Bloody hell, thought Ron, looking at the clock on the night table. It was barely six a.m., and he wasn't expected at work until nine, but his body didn't care. Wake up! it insisted. You were an Auror for more than a year, and trainees get up at six! Go on! Snap to it!

He closed his eyes, determined to fall back asleep, but his mind kept replaying some naff Celestina Warbeck song his mum inflicted on them every Christmas:

Oh, come and stir her cauldron
And if you do it right
She'll boil you up some hot, strong love
To keep you warm tonight

To add insult to injury, it wasn't even the entire song—just the same bloody snippet, again and again. The usual antidote was to listen to something else, but Janet was asleep, and he didn't think she'd fancy waking up two hours early to "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, which he'd liberated from Harry's record collection.

He nevertheless took his time getting up, since the bed was warm and he liked being near Janet. She only barely stirred as he pulled on some robes, grabbed the record, and opened the door to leave. Harry's door was also open, which either meant he was awake (unlikely) or had gone to Fiona's (very likely). Harry had initially hoped she would stay over more often, and he'd even prepared a room for her son but, as far as Ron knew, Matthew had only seen it once and had never stayed the night.

Smart kid, he thought. For years, Grimmauld Place had given Ron the creeps, and after the war he thought Harry should move out, or even sell it. "That place is a hellhole," he complained to Hermione. "Why is he so attached? I could understand if it belonged to the Potters, but even Sirius hated it."

"But Sirius loved Harry," Hermione argued. "You and I can't relate, since we both have parents, but this was one of the few places Harry felt welcome."

Ron was sceptical, since Walburga was still stuck to the wall, but Harry had always been a bit mental. Although the house improved dramatically once she was gone, and Harry's parties changed the ambiance even more. For example, there was an alcove just past the kitchen that Ron always associated with Snape, who'd tended to lurk there, but now he could only see Tracey Davis feverishly groping Susan Bones.

Of course, to a kid like Matthew, the house was probably still creepy, and Ron's only question was why Harry wanted him there in the first place. "I get why Harry wants to spend time with Fiona," he said to Janet, as they snuggled one night in bed. "But why's he in such a hurry to be married with a kid?"

"That's Snitchbottom for you," said Janet. "With Fiona he gets the whole package: a home, a family, and a very yummy mummy. What's more, he gets to be the hero, since she was a big mopey mess until he turned up, and he's saving Matthew from growing up fatherless."

"Blimey, you sound like Doctor Niffler! Have you told him this?"

"Of course! When have I ever passed up the opportunity to take the piss? But he just flips me the bird and flies off, same as always."

Still tormented by Celestina Warbeck, Ron entered the music room and placed Led Zeppelin on the turntable, carefully setting the needle onto the third track. And in an instant Celestina was gone, replaced by Kashmir's powerful opening riff, which Ron accompanied on air guitar. He played along with the entire song, and when the record turned over he performed a sprawling rendition of the first track on the other side, including keyboards, vocals, and what Janet called "head banging."

His next stop was the kitchen, and he automatically greeted Padfoot as he passed through the entrance hall. "Morning, Snuffles," he called, barrelling down the stairs.

"Morning, Ron," said Harry, and Ron turned in surprise.

There, in Padfoot's portrait, stood Harry. At first Ron only gaped, then he said, "What the hell are you doing in there? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I'm playing with Padfoot. And surprise—I'm a portrait!"

Shit, this must be the house! thought Ron. It must have sucked him in or something!

"Right, I gathered that," he said, discreetly unsheathing his wand and angling his body to conceal it. "But how did you get in there?"

Harry laughed and said, "I know that stance, Ron—I was there when we learnt it. But don't worry, Harry's fine, except for the part where I told him I won't just sleep in my frame for the next hundred years."

None of this was comforting, and Ron raised his wand. "If you're not Harry, who are you? And where is he?"

"I assume he's with Fiona. And I'm Harry too, but he's calling me Jamie—it's normal to give portraits a nickname while the subject is still alive." He cracked a smile and said, "But I kind of prefer Silvercock."

Ron still wasn't sure if this was Dark magic or not, but he lowered his wand. "So, let me get this straight: Harry sat for a portrait without telling anyone, and even though portraits are supposed to just sleep, you've gone rogue and are running around and calling yourself ... Silvercock?"

"That's right. Although we did tell a few people. Fiona and Hermione, for example."

"And Draco Malfoy?" said Ron, frowning.

"No bloody way! He'd slag the living daylights out of us, and probably ask whether I posed in my underwear, or maybe even blackmail us."

"Er, why exactly are you friends with him?" asked Ron, hoping the portrait would be more forthcoming than Harry had been.

Through all this, a very happy Padfoot was getting his belly rubbed. "Buggered if I know," said Harry. "At first it was damage control for sending him my Patronus on the radio. But then it went sideways, with the fluttering curtain thing, and–"

"The fluttering curtain thing?"

"Oh, crap, we never told you about that. The first time I visited him at Malfoy Manor, he brought me into his study but had his house-elf make it look like the Veil, with a big stone arch and fluttering curtains. I completely freaked out, as you can imagine, but that somehow broke the ice, and–"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" blurted Ron. "He deliberately ambushed you with a replica of the fucking Veil of Death?"

"Yeah, it was pretty bloody daft, since I'd just told him I was experiencing accidental Light magic. But, like I said, it broke the ice, since he's also fucked up by the war."

"Shocker," said Ron dryly. "By the way, why aren't you more upset? The Veil isn't exactly your favourite topic."

"It's a portrait thing. I have all the same memories, but not the emotional content. I'll get that over time with exposure to him—that's why we were painted so young."

Ron was having trouble following the portrait's use of pronouns, since he alternated freely between I, he, and we. "So, what's it like being a portrait? Do you feel like Harry or like someone else? And what should I call you?"

"I'll respond to Harry, but Jamie's probably best. Or Silvercock."

"Yeah, no," said Ron.

"Didn't think so. Anyway, being a portrait is pretty cool so far. I don't get tired or hungry, but I can feel things—or at least I think I can." He gave Padfoot a hug and said, "I can feel this big oaf, certainly. Can't I, Padfoot?"

Padfoot's low moan conveyed just how happy he was, which made Ron wonder what else Jamie would be able to feel. "What about ... you know ..." He hesitated. "Have you tried, er ..."

"Wanking? Yeah. It works fine." Ron must have grimaced, because Jamie said, "Don't worry, I wasn't in my frame, nor anyone else's. I've got a huge chamber that's out of view—it's got a bed and everything."

"Blimey! Just how much did you cost?"

Jamie smiled and shook his head. "Nice try, but Harry definitely doesn't want you to know. Let's just say, 'plenty.'"

The portrait didn't look embarrassed the way Harry would, and Ron sensed an opening. "Come on, give us a hint. Was it more than a dowry?"

Before he could answer, they were interrupted by a frantic Harry. "Ron!" he called. "Er, hi!"

"Hi, Harry," said Ron, amused. "I was just talking to my new friend, Silvercock. He looks just like you!"

Harry's cheeks were red, and probably not from his short sprint from the fireplace. "Yeah, he's behaving abnormally."

