Harry was spending the night at Fiona's house more often than they'd intended, but neither of them wanted to slow down. It was just so easy for him to pop over after Matthew went to bed—particularly with Lodie to relay messages—and Fiona seemed as mad for Harry as he was for her.

'You've turned me into an addict,' she said, meeting him at her fireplace that night. 'No, not that kind of addict! Although that's definitely in the cards.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Harry. 'That was an awfully long Floo voyage for just a cuddle.'

She shoved him playfully. 'You cheeky bastard! I've half a mind to send you home without pudding, just to teach you some manners.'

'I didn't come here to learn manners—I have too many etiquette teachers as it is. And you're definitely not my mother.'

This had become a running joke, due to the widespread opinion he was dating an older witch because he longed for a mum. Doctor Niffler was no longer involved—she'd kept her promise to leave him alone—but Witch Weekly harped on their age gap and hinted that older women might actually be Harry's type. They even suggested whom he might date next, which made him angry on Fiona's behalf, but she just laughed and said it would drive up his price at the next WORF auction.

'On the topic of etiquette teachers,' she said, 'how did it go tonight with Narcissa?'

They were headed towards the kitchen, since Harry's nighttime visits always started with tea, for a veneer of respectability. 'She did surprisingly well. Although it probably helped she was wearing gloves—she may be willing to dance with a Muggle, but I don't think she's ready to touch one yet.'

'And what about you? Did you dance with anyone besides her?'

He'd accompanied Narcissa that night on her first foray into the world of Muggle ballroom dancing. 'Yes, and I hope Witch Weekly never hears about it, because they'd consider it more proof I have a thing for older women.'

'How much older?' asked Fiona, grinning.

'I can't say for certain, but the headline would probably be "Gran Fatale."'

'I love it! Please tell me she had blue hair.'

'She did not. In fact, she was very stylish, and she thought I was terribly sweet to accompany my aunt.'

'Was that your cover story?'

'Yes. I went by Harry Evans, and she was Callista Black. Apparently that's what she wanted to name a daughter, if she'd had one.'

'I see. And are you blood relations, or are you secretly perving on her?'

'She's my mother's sister, and no, I'm not perving on her. She told people she's married but her husband can't dance, due to an old injury, and that I encouraged her to join a club instead.'

'Such a thoughtful nephew! Did the women fight over who got to dance with you?'

'Yes, but that's because there weren't enough men.'

'Oh my god, those poor women,' said Fiona. 'They were all in love with you by the end, weren't they?'

'Actually, no. Between my clothes, my ability to dance, and my devotion to Aunt Callista, everyone assumed I was gay. In fact, one of the other men gave me his number.'

'But you'll never ring him, because you don't have a phone. And he'll never see you again, since this was just to get Narcissa settled, and you'll live forever in his memory as the man who got away.'

'Er, not exactly,' said Harry, not meeting her eyes. 'I sort of agreed to go back.'

'Go back?' she exclaimed. 'Like, every week?'

'No, every other week. But not until the New Year, since the next one is cancelled for Christmas.'

Fiona's brows drew together. 'And Narcissa can't go alone?'

'There weren't enough men. Some of the women danced in pairs, but she didn't seem keen on that herself. At least with me there she had someone to barter.'

'Harry, it's not your job to ensure Narcissa Malfoy has someone to dance with. I realise she saved your life, but she also stood by whilst her husband committed innumerable crimes.'

'I know that,' he sighed, but her expression didn't change.

'Do you? I feel like you're so enamoured with having a family that you're forgetting her role in why you were orphaned in the first place.'

'She had nothing to do with my parents' death!'

'Well, maybe not your parents, but what about your godfather? Wasn't she the one who told Kreacher to lie to you?'

They were at the table drinking tea, and Harry looked uncomfortably into his mug. 'She was. But she said she's sorry, and I believe her. Her goal wasn't to get Sirius killed—it was to get me into the DOM to hand over the prophecy.'

As soon as he mentioned the DOM he realised his mistake. 'Have you ever considered how many murderers she played hostess to?' asked Fiona, her expression fierce. 'How many people her own husband killed? For all we know he's the one who killed Rob—he killed Broderick Bode, after all.'

Harry didn't point out that Lucius had only Imperiused Rob's colleague, and that it was never proven who'd actually killed him. 'You're right, he may well have done. And yes, Narcissa should have done more to stop him.' Harry wanted to justify why he'd forgiven her, but he couldn't find the words.

'She literally could have ended the war herself, if she'd just had a moral compass, and maybe a backbone. I realise you were the only one who could defeat Voldemort, but what about all the Death Eaters? She could have taken them all out with a few drops of sedative and a bottle of wine!'

'I know that,' said Harry irritably, but Fiona was no longer listening.

'Rob literally gave his life to stop the Death Eaters–'

'So did I!' snapped Harry. 'I know she could have done more—a lot more. Draco too. But I want to forgive them, all right?'

Fiona's cheeks were still flushed from anger, but her expression softened. 'Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. Of course it's all right.'

'I know it's not logical,' he said, looking at his tea again. 'They both wanted me dead for years. But when they had the opportunity to finish me off, neither one could do it. Which makes me think maybe the other stuff wasn't actually them, and it was just something they'd been taught.'

After a long silence, Fiona said, 'You're more forgiving than I am. I can barely forgive my school friends, while you hold out an olive branch to all takers.'

Harry still felt embarrassed, and acutely aware of their age difference. 'But maybe I'm too naive. Someone is bound to take advantage, right?'

'They might do. I'm sure some of those Pratt's wizards are already. But that doesn't mean it's wrong.'

'Yeah, but what about Narcissa? I shouldn't have just signed over two nights a month without consulting you.'

'What do you mean, nights? Did I miss some part of the arrangement?'

Harry chuckled and shook his head. 'No, it's two evenings. But really, I can tell her I can't go, or maybe persuade Draco to take her instead. After all, he hasn't a leg to stand on where Muggles are concerned.'

'That's true. But what do you want? And let's assume you'd otherwise be on your own that night, and you couldn't come here until Matthew goes to sleep.'

