needed less from the Ministry, leaving salaries intact.'

Harry's jaw dropped. 'So he essentially bribed the entire Ministry?'

'Like I said, genius. From then on, Fudge relied more on Father than on Dumbledore, and you know the rest.'

I certainly do, thought Harry, wondering how different his life might have been if not for Lucius's manipulations. Sirius might have been exonerated. The Ministry would have believed me from the start, and Voldemort might never have returned to full power.

Draco finally noticed his reaction, and he actually looked embarrassed. 'I beg your pardon—I sometime forget who I'm talking to. In some ways you barely resemble your former self.'

Harry knew that was Draco's version of a compliment, but he didn't take it that way. Indeed, it was further proof he was no longer Harry Potter, and that his made-up name was just hiding the truth: he was Harry Black, full stop.

He mentioned it to Fiona that night, after Matthew was asleep. 'According to magic, I'm no longer a Potter. The tapestry says so, and so does the Marauder's Map. Which, if you think about it, means the Potters are officially extinct, since I was the only one left.'

'Of course they're not extinct! And clearly you're a Potter—just look in the mirror.'

'But I barely remember my parents. And, come to think of it, most of what I know about my father comes from Sirius, which means it's more Black than Potter.'

Fiona narrowed her eyes. 'So you're saying Matthew won't be a Dunning?' Harry began to protest, but she cut him off. 'No, that's exactly what you're saying. He won't remember his father, and nearly everything he'll know about him will come through me, which will make him a Wycliffe.'

'That's not what I meant, and you know it,' he said, knowing Fiona didn't mind being contradicted. 'For one thing, you're a Dunning now too. But he also has his grandparents, and cousins, and this house, not to mention the water thing.'

'All right, he's a Dunning. But you're definitely still a Potter, I'm sure of it. Not least because that's what everyone still calls you—hardly anyone uses your new name.'

'That's a silver lining,' he said, unconvinced. 'But how do I reconnect with my family? There's no one left.'

They were nestled together on the sofa, and she stroked his hand. 'What about your Invisibility Cloak? Literally centuries of Potters have worn it. Have you used it lately?'

Harry thought back and realised he hadn't used it in months. 'No, as a matter of fact. Do you think Matthew would like seeing it?'

'Are you trying to turn my little Dunning into a Potter?' she asked.

'Of course not!' he blurted before he realised she was joking. 'But still, it's just a Cloak. Sirius told me stories about when he and my dad used to use it, but it's not exactly personal.'

'No, but it's a start. Was there anything in your vault?'

He let out a hollow laugh. 'Just gold. Another Potter trait, I suppose. Though obviously a Black one as well.'

'But you're hard-working, which is a Potter thing. Right?'

'Actually, Typhon pointed out my dad didn't have a job. Which I hadn't really considered before, but he's right.'

'Your dad was in hiding! He couldn't just Floo back and forth to the Ministry.'

'Neville's parents did. They were Aurors, while my dad just ...' He trailed off.

'He was twenty-one. I realise that might sound old to you, but it really isn't. Not to mention he had a little boy, who I'm sure wanted heaps of attention.'

He smiled and gave her the Look. 'What makes you say that?'

'Just a hunch. In fact, if he was anything like you, he probably kept your mum rather busy.'

'Oi! These are my parents you're talking about!'

'Yes, and parents are never naughty,' she said, tugging his hand. 'Come on, I'll show you just how well-behaved mums are.'

She made a point of calling him 'Potter' as much as possible that night, even as he used the Black family magic to cast darkness. I'm both, he thought, with renewed pride in his made-up name.

Or neither, whispered his Light magic, in a language more subtle than words.