"I don't know, he seems pretty normal to me," said Ron. "Robes and flowers, playing with Padfoot. And he already had a wank."

"Oi!" cried Harry. "Jamie, what the fuck?"

"I wanted to see if it worked." Harry looked horrified, and Jamie said, "Don't worry, it does."

"Did white paint come out?" asked Ron, but Harry pulled him into the reception hall and closed the door.

"Ron, it's not what you're thinking."

"Is that so?" said Ron, with a brush of annoyance. "What exactly am I thinking?"

Harry froze, clearly unsure how to answer. "Good question. What are you thinking?"

"That you're completely mental, but that's nothing new," said Ron sharply. "But shouldn't you wait till you're older? I've hardly ever seen a portrait that young."

Still embarrassed, Harry said, "They can age him up," and he explained how portraits gain more personality over time. "Like Banthora—she lived for decades after being painted."

"I guess that makes sense. And I'm sure they'll hang your portrait all over Britain, after you're gone. Not to mention you're the head of two houses."

Ron felt himself deflate as he said it—for all he had an Order of Merlin, First Class, he'd never be a fraction as important as Harry. Let's face it, the plaque under my portrait will probably say 'Helped Harry Potter.'

"Right, that was the other reason," said Harry, looking far more awkward than his painted counterpart. "If I die while my kids are still young—assuming I have kids—they'll at least have ... I mean, it's not the same as a real parent, but ..."

A familiar feeling washed through Ron: a mix of sorrow, compassion, and shame. The compassion was for Harry, and the sorrow was tinged with Fred, but the shame was entirely his own. He'd felt bad enough when he finally grasped what Harry had lacked as an orphan, and he'd felt sick when he read Rita's article—why had he never realised just how awful the Dursleys were?

"No, mate, you're right," said Ron. "In your case, there's no reason to wait. But why's he out and about? Shouldn't he mostly sleep until after you're dead?"

Harry described what had happened with the paintbrushes. "I should have known my hair could never work properly," he said, with a sad glance towards the entrance hall.

"So, he's just going to run around the house from now on?"

"Seems like. He's highly sentient, so it would be unethical to stop him."

Ron frowned. "Portraits can't get pregnant, can they?"

"I don't think so?" said Harry uncertainly. "God, why is my life so bloody weird?"

"Angry seers," said Ron. "Are you hungry, by the way? I was on my way to the kitchen."

"Er, is the dining room okay?"

"Oh right, Kreacher," said Ron, deflating again. The elf still got upset whenever Harry tried to eat in the kitchen, since it was inappropriate for a wizard of Harry's status. But not mine, apparently—Kreacher readily served him at the battered wooden table they'd used during the war.

Over breakfast Harry asked him about work, and Ron brightened as he described their newest invention for the DMLE. "It's called a Pocket Patronus. You know, for Azkaban."

Dementors no longer guarded Azkaban, but the island wasn't yet free of them, and it might never be. Apparently Dementors sprang from a mysterious fissure deep on the island—where it led, no one knew—and when they were sacked the Ministry herded them there. Spells and barriers kept them in place, for the most part, but there were still Dementors at large, and they gravitated towards the prison.

"How would that work?" asked Harry. "Does it use Light magic?"

"No, it's like a Patented Daydream Charm, only you pre-load it with your happiest memory. If you get caught near a Dementor, you just deploy the charm and you'll have a much easier time casting a Patronus."

Harry blinked in shock. "Are you kidding me? That's bloody brilliant! Whose idea was that?"

"Er, mine," said Ron, feeling his ears turn pink. "They haven't tested it yet at Azkaban, but the witch from the Department seemed really impressed. And it'll be a good revenue stream, since they can only be used once. George reckons the public will want them too, not just for the Patronus but, you know, for fun."

Ron didn't know why he was so embarrassed, or why he was babbling. It's just Harry, he thought, and he mentally reviewed his own accomplishments. Decorated war hero, dating a league Keeper, taller than Bill ...

"I'm sure they'll be huge," said Harry. "Though I probably shouldn't tell Darren about it until he masters his Patronus. He's pretty close now, I think."

Smirking, Ron said, "You're not in his favourite memory, are you? That night in bed with two C-squareds?"

"We used privacy charms!" said Harry, looking far more embarrassed than Ron had been just a minute earlier.

"Not so private you couldn't swap partners."

"They were blurry, and we couldn't hear each other!"

"A likely story," Ron scoffed, enjoying himself. Harry seldom got flustered anymore, thanks to his Seeker training, so it was always fun to find a weak spot.

"No, it's true," said Jamie, suddenly visible in Banthora's otherwise-vacant frame. "Darren really knows his privacy charms—I'd team up with him again in a heartbeat." His expression thoughtful, he added, "It's a shame he and Luna split up. Although I suppose Fiona would never go for it."

Harry went pale, and Ron burst out laughing. "Mate, you are beyond fucked, with a portrait running around," he said, gasping for air.

"Oh, was that private?" said Jamie, with what seemed like genuine remorse. "I'd have assumed it was obvious. Luna's dead sexy, after all."

"That's not how I see her," said Harry, clearly mortified.

"Gotcha. This must be one of those things you need to fill me in on," said the portrait. "What about Daphne? We definitely had the opportunity a few times—all we had to do was to give her the Look and lean in."

"The Look?" said Ron to Jamie. "Is that your secret?"

"Yeah, works like a charm. See for yourself." Jamie simultaneously widened his eyes and lowered his eyelids, and for a moment even Ron couldn't look away. "Then we talk like this," said Jamie in a low voice, "and I think we even kick some Light magic into our lips. Hasn't failed yet, although let's face it, we're still coasting on 'Boy Who Lived.'"

Ron belatedly noticed that Harry was cringing. "Harry, mate, don't feel bad—this is brilliant. Jamie, what else have you got?"

"Would you shut it?" blurted Harry. "I don't need my fucking subconscious thoughts broadcast from the bloody walls!"

Blimey, that was straight out of fifth year! thought Ron, and he shot Jamie a panicked look. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't egg him on," he began, but the portrait interrupted him.

"Harry, I get where you're coming from–"

"No, you don't! You might have my memories, but you don't have my thoughts, and if I'd known you'd be such a bellend I'd never have had you painted!"

Ron was shocked, but Jamie just shrugged. "Relax, Snitchbottom—I can keep my mouth shut. But Ron's our best mate, not to mention he's an Auror, or he would have been if we hadn't rescued him from it. So I sincerely doubt any of this comes as a shock."

Two sets of green eyes found Ron—a sudden, painful reminder of the twins—and he needed a moment to clear his head. "I hate to say it, Harry, but Jamie's right. Nothing he's said has been a huge surprise. The only shock is that he's more candid than you are. Oh, and how Malfoy ambushed you with a replica of the Veil. How the bloody hell can you be friends with that … festering arseboil?"

Harry's shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes. "I don't know—it just happened. He's as fucked up as I am, between his dad and Voldemort, and maybe Bellatrix Lestrange. And ..." Harry opened his eyes but had a faraway look. "Being friends with him gives me hope. Like, if he and I can get along, maybe wizards will stop killing each other. In Britain anyway."

There was a catch in Harry's voice, and Ron felt his own throat tighten. "Hope," said Ron quietly. "Used to be a dirty word, eh?"