Harry didn't have to think about it. 'I'd take her dancing,' he said. 'It's fun, now that I know how, and I like Muggle settings.' But he remembered Fiona's other comment and said, 'I think you're right, though. That I'm enamoured with having a family. And I can't believe I'm referring to the Malfoys as family ... this is probably the Dursleys' fault.'

'Yes, it is,' said Fiona bitterly. 'You'd better hope I never meet them.'

They finished their tea and went upstairs, where Harry felt neither too young nor too naive. The next morning he kissed her goodbye, well before Matthew's usual waking time, and as he slipped down the stairs he thought, 'Mischief managed.'

He was therefore surprised to find Matthew on the floor near the fireplace, playing with wizarding chessmen. 'What are you doing here?' said Harry, knowing Matthew could have asked the same question.

The boy didn't seem surprised to see him. 'I woke up.'

'Are you all right? Do you need something?'

'Is Mummy awake?'

Recalling Fiona's groggy response to his parting kiss, Harry said, 'She might still be asleep. But I bet she'd like a cuddle.'

'No, I'm not supposed to go in unless I'm sick, or I have a bad dream.'

Harry's heart sank. Fiona had assured him Matthew was all right, and that he still got heaps of affection. But seeing him there all alone, missing his mum, made Harry feel like a monster. What do I do? he thought. Do I tell him to go into her room anyway?

Grasping at straws, he said, 'Are you hungry? Would you fancy some breakfast?'

'Can you make pancakes?'

'Can I make pancakes?' he said, feigning offence. 'Of course I can make pancakes! What do you take me for—some kind of noodle-brain who doesn't know how to make pancakes?'

'Dragon pancakes?'

Bugger! thought Harry. 'Er, no. What are dragon pancakes?'

With an air of superiority, Matthew told him about a patently impossible breakfast food that flew and breathed smoke. 'And one time when Mummy was extra silly, it pooped chocolate chips!' he said in an explosion of giggles.

'I'm afraid I don't know how to do that, but I can make ordinary pancakes and maybe together we can think of fun things for them to do.'

They went to the kitchen, and Matthew seemed to enjoy watching Harry fumble about for ingredients. The flour proved hard to find, and Harry made the mistake of trying to Summon it, which unleashed a fast-moving white cloud from the pantry. 'Depulso!' he cried too late, and his clothes were covered with flour, prompting more laughter from Matthew.

He used magic to salvage the flour, and with some effort he produced a serviceable set of pancakes and charmed them to stay warm. Next, he and Matthew discussed how to enchant them, finally deciding to make them stand up and talk. The pancakes held a lively debate over whether they tasted better with raspberry jam or lemon and sugar, which crossed the line into the grotesque when the pancakes took bites of each other.

By the time Fiona arrived, the table was a carnage of half-eaten pancakes, some of which were still twitching. 'What happened here?' she exclaimed, taking in the sight. 'Matthew, how did you get jam in your hair? And Harry, why are you coated in flour?'

'You said I got most of it off!' he said accusingly to Matthew.

'I just meant where you could see it,' said the boy, and Fiona laughed.

'And what are you doing awake?' she asked, kissing her son on the forehead.

Explanations were given, and Harry made her a fresh batch of pancakes. She declared them edible and promised to make 'proper pancakes' another time. Matthew ran off to play, and Fiona walked with Harry to the fireplace.

'I wasn't sure what to do,' he confessed. 'I couldn't just leave him there, but I didn't want to wake you up. And I was reluctant to send him to your room, if that's against the rules.' He sighed, still sheepish about disrupting their household.

'Harry, stop blaming yourself. If anyone should feel guilty it's me—the heartless mother who'd rather shag a Seeker than cuddle her own son.'

'That's not how I'd describe you! Obviously I'm no expert, but you seem like a wonderful mum. And besides, you deserve a life too.'

'So I'm told. But god, I hope Rob's parents don't hear about this—they're still concerned we're moving too fast.'

'Are you worried about that?' he asked. 'We can cancel tonight, if you want.'

'No, my sister's already agreed to watch him. And besides, I want to meet your friends.'

He was taking her to Edinburgh, to meet Brett and Douglas, and Hermione and Ryan were coming as well. 'All right, then. But let me know if you need to slow things down. Not that I want to, of course, but–'

'We're not slowing things down,' she said firmly. 'And you're late for training.'

He wasn't, but he took the hint and kissed her goodbye. After a quick stop at Grimmauld Place, he left for work, which was positively relaxing during the off-season. The goal wasn't to exhaust themselves but simply retain their overall fitness, so there was plenty of time to chat. Wearing an amulet to stay warm, Harry jogged around the pitch talking to Darren, who was still moping about Luna.

'It's like all the colour's drained from the world, now that she's gone,' said Darren heavily. 'Everything's so predictable again—how did I bear it?'

'Honestly, you seemed pretty happy to me. I know you were enjoying the whole "man about town" thing. Couldn't you take that up again?'

'I could do, but what's the point? So I can meet the right people and get some tedious job at the Ministry after I retire? That just sounds like a punishment now.'

'I get it—I have no desire to work at the Ministry.' He smirked and said, 'But maybe a second spot will open up at the Knight Bus, and we can keep working together.'

Darren let out a hollow laugh. 'That doesn't sound half bad, actually. A bit of adventure, if nothing else.' After a long silence, he added, 'Honestly, Harry, I don't think I meant as much to her as she did to me.'

Harry would have liked to contradict him, but he couldn't lie. 'She was definitely fond of you. She wouldn't have dated you that long if she weren't. And I'm sure she loved how open-minded you were—most people just think she's weird, and that she makes it all up.'

'I get why they'd think that,' said Darren. 'But she's definitely not making things up. Not that I could see any of those animals she was on about, but it was obvious she could. After a while I stopped looking where she was pointing—I just looked at her. Because she was so happy! I might not have been able to see Blubbering Humdingers, but I could see her excitement. And she'd take out a sketchbook and draw every detail of some animal that clearly wasn't there—like, it didn't even leave footprints—but I'll swear on my life it was real.'