"You're not joking. I feel delusional half the time—I'm sure Hermione thinks Draco is just using me. But I swear I'm making inroads, not just on Draco but even the wizards at Pratt's. The younger ones, anyway."

"We should really thank Vera," blurted Jamie. Ron was lost, and the portrait said, "The Sorceress witch. She basically drew a line between my dick and Light magic. Voldemort, on the other hand, was a complete boner-killer, for all he looked like a giant penis."

Ron leaned across the dining table and whispered, "Can we please get him on the radio? The world needs to hear this."

"No, he's not leaving Grimmauld Place." Harry sighed and added, "I can never host another party, can I? Not with him running around."

"You could trap him," Ron suggested. "I'm sure he'd be fine for a couple hours."

They continued in quiet discussion until Janet entered the dining room. "Why are you whispering?" she asked.

"So I won't hear them," said Jamie, causing Janet to turn in shock.

"Oh my god, you're a portrait! Are you new?"

"Yes, I arrived yesterday. Call me Silvercock." Harry clutched his head in frustration, and Jamie said, "Oh, come on. If anyone's going to call me that, it's Janet."

"Can I call you Lord Silvercock?" she asked, stifling a grin.

"If you want," said the portrait, "but only as a joke, since lordships are bollocks."

"Understood." She gestured towards his trousers and asked, "Have you checked whether the equipment works?"

"Fully operational. And yes, I'll use Contraception Charms just in case."

"Good lad! And Harry, congratulations—he's a perfect likeness! Although I can't believe I didn't see this coming. Ron, what did I pick in the wager anyway?"

"You had a wager?" said Harry weakly. "Do I even want to know?"

"That's a good point," said Janet. "Neither of us got it right, so maybe we shouldn't tell him and just keep the bet going."

Harry and Jamie tried getting it out of them, and Ron would probably have given in, but Janet annoyed them by keeping it secret. After breakfast, Ron said, "We should have told them. Harry's been a good sport, and it's a bit cruel to have a bet about what outrageous thing he'll do next."

"There you're wrong," said Janet. "Did you see how well they were getting on by the end? They were fully united against us."

Ron stared at her. "Hang on—are you saying you provoked them on purpose?"

"Of course I did! What do you take me for?"

"Your usual evil self?" he countered.

"Well, yes, there's that. But I wanted them to bond, and they did."

Smiling, Ron said, "And here I just thought you were going to use Jamie to goad Harry into carrying a sword, so you'd win the bet."

She laughed and said, "Clearly I've trained you well." But her expression turned serious, "Are you all right?" she asked. "The portrait's a bit much, even for Harry."

"I'm fine," he said automatically, but Janet looked unconvinced.

"Then why don't I believe you? You're always whinging about his friendship with Malfoy, and this is another giant step in that direction."

"It's too late for that—he's gone over completely," said Ron with a shrug. "But really, I'm fine. Jamie seems cool, and–" He paused, suddenly embarrassed.

"And what?"

Ron's ears grew hot again, and he didn't look Janet in the eye. "He called me his best mate. I was starting to wonder."

"I wasn't," said Janet, gently trailing a finger over the stubble on Ron's cheek. "And maybe one day you'll get it through your thick ginger skull that you're completely brilliant. You know you'll have a portrait too, right?"

"Maybe I will," he said, trying to picture it. But instead of a lone figure in the frame, he saw a pair—both of them tall and lanky. They were older, but still laughing, and very much in love.

"So, are you ready for the Light Lord to turn up this afternoon?" called Phil Routledge, approaching Gemma in the air. "You can top up your Light magic underneath the stands—I'm sure his yummy mummy won't mind."

"Bite me, Rutter," retorted Gemma. "You're just scared you'll lose your only advantage when Spudmore makes us a new broom."

Randolph Spudmore was coming to training that afternoon to begin work on the next version of the Firebolt, as requested by the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The idea was to reproduce the Firebolt Ultra's acceleration without clashing with the flyer's Light magic.

"It won't work," said Routledge. "He spent years on the Ultra—there's no way he'll pop out a new one by 2002. Your only hope to fly in the World Cup is if the match runs long."

"I dunno, maybe you'll be preggo by then, carrying the heir to House Greengrass. Isn't that how it works when you hand over your cock and balls to marry a pure-blood princess?"

"We're just dating," said Phil defensively. "And don't even joke about that—surely there's no way for wizards to get pregnant, right?"

"Don't ask me—I'm still not convinced I didn't have a psychotic break when I was eleven."

"Me neither. Do you reckon we're in the same asylum somewhere?"

"That's as good an explanation as any," said Gemma, zooming off. She was enjoying flying against Phil every day, and even though they were rivals for the starting position, there was no real bite behind their taunts. Indeed, they felt a solidarity as the two Muggle-born Seekers, which was a first for the English national team.

"Oi, Bellamy!" she shouted, flying into Ryan's path and forcing him to swerve. "Have you and Granger reenacted that photo spread from Engorgio yet?"

Wizarding Britain's raunchiest porno mag, Engorgio, had run photos that week of a witch who was clearly supposed to be Hermione. It wasn't a good likeness, but her wild mane of hair was tangled with leaves and twigs, and an Order of Merlin medal hung from her open robes as she writhed in pleasure on the forest floor.

"Nice try, Rees," said Ryan, "but that was days ago, and we both know you'll be next."

"No, it'll be Busty and Bewitched," called Phil, joining the melee. "And unlike Granger, Rees will actually pose, right?"

"No comment," snapped Gemma, relieved her cheeks were already red from the wind. She had, in fact, been approached by Busty and Bewitched, and by Wandlore as well. Posing topless was out of the question, of course, but she hadn't ruled out appearing in Wandlore, which was more of a lad mag. Although her brother Davy would never let her live it down.

"The only thing weirder than Gemma the professional athlete is Gemma the sex symbol," he'd said earlier that week, when she was home for dinner. "Small magical population, I guess." Their mum immediately scolded him, and Gemma shot back with an insult of her own, but she secretly shared his disbelief. She wasn't a sex symbol, of course—not even close—but she had a surprising number of admirers.

Indeed, someone chatted her up nearly every time she went out, and her mates encouraged her to give them a chance. "That one's not bad," her friends would say, but Gemma was never interested. At one party, Ingrid even made her identify in advance which men she found attractive. "Just you wait," Ingrid warned, "you'll lose interest the second one of them approaches you."

And she was right—the tall wizard Gemma initially admired suddenly looked gawky and graceless, and the aspiring dandy turned into a sad poseur. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" she complained the next day. "It's like the minute they introduce themselves I'm under whatever the opposite of a Love Potion is."

"It's called low self-esteem," said Ingrid. "And I could curse whoever made you incapable of liking anyone who might fancy you back. After I curse the Seeker who mustn't be named, of course."

"I told you, it's not his fault!" said Gemma, familiar with Ingrid's disapproval of Harry.

"Maybe not, but you weren't this bad back in school."

Yes, I was, thought Gemma. Her school years were marked by a string of crushes, punctuated by a few awkward hook-ups, none of which went very far. And nothing happened at all during her final year; other than playing Quidditch and spending time with close friends, she largely withdrew from East Kettleton social life.