Another long silence, which Harry didn't interrupt. 'Maybe she saw something like that in me. Something no one else can see, and which you might think never existed. But Luna saw it, and now that she's gone, it's gone too.'

'Mate, you can't think like that,' said Harry, concerned. 'Can you distract yourself somehow?'

'Maybe,' said Darren dubiously. 'Or maybe I just need a break. Do you reckon I could pull off a celibacy vow? I've already got a head start.'

'I'm not sure there's much point without Light magic. How's your Patronus coming, by the way?' He'd taught Darren the basics of the Patronus Charm, per Luna's request.

'Not well. My happiest memories are with Luna, but that's a little fraught right now.'

Harry suggested he use something Quidditch-related, which Darren said he'd try. But it would probably take time, Harry knew, recalling how Tonks was unable to cast a Patronus whilst pining for Remus.

Why did I never lose my Patronus? Harry had certainly been depressed enough during the Umbridge year, and after Sirius died. But he'd always been able to cast one—even at the end of the war, when they were cornered in Hogsmeade with a dozen Dementors. He hadn't even used a happy memory—he simply used his love for Ron and Hermione, and his wish to protect them.

'Just use love,' he blurted, startling Darren. 'I know I said to use a memory, but that's not really what I do anymore. I just use love.'

'Yeah, but you're the Light Lord. And you learnt the Patronus the normal way, right?'

'There is no normal way—there's only the way that works.' Harry looked to see if Tuttle was watching. 'Go on, try it. You have your wand, right?'

They stopped running and stepped out of the path. 'Is everything all right?' asked Renée when she caught up with them.

'Not really,' said Darren, pulling out his wand. 'I'm a lovesick, miserable sod. But Harry thinks I can use that to cast a Patronus, and Tuttle's not watching, so I'm giving it a go.' Addressing Harry, he said, 'So just moody, mopey love?'

'No, that's not it. More like, "Luna saw something special in me, and I loved that about her. And I want everyone to see those qualities, myself included, and for everyone to see the qualities they never knew they had."' Harry paused to let it sink in, and Darren took a deep breath.

'Expecto Patronum!' he cried, holding his wand as Harry had taught, and a cloud of silver mist flowed out. It didn't coalesce, but Darren had clearly got the knack.

'That's the one,' said Harry. 'Just keep practicing—I'm sure it'll be corporeal in no time.'

The players had gathered, and Darren wanted to try again, but Tuttle ordered them to keep running. 'For fuck's sake, I turn my back for a minute and Lord Silvercock starts teaching Light magic! Go on, move it!'

'It's a stag, not a cock,' called Janet, resuming her laps, and Harry joined her. 'You're lucky we already call you Snitchbottom,' she said. 'Because Lord Silvercock isn't half bad.'

Harry knew better than to reply, but he resolved to tell Fiona, who would definitely find it amusing. After practice he had lunch at home, to make up for missing breakfast, and he went upstairs to change for his next appointment. It was his first session with Louisa, the portrait artist, and he'd already decided what to wear.

'Ivory,' said Banthora approvingly, inspecting him before he left. 'I see you're unafraid to make a statement.'

'I'm a Light wizard,' he shrugged. 'And it's not like my portrait will be stuck with it, since Louisa's going to give him a full wardrobe. And yes, I know that costs more, but–'

'Harry, don't apologise! You're prophesied to make House Black greater than ever before—surely your portrait is entitled to a change of clothes!'

'Honestly, I'm still embarrassed about the whole thing. My plan is to hide it in my wardrobe until I'm married, and maybe in the Star Chamber after that.'

'As long as it's somewhere you can talk to him,' said Banthora. 'And don't be ashamed—you of all people deserve a portrait, and by having it painted so young you're doing the world a service.'

'So I hear, but it's still mortifying.'

He travelled by Floo to Louisa's studio, which he'd seen the week before when he signed the contract and gave her a lock of hair. She had multiple projects going, and he was pleased to see they were all concealed, for the subject's privacy. 'I never reveal who I'm painting,' she'd told him. 'Furthermore, I secure all my brushes between sessions, so there's no risk someone will get your hair.'

That afternoon a canvas stood ready, and the studio was bathed in soft light. 'Is it blood time?' he asked, holding up a finger.

'It is! But first, let me show you the brushes.' Louisa pressed her hand to a wooden box and cast a charm with her wand. There was a clicking sound, and when she removed her hand the box opened, revealing an array of brushes. 'It's terribly convenient you could provide so much hair,' she said. 'A lot of my clients are, shall we say, lacking in that department.'

'Are you sure my hair will work all right?' he asked. 'It's not normally very compliant.'

'My preliminary tests were satisfactory. And didn't you say it was successfully used in Polyjuice Potion?'

Harry's heart always sank when he remembered the night Hedwig and Moody had died. 'Yes, it worked fine,' he said, noticing a small bowl next to the brushes. 'Is that for my blood?'

'Yes, if you please. Just do a mild cutting curse and give me seven drops or so. It doesn't need to be precise.'

He'd made discreet enquiries and learnt she was trustworthy, so he had no fear as he gave her his blood. Quite the opposite, in fact—he was deeply grateful for her help with Walburga and Padfoot. His affection surged as the blood dripped out, and even though he was still embarrassed about getting a portrait, he was also excited.

After healing his finger, Louisa opened a small silver tube and squeezed a dollop of white paint into the bowl. Using one of the brushes, she mixed the blood and paint together, producing a range of shades from pale pink to nearly black. 'Is that normal?' he asked.

'Yes, perfectly normal. And I'll only use it to paint your heart, which won't be visible. But it'll be the painting's heart and soul.' Harry watched in fascination as she painted an extremely detailed heart; first it was still, then she cast a spell and it began to beat. 'There's no body yet, so it's not pumping blood,' she said. 'Or paint, rather. But I'll add in the rest, and soon we'll have your entire anatomy.'

Harry inhaled sharply. 'Er, do you have to paint ... all my organs?'