After a brief and discouraging job hunt, she found a Muggle waitressing gig, which provided few romantic prospects. She had no interest in dating a Muggle, not out of prejudice but because she didn't want to have to hide her magic. Furthermore, she'd given herself two years to launch her Quidditch career, which meant she spent all her free time flying. And once she joined the Cannons, she was more concerned with keeping her job than finding a boyfriend.

It never crossed her mind she'd fall for Harry Potter. He was dating Lydia Travers, after all, and thanks to the Sorceress article his notoriety was at an all-time high. Whenever she ran into former classmates, they asked her the same question—"So, what's Harry Potter really like?"—and a few witches even asked for an introduction. Not bloody likely, thought Gemma, recalling how they'd sneered at her back in school. But it was clear that Harry had his pick of witches, and that Lydia's eventual successor would be equally glamorous.

"You're not my type," he'd declared the first time he taunted her. "I don't mind short, but you're too curvy. Everything's too close together." He claimed afterwards he'd been lying, but she suspected that bit was true. I'd have to be daft to fancy him, she decided, and yet it crept up on her anyway. He was a surprisingly attentive friend, and his next girlfriend, Alex, wasn't conventionally pretty. Which meant that without realising it, Gemma somehow became convinced she had a chance.

She was horribly wrong, of course, and months later she still hadn't moved on. There was that bloke at New Year's, but the idea of actually dating him gave her the willies. The problem, she supposed, was that he was nothing like Harry. Although she was equally unimpressed by wizards who were similar to him. Fucked if I do, and fucked if I don't, she thought bitterly, returning to the present.

Routledge caught the Snitch that morning, and afterwards they broke for lunch. Unlike the Cannons, the English team didn't dine in large groups, since so many Quidditch stars in one place would cause mayhem. At first Gemma had glued herself to Ryan, but as team captain he made a point of dining alone with each of the players, to get to know them better. Which meant Gemma was quickly forced from her shell.

She initially took some ribbing for being the only reserve player on the team, but everyone made her feel welcome. Several teammates expressed relief that Harry hadn't taken the slot; as one of the Beaters said, 'I didn't work my bollocks off slamming Bludgers all season just to get upstaged by the Ponce Who Fucking Lived.' Indeed, part of Gemma's popularity seemed to stem from not being Harry, which pleased her to no end.

"Don't let Spudmore ignore you this afternoon and focus only on Potter," warned Alyson, who played Keeper for the Holyhead Harpies.

"No risk of that," said Gemma. "Spudmore loves me, since I never slagged the Firebolt like Harry did. Not to mention I actually paid for mine."

"Maybe so, but Potter has a superpower for drawing attention—I have no idea how he does it."

Neither do I, thought Gemma, recalling Alyson's words when Harry entered the team common room. Gemma didn't see him walk in, but she knew he was there because everyone's head turned. Some people stood up straighter, unconsciously trying to impress him, while others donned a sort of armour, as if to prove he was no one special. But every one of them reacted, which only proved how special he really was.

Harry wore ordinary flying robes and his hair was the usual mess, but Gemma still felt a wave of longing. Damn him, she thought, heading over. "Toffer, you made it," she said. "I hope the Queen wasn't too disappointed you had to leave early."

"Very funny. And I had lunch with Fiona, thank you very much," he said, probably to convey he didn't actually know the Queen.

Coach Stebbins greeted him, and while they waited for Spudmore he introduced Harry to the rest of the team. Gemma was impressed, as always, with Harry's ability to recall names, and even the Beater who'd complained about him seemed flattered when Harry knew who he was.

Addressing the team, Stebbins said, "I've talked to Spudmore, and the Firebolt Ultra isn't going anywhere. So if you're happy with it and you don't have plans to start glowing, you don't need to bend his ear off today. But for form's sake at least tell him what you'd like to see in a new broom, since we may need to prove this isn't just a custom job for only two players."

"And why exactly do we want to help Potter get a better broom?" said one of the players. "For fuck's sake, we all have to play against the Cannons."

Stebbins glared and said, "We want to get Rees a better broom, to give England the best chance in the World Cup. Or are you more interested in league rankings?"

No one spoke—Stebbins had made it clear there was no place for league rivalries on the national team. "And Potter's our emergency alternate, so unless one of you wants to try catching the Snitch during a multi-day match—on top of doing your own job—we're going to help Spudmore make a broom that works. Understood?"

There were nods, and Stebbins waved Gemma to the front. "Obviously this wouldn't have happened without the two of you," he said more quietly. "So I expect you to dominate the conversation. Have you thought about what other features you'll want?"

Harry and Gemma had discussed this already, and as Harry spoke she inwardly marvelled that a top-tier broom maker—or any broom maker—would ever cater to her like this. After all, she was just a waitress six months earlier, and now Randolph Spudmore himself was coming to take her order.

Only Spudmore didn't arrive. Ten minutes after the appointed time, a bespectacled young wizard turned up carrying a large broom case and looking slightly flustered. "Sorry," he said, setting the case down. "Randolph can't make it. But I work for him, and I can definitely get the ball rolling."

Stebbins gave him a sceptical look. "And you are …"

"Dave Corner. Again, I'm sorry Randolph couldn't come, but there was a minor crisis at the factory and he had to take care of it."

"That's all right," said Harry, extending a hand. "We're just excited to get started. I'm Harry, by the way."

"Yes, I know," said Dave with a chuckle. "And you're Gemma Rees—it's a pleasure to meet you both." Several more players introduced themselves, then Dave said, "First, I'd like to hear what you're all looking for in a new Firebolt. I'll be taking notes, and I can assure you Randolph will get the full report. After that, I'd like to work with the two of you,"—he indicated Harry and Gemma—"to find out exactly what's happening with your Light magic."

Gemma hung back while the other players gave him an earful, demanding features that could only result in a broom she wouldn't like. But Dave was polite, noting all their requests, and the players seemed satisfied when Stebbins led them back to practice.

When only Harry and Gemma remained, Dave said, "So, now that we've mapped out the world's clunkiest broom, let's hear what you want."

Gemma and Harry both laughed. "That's a relief," said Harry. "I can't say I want all those features—I just want something lightning fast and ... primal. Like the Ultra, only compatible with my magic."

"So, you're not looking for something more like the Silver Arrow?"

"Honestly, no. The Silver Arrow's a great broom, but it's a little too tame."

"And Gemma, what do you think?"

"I need that kick," she agreed. "I still fly the Ultra for fun sometimes—outside of practice—and not only is the acceleration first rate, but I think I can feel the Light magic."

"Go on," said Dave, leaning forwards.

"I don't know ... it's hard to describe," she began.

"That's Light magic for you," Harry smirked.

Gemma twisted her mouth and said, "How do I put this? It's like, before I had Light magic, the kick from the Firebolt Ultra just affected the broom, which was fantastic—that's why I bought it. But after I got Light magic, it seemed to go through me. Like I'm more open now ... does that make sense?"

"Not entirely, but I certainly believe you" said Dave. "And is the Ultra more likely to misbehave when you're open like that?" Both Seekers nodded, and Dave said, "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to get you onto the Ultra and take some readings."