'No, not to worry,' she said with plain amusement. 'With your blood and hair, and the charms I put on the canvas in advance, the portrait's body will gradually form on its own. Which means we'll go straight to your outer appearance. Your clothes, your hair, your expressions—everything that can't be extrapolated from your blood.'

He situated himself before a neutral backdrop, next to a table with a large flower arrangement he'd ordered in advance. The flowers wouldn't dominate, Louisa had explained, but would merely add a hint of colour to the otherwise plain setting. And it'll give Portrait Harry something to choose from, he thought, glancing at the rosebuds on his lapel. They were white with a greenish tinge and signified the constant renewal of life and energy, which seemed appropriate for a portrait that would outlast him.

He stood for nearly two hours, and Louisa kept apologising. 'It's only necessary during the first session, when I want to capture your overall bearing. You can sit during future sessions, when I'm concentrating on your face.'

'Really, I'm fine,' he said. 'After a two-day Quidditch match, it's a piece of piss. Er, cake.'

She laughed and said, 'There's no need to moderate your language—the point is to be yourself. I'll do my best to impart what I know about you, and your job is to give him the rest.'

'Can't I omit a few things?' he asked. 'I'd just as soon he not deliver tirades, for example.'

'No, don't censor yourself. That's how you get portraits without much depth, even if they are sentient. Every aspect of you is an important part of the whole, and the painting will reflect that. I'm sure your friend Banthora didn't hold back, and you've seen the result.'

Banthora was probably the most lifelike portrait he'd ever met, so he resolved to be candid with his own portrait. 'But what will I call him? It'll be weird coming home and saying, "Hi, Harry! You won't believe what happened today!"'

'Oh, don't worry about that,' said Louisa. 'It's normal to give them a nickname.'

'Won't that cause problems later on? He'll need to answer to my name and not just ... a nickname,' said Harry, opting not to say 'Snitchbottom.'

'No, that's fine. He'll be Harry first and foremost—remember, he's linked with your blood and magic, and your name is a big part of that.'

'Right, my name ... that's also been a bit weird.' He explained how several magical artefacts were calling him Harry Black.

'Interesting,' said Louisa, and she paused to think for a moment. 'Aren't you wearing the Black family ring? Surely that would have an effect.'

'The ring!' cried Harry. 'Of course it's having an effect! How did I never think of that?' He looked at his left hand, even though the ring was hidden. 'So that's it? I'll never be Harry Potter again? Potter-Black, that is,' he said, not hiding his dismay.

Louisa set down her brush. 'Harry, no ring can change who you are, unless it's literally cursed, which I assume it isn't.'

'No, the referees always inspect it before a match. It's just family magic.'

'Then don't worry about its effect on your portrait. Your portrait will be much more closely linked to you than your tapestry or that map is, thanks to your blood and hair.' She stepped back and looked at the canvas, which Harry couldn't see, and said, 'It already has your energy, I think. Come, have a look.'

Unsure what to expect, he walked over to see it. She'd filled in the background, minus the table and flowers, and there stood an amusingly vague rendering of himself. His face and hair were a mere sketch, but his clothes and body were already well rendered. 'What do you mean, he has my energy?'

'Watch,' she said, and she cast a quick incantation. The formerly immobile subject began jogging in place and stretching his arms, just as Harry did every morning at practice. 'Normally I don't need to freeze it while the subject is posing—they tend to follow their master in that respect. But as soon as I gave him a body he started moving, and I had to make him stay put.'

'Ugh, sorry to be so much trouble!'

'No, it's fine,' she laughed. 'It's rare I paint someone this young, so of course he'll have more get up and go than my usual subjects. Although I'd swear he was flirting.'

'Flirting!' exclaimed Harry. 'How? He barely has a face!'

'Body language. I unfroze him while you were in the loo, and he sort of looked me over and ran a hand through his hair. Is that something you'd do?'

'Er, maybe,' said Harry, mortified. Louisa was mildly attractive but well into middle age, and he hadn't given her appearance a second thought, or even a first. 'I hope he didn't do anything inappropriate,' he said, recalling how his photo had misbehaved with Jocelyn and Maryann.

'No, not at all. He's just energetic, which is typical for a subject this young.'

'When will he begin talking?' asked Harry, worried he'd start pouring out secrets.

'Not until he's done. I'll have you cast a charm to grant him your voice—another reason I prefer working with a living subject. It can be done using Pensieve memories, which is how I gave Padfoot his bark, but it's much easier when the subject can hold a wand.'

They wrapped up the session and agreed to meet again in several days. Harry had opted for the deluxe package, which entailed a lot of sittings, but hopefully the result would be worth it. Because I never want to do this again, he thought.

When he got home he asked Banthora whether she'd had a nickname while the original Banthora was alive. 'Yes, she called me Beedie. It was my nickname as a little girl—I loved the Tales of Beedle the Bard but couldn't pronounce it.'

Harry didn't have a childhood nickname other than 'Freak,' which he had no intention of using. 'Maybe I'll call him Snitchbottom,' he mused. 'Although that would be weird, since it's my name too.'

'Or Jamie,' she suggested. 'From your middle name.'

'Jamie ... I like that. Well done! Jamie it is.'

Next he looked in on Typhon, who'd sent word through Kreacher that he wanted to talk. Harry banished everyone else from the Star Chamber and he and Typhon sat opposite each other, sipping tea. 'I never drank tea during my life, since it hadn't reached Britain yet,' said Typhon, raising a painted cup to his lips. 'But I always keep up on what's important, and tea was pivotal to Muggles and wizards alike.'

Harry braced himself to hear how the Blacks had profiteered from the tea trade, and Typhon didn't disappoint. 'The British Empire was an absolute goldmine,' he declared. 'During the seventeenth century, the Blacks reaped enormous profits, but my later descendants were too idle and spoilt, as you know.'

Why exactly did I take their name? wondered Harry for the thousandth time, and he decided to ask Hermione how to help people in countries looted by colonialism. 'I brought those figures you asked for,' he said, by way of changing the subject.

'And?'