Together they walked outside, and Harry said, "I went to school with a Michael Corner—are you related to him?"

"Yes, he's my cousin," said Dave. "And we're fairly close—he was three years behind me in Ravenclaw."

"Oh, you went to Hogwarts? I no longer assume ..."

"Nor do I," said Dave, laughing, and Gemma felt the familiar pang of not really belonging in the wizarding world. "I was in the stands during the Triwizard Tournament," he continued, "which meant I was able to give Randolph my memory of you outflying a dragon on the original Firebolt."

It emerged that Randolph Spudmore was Dave's uncle, which only added to Gemma's sense of being an outsider. He's a pure-blood, by the sound of it, she thought sadly. I wonder if the war even touched him.

"Did you play for your house team?" Harry asked. "Forgive me if I've forgotten."

"No, I'd rather enchant brooms than fly them, at least when Bludgers are involved. It's in my blood, I suppose." After a silence, Dave added, "By the way, thank you for training Michael in Defence … other than Lupin and Fake Moody our schooling was a joke. I at least made a study of Defence during the last year of the war, which meant I got through the final Battle. But Michael might have died without your help."

"You fought in the Battle of Hogwarts?" asked Harry, clearly surprised.

"Not indoors—I was out on the grounds. Or in the air, rather." They arrived at the pitch, and Dave set down the broom case and pulled out a pair of Firebolt Ultras. "These are almost identical to the production model, only we've added some diagnostic charms. Please, take one."

Dave was much taller than Gemma but their eyes locked as he handed her the broom, and she felt an unexpected jolt of attraction. Bugger, it's probably because he's a Hogwarts pure-blood, she thought, looking away. But he's bound to have a girlfriend, or even a wife.

"I confess I've been looking forward to seeing you fly," said Dave, and she reluctantly met his eyes again. "Randolph said you were poetry in motion up there, and he's not the sentimental type. He was more disappointed than anyone to have to cancel your contract."

Gemma knew her cheeks were burning, and not just from Randolph Spudmore's praise. There was something about Dave's smile and the way his eyes crinkled behind his dark-rimmed glasses that suddenly made her want to get to know him better.

"I was pretty disappointed myself," she said. "Free trip to Chicago, after all, and a chance to attend the World Quidditch Conference."

"Maybe next time," said Dave, pulling a blank parchment from his robes. He cast a charm over it, then said, "The diagnostic data will register as you fly, so go crazy up there."

Harry and Gemma needed no further prompting, and within seconds they were aloft. "Bristol Twister?" Harry called, referring to one of their favourite drills.

"You're on, Toffer!" she called back. They launched into the complicated manoeuvre, and Gemma reflected on the unexpected flirtation she'd just experienced. He's at least six foot three, she thought admiringly. Her friend Caroline, who was five foot ten, regularly complained about tall men who dated short women, but Gemma couldn't help what she found attractive.

It was unsettling to realise his Hogwarts affiliation was also a turn-on, since she didn't consider herself a snob. But she craved a sense of belonging, and a Hogwarts pure-blood who'd fought in the war ticked all the boxes.

For several minutes she enjoyed a heady mix of romantic fantasies and high-speed aerobatics, until her brain rejoined the conversation. Gemma, get a grip. He mightn't have been flirting at all, or maybe he's just looking for someone on the side.

The sound of a whistle pulled her from her thoughts, and she saw Dave waving her and Harry to the ground. She flew down and landed, afraid of what he'd have to say. It would be just my luck for the broom to work perfectly today, she thought, frowning.

"Interesting readings from both of you," said Dave, looking at the parchment. "Harry was more consistent—weird blips the whole time." He pointed out markings on the parchment and explained how they corresponded to erratic movement from the broom.

"I'm not shocked," said Harry. "I've missed using the Firebolt, and my Light magic surged as soon as I got up there. But what about Gemma?"

Dave turned to face her again. "Less consistent, which makes sense if your Light magic is less mature. But you'll see it normalised in the final minute, which makes me wonder if you crossed some kind of threshold. Might I ask what you were experiencing?"

I was doubting myself, she thought sourly. "It wasn't a threshold," said Gemma, shaking her head. "I was feeling great at the start, but then I got caught up in some negative thoughts. So, pretty much the opposite of Light magic."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said Dave, looking genuinely concerned. "Not about the broom, I hope?"

"No, nothing like that. Just life intruding."

Dave smiled sympathetically, and Gemma felt another thrill. "Can you try bringing yourself back to how you were before?" he asked. "I'd love to get more readings."

"All right," she said, holding his gaze a bit too long. Then she glanced at Harry, who was biting his lips in what she suspected was an attempt not to laugh. "Come on, let's go."

She let her thoughts run towards Dave again, but this time she quickly shifted into a wordless sense of enjoyment and started to glow. After several more minutes, Dave blew the whistle again, and she was still glowing when she joined him on the ground.

"My god," he said, staring at her. "It looks amazing up close."

Without thinking, she pulled off her glove and grabbed his hand. "Can you feel it? Sometimes my mum can, which is weird since she's a Muggle."

He quickly peeled off his own glove and took her hand again. "Your hand is warm, certainly, but I don't know if it's the Light magic or just from flying."

"Oh god, it's probably sweaty," she said, pulling it back, but he shook his head.

"No, not at all. And you gave great readings—both of you. I know Randolph will be pleased when he sees them."

"I hope everything's all right at the factory," said Gemma, putting her glove back on. "How bad a crisis was it?"

Dave snorted. "The crisis was Randolph in a mood, which happens fairly often. He's still upset he didn't get the Light magic right, you know. He was so excited about it during development."

"Are you hopeful you'll get it working this time?" asked Harry. "I know it's a big ask, and I'm grateful you're even trying."

"Oh, we'll get it," said Dave. "With your help, anyway. Which reminds me, what's your availability?"

"I'm around for the next fortnight," said Harry, "but then I'm heading to Chicago, and they want me to visit several other cities as long as I'm overseas."

"That underwear won't flog itself," said Gemma dryly. "But I'll be here in the UK, same as always, and Stebbins says the broom thing is a high priority."

"Then it looks like I'll be seeing a lot of you," said Dave. "If that's all right."

Before Gemma could reply, Harry handed his broom back to Dave. "If you'll excuse me, I should talk to Stebbins," he said, and Gemma had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Real subtle there, Toffer.

When Harry was gone, Dave said, "Would you like to visit the factory after you're done with practice today?"

"I don't know—will Randolph be all right? I don't want to set him off."

"Good question," he laughed. "But I'm sure seeing you glow would cheer him up."

Her glow had faded, but Gemma suspected she could bring it back. "All right, then," she said, smiling. "It's a date."

"Bellamy, do you have a minute?"

Ryan turned and saw Coach Stebbins waving him over. "Of course, in a moment," he said, sliding his broomstick into a Muggle backpack. It was a gift from Hermione, who'd added a secret expandable chamber. "It has hidden depths, just like you," she declared, and she'd even affixed a "Ravenpuff" badge, visible only to people with magic.

He followed Stebbins into his office, and they both sat down. "How's it going with Bartholomew?" Stebbins asked. "Is he falling in line?"

Rex Bartholomew was a league superstar, and he'd been team captain under the previous coach. "There's progress, I think. I'd say the rebellion has died down, but he still doesn't like taking orders."