'They're good. Here, see for yourself.' Harry held up the parchment he'd received from Dominic Runnion with London Underground's preliminary sales data.

Typhon nodded as he read. 'Very good indeed. That should take care of your dowry problem, certainly.'

'Yes, I should have them covered within a few months.'

'Do they expect sales to continue at this rate?' asked Typhon.

'No, it'll level off once the initial demand is over. But they anticipate steady returns in the long run. They're also hinting at a sportswear line, but I'm not ready to commit to that, since I'd be expected to wear it regularly.'

Typhon sneered and said, 'A Black doesn't dress like the common wizard. Carry on with the undergarments, but don't debase yourself by wearing the garb of the hoi polloi.'

Harry wasn't sure how to respond—he was offended by Typhon's snobbery, but he also abhorred the idea of people dressing exactly as he did. They already came close, with the ongoing mania for fitted robes, foulards, and the rest. But at least his tailors didn't sell duplicates of what he'd purchased.

'I've done enough endorsements for the time being,' he said, not acknowledging Typhon's statement. 'Between Quidditch, London Underground, and my other investments, I think I'm in pretty good shape.'

'What about Light magic?' asked Typhon.

Harry was taken aback. 'What about it?'

'How do you plan to monetise it?'

'Monetise it?' exclaimed Harry. 'What does that even mean?'

Typhon explained the term, then said, 'You've made it clear you object to my other suggestions on moral grounds. I'm therefore proposing something more aligned with your leanings.'

'I can't monetise Light magic!' he sputtered.

'Spare me your protests. Have you forgot you've already done it?'

'When?' snapped Harry, not hiding his scepticism.

Typhon's eyes gleamed with triumph. 'I have two words for you: glowing merchandise.'

Bugger! thought Harry. 'That's Cannons merchandise,' was his feeble reply.

'So you don't get a cut?'

'I do,' he admitted. 'But it replaced my existing merchandise. For example, my figurine sometimes glows now. And I'll have you know, I turned down their other suggestions. Harry Potter nightlights, for example.'

'Such restraint!' said Typhon loftily. 'What good fortune for House Black to have such a humble wizard at the helm!'

Harry raised two fingers at him, and the portrait merely laughed. 'Point taken,' Harry grumbled. 'But if you're asking me to profit from Light magic in some other way, I'm not going to do it.'

'Hear me out,' said Typhon, his tone conciliatory. 'Your goal is to make the Light Arts more popular, correct?'

'That's right,' said Harry, not trusting where Typhon was going.

'And why is that?'

'Because Light magic is brilliant, and I want everyone to experience it. From what I can tell, it makes people much happier than they used to be,' he said, thinking of Gemma in particular.

Typhon was silent for a moment, with the look of someone deciding which chess piece to move. 'People envy you, don't they?'

Harry felt a hint of dismay—he'd experienced strong envy as a child, and he didn't like provoking it in others. 'That's what I've heard, yes.'

'Why do they envy you? Is it your Light magic in particular, or something else?'

'I'm sure the Light magic is part of it, but I don't think that's the main reason. If it were, they'd also envy my teacher Davina, but I don't think that's the case.'

'They envy your wealth,' said Typhon simply. 'And your fame, and your athletic prowess. To say nothing of your popularity with the fairer sex.'

Actually, blokes fancy me too, thought Harry. 'Yes, that's true. I hear it all the time now.'

Typhon looked him in the eye. 'Sell that. Show people the connection between Light magic and worldly success, and you'll have a goldmine.'

'But there is no connection,' countered Harry, uncertain whether that was true. 'My teacher Davina is far more advanced than I am, but she's not head of a noble house or any of the rest of it. She was disinherited, in fact, and she also lost her husband in a car crash.' With a grimace, he said, 'And I lost heaps of people, which everyone seems to forget now. So no, I don't think there's a link between Light magic and "worldly success." If I've been lucky recently, that's all a coincidence.'

Another silence as Typhon finished the last of his tea, then he said, 'It may surprise you to learn that I studied the Light Arts in my youth.' Harry stared in shock, and the portrait added, 'Not for long—I quickly determined the Dark Arts were a better match to my talents. But perhaps you're unaware that Light magic can be used to attain worldly results.'

'Are you sure? That doesn't sound very Light to me.'

Typhon shook a finger at him. 'Harry, you should know by now that "Light" and "Dark" are misnomers, and that the two practices have more in common than one might think. Specifically, concentration.'

Harry recalled what Narcissa had told him, about using pride to focus her magic. 'Yes, that's true, but I don't see how I'd use love to catch the Sni–'

He stopped short. 'Oh bugger, that's exactly what I do!' he blurted. He mentally reviewed one triumph after another: pacifying Draco, subduing Rita Skeeter, getting away with posing in his underwear. I've lucked into a million things during the past six months. But what if it wasn't actually luck?

'You're the most successful wizard of your generation,' said Typhon. 'And your Light magic is central to that, just as Dark magic enabled my own success. Convince people you owe it all to the Light Arts, and they'll be begging to learn how you did it.'

'They're already studying with Davina,' said Harry. 'She's got heaps of students now.'

'But they merely want Light magic. Imagine drawing in everyone who wants what you have,' said Typhon, indicating Harry's robes and the richly-furnished room. 'Find a way to sell that, and you'll build a fortune to rival my own.'

'I don't want a fortune to rival your own! My descendants don't need goblin-made armour or secret Muggle mistresses or whatever else the Blacks pissed away their gold on.'

'Then charge only a nominal fee,' said Typhon. 'But don't give your method away, lest people think it's worthless. If your goal is to convert the masses to Light magic, so they too can experience delirious bliss, you'll need all your grandfather's tricks. Fleamont Potter, right?'

'He went by Monty,' said Harry automatically. Not for the first time, he was impressed by the breadth of Typhon's knowledge—he was shockingly well informed for a 450-year-old portrait. 'By the way, how old were you when you had your portrait painted?' he asked, hoping to change the subject.

'I was five and twenty. It was considered young for a portrait, even though lifespans were shorter back then, but I think you'll agree it was worth it. In fact, you should consider getting yours painted soon.'

Harry thanked Typhon for the advice and wrapped up the conversation. His mind was still reeling when he emerged from the Star Chamber, and he had heaps of questions for Davina, whom he normally would have seen that night. But she was travelling, so he'd have to make do with Hermione.

It was to be her first time meeting Brett and Douglas, who were hosting dinner at their flat. Douglas in particular was keen to meet her, since he considered Hermione his best chance to meet his idol, Lydia Travers. Harry still found it odd that the two witches had become friends, and he couldn't decide what surprised him more: that Lydia now confided in a Muggle-born, or that Hermione had moved past her scorn.

Fiona met him at Grimmauld Place, to break up the long voyage from Cornwall to Edinburgh. 'I love Everbrook,' she said, emerging from the fireplace, 'but it's typical Dunning to choose a house so far from everything. If they could just crack the nut of magical transport over water, I'm sure they'd live in Guernsey, or maybe Sark.'

'London is central,' he said innocently. 'Very convenient.'

'Nice try, Potter, but you know I can't move Matthew here.'

'I know, and that's fine. But I'll never give the place up—I've grown far too fond of pure-blood decorating.' For several minutes they succumbed to the ambiance, then they travelled by Floo to Brett and Douglas's shop. Hermione and Ryan were already there, enjoying a warm welcome from their hosts.

'And this must be Fiona,' said Douglas with a courtly bow. 'You know you've tamed Harry entirely, right? He's practically your love slave.'

'It's mutual,' she said, and Harry introduced her.

'So Fiona, what is it like being the most envied witch in Britain?' asked Brett.

'I think the word you're looking for is "resented,"' she said. 'Along with "scrutinised," or maybe just "loathed."'

'Are you saying you don't appreciate Witch Weekly's ongoing analysis of what Harry could possibly see in you?'

'I drafted a statement, but she won't let me send it,' said Harry with mock indignation.

'Because it's completely appalling!' cried Fiona. 'Not only is it gooey beyond belief, but it would unleash even more speculation.'

Addressing the group, Harry said, 'In my defence, I was never actually going to send it. But I needed to get it off my chest, to avoid blurting it out in public.' Grinning, he added, 'Do you want to hear it?'

Fiona rolled her eyes. 'He's just proud of how clever he sounds. He showed me Rita Skeeter's latest puff piece for the foreign press, which described his growing reputation as a wit, and he wanted to prove he deserves it.'

'And does he?' asked Ryan.

Her lips curled into a smile, which made Harry's heart melt. 'I'm afraid he does. In fact, I agree with Rita entirely and think he's shockingly clever.' She held his gaze, and for a long moment nothing else existed.

'Oh my god, you're revolting,' blurted Brett. 'Hermione, is he always like this when he's in love?'

'No, this is new. I mean, yes, he was devoted to Ginny, but they weren't gooey—she would never have tolerated it. And his other relationships were too brief.'

Harry was still lost in Fiona's eyes. 'Can't I show them the letter?' he asked. 'I'm sure they're dead curious now.'

She threw up her hands and said, 'Go on, then. But I hereby register my mortification.'

He pulled the letter from his pouch and read:

I, Harry Potter-Black, wish to clear up the confusion around my attraction to Fiona Dunning. The most shallow explanation should be clear to anyone with eyes, and I fully admit to being shallow. But she's brilliant in heaps of other ways, listed below.

The first way, oddly enough, is her temper. Or perhaps I should call it her passion, since they go hand in hand. It's a bit scary at times, if I'm being honest, and more than once I've been on the receiving end. But luckily I've cracked the code, which is that she simply wants to be heard. Which means that when I stop and listen, her anger dissipates and we usually end up snogging.

(I should mention that I would never, ever provoke her on purpose, just for the fun of making her angry and then snogging afterwards. Because only a colossal berk would do that, whilst I am a Light wizard, Order of Merlin recipient, and runner-up for Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile.)

Next, I love her talent for deflating my massive ego. For example, when I proudly showed her a recent article in Quidditch Digest about Europe's best Seekers, she looked through the other player profiles and said, "They've all been playing for years. Have you even hit six months yet?" She also delights in finding strange blemishes on my back and using her wand to pop them, and she thinks London Underground should produce an activity book so others can do the same.

Another reason I fancy the stunning Mrs Dunning is that she's a wonderful mum. And yes, I know what you're thinking: that I only want her as some kind of surrogate, which frankly baffles me. Clearly I'm no expert on the mother-child relationship, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't resemble Fiona's and mine. I'll admit I don't always like when Fiona pays more attention to her son than to me, but I get to see a whole other side of her: the one that's singularly focused on her child's well-being. She'd walk through fire for him, and I now understand how Molly Weasley defeated Bellatrix Lestrange.

I could go on, but clearly I'll never send this letter, so I'll just wrap things up.

Yours sincerely,
Harry Potter-Black

When he finished reading, he looked around and was greeted with stares. 'When did you learn to write like that?' asked Hermione.

'Er, Banthora helped a little,' he admitted. 'But I also think I've improved, from writing to so many kids.'

'It's all the love letters,' said Fiona. 'Although they were brilliant from the start—that's the real way he got into my knickers.'

Douglas laughed. 'It appears Little Lord Black has the soul of a poet,' he said, gesturing towards Harry's trousers.

To Harry's horror, everyone but Ryan looked at his groin. 'Oi, eyes up here!' he cried.

'You're right, we can just look at your adverts later,' said Brett. 'So, who wants a tour?' He and Douglas showed the newcomers around both halves of the shop, then everyone went upstairs to the flat. Dinner and drinks were served, and Harry was thrilled by how well everyone got along.

Towards the end of the cheese course, Douglas raised his glass. 'While we wait for Hooverman over there to finish eating,' he said, indicating Ryan, 'I'd like to make a toast to Hermione Granger. She is truly the ne plus ultra of Muggleborns, and it's an inspiration just to sit across from her. Even more, she's my ticket to meeting Lydia Travers, since Harry is too much of a jessie to introduce us.'