"I still think you should come down harder on him," said Stebbins, shaking his head. "Some men just need a dick-measuring contest before they'll finally submit, and I'm sure you can beat him. Figuratively, of course."

Ryan laughed. "I doubt it'll come to that—without Xavier and Partlow in his court, I'm sure he'll settle down."

"Fine, give him another week, but after that it's Plan D." With a concerned look, he added, "Are you getting much flack about those photos of your girlfriend?"

"Those weren't my girlfriend," Ryan began, but Stebbins cut him off.

"Sorry, of course not. But you know, that lookalike."

Ryan took a deep breath. "It's nothing I can't handle, sir."

"I never said you couldn't handle it. But it's a bit much, having your girlfriend portrayed like that for all comers." Ryan raised one eyebrow, and Stebbins said, "Pun not intended."

A hollow laugh, then Ryan said, "I'm used to comments about Hermione, and believe me, I know how to fire back." And he did—just that afternoon, when Bartholomew made a crack about his "nympho girlfriend," Ryan shot back about the Beater's endless string of C-squareds, and whether dating bimbos made him feel smart.

However, he didn't tell Hermione he made jokes like that, since she wouldn't understand. "I know you've explained taunting," he once said to Harry, "but would you really tell Hermione everything you've said over the pitch?"

"Are you mad?" said Harry. "I'd sooner tell her I cast Unforgivables than admit I'd said something sexist."

After practice that afternoon, Ryan went to Diagon Alley to purchase an obscure Charms text his teacher recommended. First he tried Flourish and Blotts, but they didn't have it and couldn't even order it for him.

"You could try the second-hand shop, or some of the bookstalls on the square," the clerk suggested. "And if they don't have it, I'm sure one of the vendors would be willing to keep an eye open."

"Cheers, I'll try that," said Ryan. His first thought was to wait for the weekend, since Hermione always enjoyed a book hunt, but he wasn't ready to go home yet. I can at least get a snack, he thought, setting course for his favourite food stand.

He automatically slowed down in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, as he'd done ever since he was a boy. He didn't enter, not wanting to make a scene, but the display window always showcased something new, and he liked to stay current. "Get ready for the new Team England!" blared a sign, with the English flag and photos of the most popular players. Rex Bartholomew was there, and Phil Routledge, but the most prominent photo was his own.

His reaction was pride and a sense of accomplishment—not for being on display, but because his photo behaved so normally. His first year on the team, they needed to reshoot it because he didn't make eye contact with the viewer and frequently disappeared from the frame. "Is everything all right?" the photographer asked. "Most players mug shamelessly, but yours is the opposite."

Ryan told her he was fine, but when his next photo behaved similarly, she gently suggested he talk to a Mind Healer. "There's all sorts of reasons a photo won't make eye contact," she said, "and you'll likely feel better once you talk it out."

She was right, and his photograph problem was soon solved. Unfortunately, he wasn't prepared for all the attention he received from fans, since he'd been told reserves were largely ignored, particularly during their first year.

"Oh, Ryan, what on earth were you expecting?" his friend Annie teased, when he sheepishly revealed how much fan mail he received.

"But I haven't even played in a match yet!"

"That's not the point, and you know it," she said, and he dropped the subject. Thanks to his Mind Healer, he was able to talk about having been Love Potioned—to trusted friends, at least—but he was still leery of being stalked. Darren thought he was mad for avoiding C-squareds, and Ryan didn't care to explain why.

Unlike Darren, Ryan preferred monogamy, and he dated various women over the years. But his parents had set a high bar for compatibility, and his relationships never quite reached that level—not until Hermione. Unlike her predecessors, she inspired admiration bordering on awe, and he knew from the start he wanted to be with her.

It didn't hurt that his mother had always respected her. Even before they met, she would read the Prophet and say, "Nothing against Harry Potter, but I suspect he gets more than his share of the credit. That Hermione Granger was clearly the brains of the operation—she's the one I'd like to meet."

"And what would you say?" Ryan's father had asked.

"I'd tell her not to marry so bloody young. I'm sure Ronald Weasley's a fine young man, but what could be more depressing than two traumatised teenagers immediately tying the knot?"

When Ryan first met them—right before they broke up, as it turned out—he recalled his mother's words and frankly agreed. Ron was likeable enough, but Hermione was in a class of her own. So when he learnt she was single, and that Harry wasn't interested, he wasted no time making a move.

More than six months on, he still couldn't believe his luck. He and Janet occasionally joked about privately turning July the tenth into a holiday, to commemorate Ron and Hermione breaking up. "What if they'd actually stayed together?" Janet mused one day at lunch. "The entire world would be thrown off balance."

'No, there'd be a counterbalance,' said Suresh. "Specifically, you and Ryan would pair up."

Janet and Ryan stared at each other in horror. "No," she rasped, with a desperate shake of her head. "That would be fraternising."

"We'd both be kicked off the team," said Ryan.

"Surely not both of you," said Renée. "No, they'd just change the rules, and it would be open season for Cannons bed-hopping."

All eyes turned towards Harry. "Oi!" he cried. "I'm in a committed relationship!"

"Only since October," said Suresh. "Late October, in fact—you'd have had plenty of time to work through the roster."

Harry sighed and said, "I'm never going to live down my manwhore phase, am I?"

"No, never," said Janet. "It's as much a part of you as your scar."

"Which is fading," noted Ryan. "Harry, I'm sure people will eventually forget about your manwhore phase. I mean, it's not as if you left us all a reminder by posing in your underwear, right?"

Harry laughed—he always took their taunts with good humour—but Ryan occasionally caught himself hurling a genuine insult. At first he wrote it off as ordinary piss-taking, since he largely thought well of Harry. But he gradually noticed a theme: Harry's need for attention.

Why would that bother me? he wondered. Like all England, Ryan knew about Harry's childhood, and he'd even met the infamous Dursleys. He didn't think he resented Harry for becoming the most popular Cannon, nor was he jealous of Harry's popularity with witches.

Except for one witch, he came to realise. "I still don't know why Hermione and Harry never paired up," said his mother one evening, when Hermione was off at her Light Arts lesson. "But I suppose his loss is your gain."

"They've always been like siblings," said Ryan automatically. "Ever since they first met."

"They were only eleven, so of course that's how things started. And I realise they're not a perfect match, but if she could fall in love with Ron Weasley, she could just as easily have fallen for Harry. And besides, they have Light magic in common now," she continued. "It's probably a good thing you're in the picture, or else everyone would assume they were secretly in love."

Ryan's father must have noticed his discomfort, since he said, "Lucinda, you're doing it again."

She looked genuinely surprised. "Thinking out loud?" Ryan and Walter both nodded, and she said, "Sorry, bad habit. By all means, disregard."

But Ryan had observed the same thing, and he didn't stop worrying until Hermione declared that she and Harry were like reunited twins. With that, it all fell into place, and he stopped sniping at Harry.

Which was fortunate, since people still asked him about Harry all the time. It wasn't "What's Harry Potter really like?" so much as "Do you wish he were flying for England?" and "Do you think he'll win the league cup for the Cannons?" Fortunately, Ryan was happy to talk about both the Cannons and the national team, and he'd mastered getting people excited about more than just one player.

He did exactly that at the second-hand bookshop that afternoon, when a young wizard asked whether Spudmore had begun work yet on Harry's new broom. "Just this week," said Ryan, "and they're working closely with Gemma Rees as well."

By the end of their brief exchange, the wizard was as excited about the team's overall prospects as he was about Harry. Mischief managed, thought Ryan, and even though he didn't find his Charms text there, he was glad to have entered the shop.

After stopping at his favourite food stall—Jamaican patties—and enjoying a quick snack, he approached one of the book vendors. "I'm looking for an out-of-print Charms text," he said. "Tertiary Enchantment, by Veronica Burke."

The vendor, whose lap was covered by an enormous Kneazle, said, "That sounds familiar. Let's send Byron in for a look." She opened a hatch and chivvied the Kneazle inside. "Look under 'C' for Charms," she said. "Or maybe 'E' for Enchantment. Or 'T' for Tertiary."

Ryan held out little hope, and even the Kneazle seemed sceptical, but sure enough he returned with a book strapped to his back. "Well, look at that," said Ryan, amazed. "Well done, Byron!"

"Ay, he's a clever one, aren't you," the witch said, nuzzling the large cat while unfastening the book. "In fact, go back in and fetch that Quidditch book I was reading last week. I think Mr Bellamy needs to see it."

Once again, the Kneazle disappeared through the opening and Ryan flipped through the Charms book. "Brilliant, I'm thrilled to find this on the first go-round. My teacher recommended it, and I'm keen to dive in."

"Your teacher? Don't tell me Buzz Stebbins is making you study Charms."

"No," he laughed, "this is for a mastery I'm pursuing in my leisure time."

"Your leisure time? I wouldn't have thought you had any, what with the Cannons and the national team."

"I am busy, but I don't want my mind to atrophy while focusing on my sports career."

The witch frowned. "That's the wrong attitude, young man. Quidditch is for the mind as well as the body, and being captain of a world-class team requires at least as much skill as any Charm you'll find in there," she said, indicating the book.

"Perhaps you're right," said Ryan, suspecting she'd never seen Charms as fiddly as the ones described in the text.

The Kneazle emerged with an unassuming brown book: The Edge of Victory by Jack Stoker. "He was captain of the English team during the thirties, and even though they never won the World Cup, they made it twice to the final, and he was considered a first-rate captain. Like you, he was a Chaser, and after retiring he was expected to continue as a coach. Unfortunately he didn't survive Grindelwald's War, so he never got the chance, but his memoir's a little-known classic." She chuckled and said, "I had half a mind to owl it to you, but you and Miss Granger seem to turn up regularly."

"I'd love to read it," said Ryan, and he opened the cover to see what it cost.

"On the house," said the witch. "I'm English too, you know."

He thanked her and paid for the Charms book, then Apparated to the shed in his parents' back garden. "Is Hermione here yet?" he asked, walking into the house.

"No, just the pair who spawned you," said his mother, not looking up from her work. "Do you need a snack before dinner?"

"Sure, what do you have?"

She said there was cheese and fresh bread in the kitchen, and he returned with a plate and sat down. "What are you working on?" he asked between bites.

"A frightfully tedious project, born entirely from my own stubbornness."

"Er, how is that different to all your other projects?"

"Because she doesn't trust me to help," said Ryan's father, entering the room.

"I trust you entirely," said Lucinda. "The problem is I don't trust your computer, at least not until I parse the data myself." She explained that she'd devised a complicated testing protocol for her Healing experiments, which required heaps of data analysis. "I need to do it myself before I'll trust what any machine tells me. Lord knows I've seen magical calculations go awry."

"That's because magic is error prone," argued Walter. "Whereas a well-programmed computer will give consistent results, as long as you enter the data correctly."

"I'm sure you're right, but I need to see it with my own eyes. You know that about me!"

"I certainly do. I simply resent watching you grimace for hours on end, producing results I could generate on the computer in minutes."

"Dad, I agree with Mum in this case. She has every right to verify the data the first time around."

"Who said this was the first time around?" said Walter. "What is it, Lucinda—the third or the fourth time you've gone through this?"

"Who asked you?" she scowled, prompting Walter to laugh. "Ryan, do change the topic," she said. "Your father's in one of his moods."

Ryan showed her the Charms book he'd bought, and Lucinda's eyes grew large. "May I borrow it?" she asked, then said, "No, I mustn't. No pudding until I've finished my meat."

Walter examined the book and agreed it looked interesting. "I can see why your tutor recommended it. I'll be curious to hear what you think."

Hermione arrived just as dinner was served, looking very fatigued. "Long day at the Ministry," she said, settling into her usual seat at the table. Ryan asked what had happened, and she described a gruelling research assignment. "I'm calculating the impact of Goblin freedoms on their host nation's economy, which means tracking down all the numbers, doing the maths, and compiling the data—not easy, since a lot of it's apples to oranges."

Puzzled, Ryan said, "What about that Dutch treatise you were talking about last month? Didn't it cover the same thing?"

"Yes and no. I mean yes, it's asking the same questions, and the authors reach a solid conclusion. But how do I know they got the numbers right? One of the footnotes said they had to interpolate parts of the data, due to the lack of reliable information from places like Russia. But they didn't describe their methods, which makes me question the whole thing. So, I won't feel satisfied until I can replicate their findings, which means pulling all the data myself."

Ryan and his father exchanged glances. "I feel like we just had this conversation," said Walter.

"Which only proves its validity," said Lucinda. "Hermione, I understand completely." The two witches proceeded to fiercely agree about the value of proper verification, while the men watched with amusement.

"I suppose I should be flattered you've followed in my footsteps," said Walter quietly. "Although you have my sympathy as well."

"At least we're up to their standards," said Ryan. "I'm honestly amazed I measure up academically."

"Don't be—you've certainly proven you're no slouch in that department. I mean, who ever heard of a professional athlete simultaneously pursuing a doctorate?"

"It's not a doctorate," said Ryan, not for the first time. "As you may recall, I never attended university."

"Well, no, but you're part of a different system. I'm sure you'd have gone if that were the norm."

Hermione's energy returned while talking to Lucinda that night, and she even dominated the conversation. But she crashed when they returned to Ryan's flat. "I need to go straight to bed," she said apologetically. "Will you be all right?"

"I have my new Charms book—I'm sure I'll be fine. I'll even read it in bed, since you're very cute when you're sleeping."

"Probably because I stop talking," she said, making a face. "Your family is terribly patient with me; I only hope I'm interesting, and not just a bloviating know-it-all like I was back in school."

"Trust me, they love you. And you definitely don't bloviate."

She lay next to him as he began reading his text, and he had a pad and pencil ready for taking notes. But his mind kept wandering, and he mainly watched her fall asleep.

Before long she was dead to the world, and he took another stab at the text. Not now, he finally decided, setting the book aside and fetching the other one. He opened the cover and looked at the author's photograph, labeled "Jack Stoker, 1937." Stoker stood tall with a Quaffle under his arm, and Ryan smiled and bowed his head. Pleasure to meet you, Mr Stoker, he thought, turning eagerly to the first page.