'Trust me, she'll like you better if Hermione asks,' said Harry. 'We're on good terms, but it's definitely at arm's length.'

'I'll be glad to introduce you to Lydia,' said Hermione. 'But I'm really not that special amongst Muggleborns. My distinguishing talent was probably that I received a Hogwarts letter.'

'Shh, don't interrupt my toast!' Douglas scolded. 'You're brave and brilliant, and something tells me you're a little bit evil, which I also admire.' She blushed and he continued. 'So let's have a drink to Muggle-born Extraordinaire, Hermione Granger.'

Everyone drank, and Hermione said, 'Thank you, but really, it has more to do with my being sent to Hogwarts. I doubt I'll ever know why, but hopefully the outcome was better than if I'd been sent elsewhere.'

Brett listlessly raised his glass again. 'To the Department of Mysteries—the shadowy government organisation ruling us all. Although they sent Douglas my way, so I can't really complain.'

Harry glanced at Fiona when Brett mentioned the DOM, and her face fell. Hermione must have noticed it too, because she said, 'I suspect you and Douglas would have met regardless. I managed to meet Ryan, after all, and Harry met Fiona.'

But Fiona ignored the change in topic. 'No, he's right, the DOM's as powerful as you're imagining. I sometimes think they control the Ministry, and not the other way round.'

'I shouldn't have brought it up,' said Brett awkwardly. 'I forgot–'

'It's fine,' she said, cutting him off. 'I was never allowed to talk about it before, and I'm probably still not supposed to, but there's no magic preventing me now that Rob's gone.'

'Magic preventing you?' said Hermione. 'How did that work?'

'Through our marriage bond. Every month he was required to take a blood oath, which prevented him from revealing his work to anyone else. But there was a special exemption for spouses, since someone decided it was inhumane to require total secrecy within a marriage. That's why Rob and I got married so young—so he wouldn't have to be so evasive.'

'Is that why he had to take a blood oath so often?' asked Hermione. 'To encompass you as well?'

'Yes, exactly. I tested it once by revealing something innocuous to my mum, but the words wouldn't form.'

'Fascinating,' said Ryan. 'Does that mean your husband told you everything?'

'No, he could only share minor secrets. Things like his colleagues' aliases, or basic information about what they do there. He could also tell me about entry-level tasks, which is why it's an open secret that the DOM assigns schools when there's no family precedent.'

'What about when the child's parents didn't attend the same school?' asked Hermione.

'Yes, in that case as well. That's why Rob never forgot he attended Blockhurst, even though he was in and out of the Ministry every day. The DOM is magically insulated from the rest of the building, and I'm sure his amulet also protected him. It couldn't guard against the Imperius Curse, as we learnt from poor Broderick Bode, but it could stop nearly anything else.'

Everyone at the table looked fascinated, and Harry was too. He never asked Fiona about the DOM, for obvious reasons, and he wasn't going to start now. But he hoped Hermione would keep going.

'How were schools assigned?' she asked. 'Did Rob ever do it?'

'Yes, the whole time he was there. It always fell to the newest Unspeakable, and they don't bring people on very often.' Her face clouded, and she said, 'I suppose Mistral got stuck with it when Rob died. She was the next youngest Unspeakable.' She was silent a moment, then her expression returned to normal. 'I used to joke that it was his punishment for getting an O on his Divination N.E.W.T.'

'Brett, did you hear that?' said Douglas. 'Our love really was written in the stars!'

'Either that, or your relationship with Brenda Harwick was, and you and I were just gravy.'

All eyes turned to Douglas, who looked genuinely embarrassed. 'Poor Brenda. She really was pretty, and I thought I fancied her.'

'Not enough to actually kiss her,' said Brett. 'They dated three solid months our final year and she never got a snog out of him. But he had a good excuse: he was madly in love with yours truly.'

'And how were you during all that?' asked Fiona.

'Miserably in love with my best mate. In fact, I actively loathed the DOM for inflicting him on me—Rob was lucky I didn't know where to find him, because I'd have given him a piece of my mind.'

Douglas rolled his eyes. 'Brett, Fiona's husband wasn't yet working there when we received our school letters.'

'When did he start?' asked Hermione. 'Was he the one who sent me to Hogwarts?'

'We left school in 1991,' said Fiona. 'He started at the DOM that summer—when did you get your letter?'

'July 18, 1991,' said Hermione, beaming. 'Professor McGonagall delivered it in person and told my parents and me about magic.'

'I'm sure he was involved, but he was still working under supervision.' With an amused sniff, Fiona added, 'It's dead obvious in hindsight, but they probably took extra care with the Harry Potter class. And yes, if you were sent to Hogwarts, I'm sure Divination was involved. Muggle-borns don't go to Hogwarts by chance, and definitely not in '91.'

Harry frowned. It was easy to guess why Hermione had been chosen, but why Dean Thomas, or Justin Finch-Fletchley? And what about Colin Creevey? he thought sadly. 'I don't suppose we'll ever know why, will we?' he said.

'No, probably not. Rob never told me, and if he were still alive he'd be bound by his oath.'

Douglas also looked disappointed. 'Harry, you can't pull any strings, can you? Maybe grease a palm or two?'

'No, that's Draco Malfoy's department,' said Harry. 'I doubt I have any influence with the Ministry nowadays. I burnt most of my bridges when I quit the Auror department, and the rest when I freed Draco from house arrest.'

'Yes, how's your Adopt-a-Death-Eater programme going?' asked Brett. 'Have you got him practising the Light Arts yet?'

Harry recalled what Typhon had said about monetising Light magic. This would be a good group to ask, he decided, and he told them about Typhon's advice. 'That would be deceptive, right? Making it sound like Light magic's the reason I own a townhouse and so forth?'

'You didn't have Light magic when Sirius died,' said Hermione. 'And you got access to your parents' vault when you were eleven.'

'And you're a natural at flying,' said Ryan. 'Obviously the Light magic helps, particularly when a fugue state kicks in, but I don't think it caused your talent.'

'Right, but what about how fabulous he is now?' asked Douglas. 'That's all new.'