Kreacher! came the voice in Kreacher's head, and he felt a wave of Master's Light magic.

Yes, Master! thought the elf, imbibing the Black family magic as well.

Have you seen Jamie anywhere? Banthora can't find him, and Fiona wants to meet him.

Kreacher was standing over a washbasin full of Master's clothes, but in an instant he cleared the suds from his arms. Kreacher will find Master Jamie, he declared, relishing the task. Does Master or Master's witch require anything else?

No, that will be all, Master replied, and their silent communication ended.

"Lodie!" cried Kreacher.

Pop! Lodie appeared before him and said, "Yes, Papi!"

Through force of habit, Kreacher hid his affection upon seeing his granddaughter. "You will assist with Master's laundry while Papi looks for Master Jamie."

She looked at the large pile of laundry and frowned. "Must I do it here, or may I take it to Elfspace?"

"You spend too much time in Elfspace," he grumbled. "A proper elf belongs in a wizard's home, to stay humble."

"I am humble," she retorted, and Kreacher glared at her. "Lodie is humble," she repeated, emphasising her name.

"Lodie is risking calamity," he said sternly. "But yes, go to Elfspace if you must."

She beamed at him, then disappeared with a pop, taking the laundry with her. Kreacher is spoiling Lodie, he thought with a sigh, but the alternative was worse: allowing her to turn out like her father. "Dobby was a bad elf," he muttered aloud, before Apparating in search of Master Jamie.

He went first to the Star Chamber, to which Master had given him blanket access. "Oh look, it's the impudent elf," said one of the paintings scornfully. "What do you want?"

"Kreacher is an obedient elf," he replied, with a flutter of panic. "Master sent Kreacher to find Master Jamie."

"You mean Silvercock?" said another portrait, sneering. "Did you ask the spinster? He spends an inordinate amount of time with her."

"Even Silvercock needs a break," someone said, and there were groans of agreement.

"Master Jamie is not with Miss Banthora," Kreacher declared, delighted by how they envied Master. The greatest of all the Blacks, he thought with pride.

"Try the Muses," said the first portrait. "Music room ceiling. Or the three Graces, in the conservatory."

"But let us know if you catch him with Annabel," said another. "We have a wager."

Kreacher bowed in humble gratitude—compelled as always by the bond—then Apparated to the music room ceiling. "Excuse me," he said, standing upside down. "Have you seen Master Jamie?"

Each Muse was in her own plaster frame, along the edges of the ceiling. "No, and tell him we're cross," said Polyhymnia. "It's not our fault we can't leave our tableaux."

"Can you free us?" asked Terpsichore, listlessly strumming her lyre. "We want to see his enormous bed."

"No, it is wizard magic," said Kreacher, as he'd learnt when Master Jamie had made the same request. "But Kreacher will convey your message."

"Please do," said Erato longingly. "I've already filled three scrolls in anticipation."

Loud sighs from all the Muses, and Kreacher Apparated to the conservatory. The room hadn't yet revealed itself to Master, but the plants were returning to life under Lodie's tender care. Kreacher would never admit it, but Beauxbatons elves had a gift for horticulture—one of the few things he admired about his wife. Lodie wants Kreacher to visit, he scowled, recalling how much he loathed her.

He glanced about the room and quickly found his target; unlike the nine Muses, the three Graces shared a canvas, and Master Jamie sat in their midst. "Oh yeah, that's the spot," he purred as Euphrosyne massaged his scalp. His eyes were closed, and Kreacher coughed to get his attention.

"Silvercock, there's an elf here to see you," said Aglaea, peeling a grape.

He opened his eyes and acknowledged Kreacher with a nod. "Hey, I was hoping you'd turn up," he said, and Kreacher straightened. "I have a favour to ask."

"Yes, Master!" said Kreacher eagerly. He knew Master Jamie wasn't the same as Master, but the young portrait was much more willing to indulge in wizardly leisure, which warmed Kreacher's heart.

"I need some new clothes," he said, indicating his splendid wizards' robes. "It turns out Harry doesn't venture much before the nineteenth century, but there's so much more to choose from. You should see what some of the other portraits get to wear."

"And you'd look divine in a toga," said Thalia, with a tug on his cravat.

"No, I just re-tied that," said Master Jamie, batting her away. "Kreacher, does that sound doable? I don't have access to the vault, but maybe there's a workaround."

Kreacher furrowed his already-wrinkled brow. He'd been through this with Mistress's portrait, who'd demanded any number of luxuries, but he'd never been able to withdraw gold on her behalf. Because the vault belonged to cruel Master Sirius, he recalled, still seething. But Master Jamie was different, since Master still lived. "Perhaps Master Jamie could order Kreacher to access Master's vault," he said hopefully.

"Worth a try," said Master Jamie, sitting up straight. "I hereby order you to visit the vault and buy me more clothes," he commanded, and Kreacher felt the tingle of family magic. "You know how to sneak them into my portrait, right?"

"Yes, Master Jamie!" With an innocent look, he added, "Shall Kreacher buy silver cutlery as well?"

The portrait laughed and said, "Nice try, but Harry's made his opinion perfectly clear. Robes, on the other hand—I'd say the sky's the limit."

Kreacher realised with horror that he was neglecting his living Master's orders. "Master Jamie must visit Master at once," he blurted. "At once!"

"Keep your towel on," said Master Jamie, standing up. "Back in my cell, I presume?"

Kreacher's heart was racing. "Yes, Master Jamie," he said frantically. "To introduce you to Master's witch."

"Ah, Fiona ... she'll definitely call me Silvercock!" Master Jamie gave the three Graces a courtly bow and said, "Ladies, until next time. Kreacher, we can talk about the clothes thing later."

Master Jamie disappeared from the frame, and Kreacher invisibly followed him to make sure he didn't get distracted along the way. Which was fortunate, since he ran into a remarkably forward wood nymph. "Master is waiting," Kreacher reminded him.

"Yes, of course," said Master Jamie, tearing himself away. When he was out of earshot from the nymph, he said, "I'll tell you, Kreacher, being a portrait is brilliant. I love not having to sleep."

Once Master Jamie was safely ensconced in his frame, Kreacher returned to the laundry room, even though no task awaited him. You could go to Elfspace, came the thought. See your grandchildren. Or go to Hogwarts and play cards with Tweak.

"No, not until the tenteenth!" he said aloud. "Kreacher is a proper elf who serves House Black. Elfspace and leisure are for bad, bad elves."

Lodie isn't a bad elf, his inner voice argued, but Kreacher recalled Mistress and those who preceded her. "Bad elf!" he cried. "Kreacher will stay here and polish the ... pewter."

His shoulders sank as he said it, but work always made him feel better. He fell out of the habit during the long, bleak years after Mistress died. And when cruel Master Sirius returned, his only pleasure was in thwarting him. But working at Hogwarts rekindled his elfin spirit, and he gained a new lease on life after keeping his word to Master Regulus regarding the cursed locket.

All thanks to Master, he thought, with a surge of affection for the head of House Black. "Master is truly the greatest of wizards!" he declared, drunk on humility. So exultant was Kreacher that he barely noticed the whisper of the thought in his mind: And he couldn't have done it without me.