Harry caught Hermione's eye, and she discreetly touched her forehead. 'No, that was a year earlier,' he said quietly, knowing she'd understand. I didn't change when Voldemort died, he thought. I changed when I joined the Cannons. 'I'm not ready to say Light magic caused anything that wouldn't have happened otherwise. Except for obvious things, like catching the Snitch in a fugue state.'

'But what about how you've handled Malfoy?' asked Hermione. 'Or Charles Selwyn, for that matter?' Addressing the group, she said, 'Without even trying, Harry somehow has the heirs to two Dark houses eating out of his hand. If he'd set out to do it, he'd never have succeeded, but it's all happening spontaneously. And Davina says that's classic Light magic.'

'Right, but it's hardly repeatable. And Merlin knows I can't monetise it,' he said with distaste.

Fiona reached for his hand. 'Forgive me, but if anyone could monetise it, you could. And yes, that probably is Light magic, or at least some weird gold-attracting variant.'

Harry's cheeks grew hot, and Brett said, 'Don't be embarrassed—Douglas is the same way. When we worked at a café in France, he earned a shocking amount in tips.' He paused for dramatic effect. 'Tips. In France. Where nobody tips. And then he'd give it all away to buskers or skint British exiles or anyone else we passed on the street.'

'Keep it moving,' said Douglas. 'That's the rule.'

'So you claim, but it definitely doesn't work for everyone.'

'It works for Harry,' said Hermione excitedly. 'Even back in school, when you bought us Omnioculars at the World Cup, or gave Fred and George your Triwizard winnings. And now you're supporting all those charities and paying for dowries, but you still come out ahead.'

Harry shot a desperate look at Fiona. 'Stop, you're embarrassing him,' she said. 'Still, I can see Typhon's point about using people's desire for gold or worldly success to entice them into the Light Arts. And if anyone can pull it off, it's probably you.' He began to protest, and she stopped him. 'But it's not your job to singlehandedly convert everyone to Light magic. For Merlin's sake, just live your life and do what makes you happy! That's beneficial enough.'

His relief was instantaneous. 'This is why I love you,' he said. 'I should really add that to my letter.'

Looking sheepish, Hermione said, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pressure you. My mind just went chasing after a theory, as usual.'

'Of course it did,' said Ryan fondly. 'And that's one of the things I love about you: the way you always look for answers.' Hermione smiled, and he said, 'But you have to admit, it's interesting how Typhon played on Harry's desire to spread Light magic, to further his own goal of enriching House Black.'

'Harry, he's right,' said Fiona. 'That was straight-up manipulation. You need to be on your guard around him.'

Looking concerned, Ryan said, 'You don't suppose he's trying to lure you to the dark side? Dark magic, that is.'

Hermione's eyes widened in alarm. 'By provoking his pride, you mean?' Ryan nodded, and she said, 'Harry, how did that conversation affect your Light magic? Specifically where pride is concerned?'

Harry took a moment to consider it. 'I did feel Light magic. Pretty strongly, in fact. Although I suspect the wrong kind of pride was in the mix.' He didn't elaborate, since it felt very personal. 'I should be careful about that,' he said.

There was a silence, and Douglas said, 'Harry Potter-Black and the Devious Portrait. I'd buy tickets to watch that ... can we get Walburga in there as well?'

'No, I promised Narcissa Malfoy I'd keep her off the radio for a while.'

This led to a lighter conversation about Weasley's Wizard Wireless and other topics. Next they ate pudding while watching 'A Hard Day's Night,' which only Ryan and their hosts had seen.

'We thought we'd show Harry a little Beatlemania to put things in perspective,' said Douglas. 'And for Ryan as well, now that he's captain of the English team.'

Afterwards, back at Grimmauld Place, Harry and Fiona lounged on the sofa before heading upstairs. 'Did you have a good time,' he asked.

'Couldn't you tell? I had a lovely time. Brett and Douglas are great fun, and the film was a riot. Thank Merlin you aren't that famous!'

He was reminded of Hermione's question, and the sense of pride that Typhon had triggered. 'It's a bit much sometimes,' he said. 'It was one thing when I was a kid, and my main worry was Voldemort. But now it's just attention, and ego-gratification. I wasn't kidding about needing you to keep me humble.'

'I think humble's long past,' said Fiona. 'Can we settle for "confident, but not smug?"' Harry gave her a pained look, and she said, 'How about "Not as bad as Lockhart?"'

'Thank heaven for Lockhart,' said Harry. 'At least I'll never be that bad, although I doubt he has a portrait yet.'

'I'm sure he'll coax one out of his sugar mummy soon enough. That hair won't last forever, after all. How was your sitting, by the way?'

He told her all about it, including Banthora's suggestion to call him Jamie. 'Although if I ever name a son after my dad, I'll have to call the portrait something else.'

'What about Snitchbottom?'

'No, that one's all mine—he'll just have to wait.' He smirked, recalling the incident with Darren's Patronus. 'Although Tuttle gave me a new one today, which I really shouldn't tell you.'

Fiona protested fiercely, and after a brief wrestling match she got it out of him. 'Lord Silvercock!' she laughed. 'I am definitely calling you that in private. Unless you want to save it for the portrait.'

'No, his name's Jamie,' said Harry with finality. 'But you won't see much of him, since he'll mainly be asleep.'

'I'll be curious to see him when he's done, but I vastly prefer the original.'

She emphasised her point with a kiss, and when they pulled apart he said, 'You aren't helping with the pride thing.'

'I'm sure I'm not,' she said, tugging his hand. 'Come on, Silvercock. Time for bed.'

'Excuse me, that's Lord Silvercock,' drawled Harry, following her. 'The Silvercocks were exceedingly generous in 1707, you know, when the Ministry was built.'

Laughing, they paused in front of Padfoot, and Fiona tossed him a treat. Padfoot gobbled it down with delight, and Harry recalled Sirius's final letter: 'I urge you to choose happiness, wherever it might find you.'

I did, thought Harry affectionately. And thanks for suggesting it.