Author's note:

As I mentioned earlier, I will be starting a hiatus after this chapter. It saddens me to have to pause publication, but please know that I really, truly plan to finish writing Loose Cannon. In addition to my readers online, I have a lot of people IRL who want more (including myself!). I really can't overstate how important writing this fic is to me, and I still plan to record a podfic.

I can't predict when I'll have enough chapters to resume regular publication, so you should probably click "Follow" if you want to stay posted. I'll also make an announcement on Reddit (r/HPfanfiction) when I start publishing again.

Thank you for your patience, and I hope you like tonight's chapter :)

With love,
MvW

In a thick cocoon of Alistair's charisma, Harry stared at Rob Dunning, who was staring back.

"Harry Potter?" said Fiona's husband in disbelief.

"Potter-Black," said Harry automatically. "And you're Rob Dunning."

Rob still looked agitated, in spite of Oberon Tate's hand on his shoulder. "Where am I? This can't be the England I left. Look at you, you're–" He stopped short. "You're a wanted criminal, both of you. And where the hell is my wand?"

"Dunning, calm down," said Tate. "What day do you think it is?"

"Monday. The thirtieth of March." After a silence, he added, "1998."

Tate paused before ripping off the plaster. "It's January the twentieth. Two thousand."

Dunning staggered backwards, and if he'd been closer to the Veil, he might have fallen in. "Great Merlin, everyone thinks I'm dead. Fiona ..."

Harry's heart sank when Rob said her name, and he felt another hit of Alistair's charisma.

"Yes, we'll notify her straight away," said Tate, looking uncertainly at Harry.

"But, Potter, why are you here?" asked Rob. "And Granger as well."

"That's a long story," said Tate. "The important thing is you're alive. Jester, please ask Esmeralda to call Mrs Dunning." Addressing Harry, he said, "She's at home, right?"

"Everbrook," Harry said, and Rob registered surprise.

"You know her?" Rob rubbed his forehead and said, "Never mind that. She must be beside herself ... and Matthew! Oh my god, Matthew! And my parents!" He lurched forwards and nearly stumbled again.

"Not so fast," said Tate, steadying him. "We're taking you to St Mungo's. Jester, tell her to meet us there. Artefact Accidents, I should think."

Jester, more pale than ever, turned to Harry. "And you? What should I tell her?"

Harry had no idea what to suggest—he felt wrapped in cotton wool.

"Tell her everyone's fine," said Hermione, "but she needs to come to St Mungo's. She can find us afterwards, at Harry's house." Rob looked confused, and she said, "We're friends—she'll know how to get there."

That was diplomatic, Harry thought, ignoring his muffled agony. "Alistair, can you come too?"

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I desperately need to feed," he said, and Harry realised how pale he was. "I don't think you belong near a famished vampire right now. But I can accompany you to the Floo."

In a strange procession, they marched slowly from the room. Rob was weak, but he kept asking questions, which Harry did his best to ignore.

"How did you bring me back? And why now?"

"I'm a vampire, so I was able to go in," said Alistair. "I went as a favour to Harry, for reasons I'm sure you'll learn later."

Rob sighed in bewilderment. "I'm reluctant to ask, but does this mean the war is over and ... Harry won?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Voldemort is dead, and he's not coming back."

He stopped and faced both of them. "My god, you did it. You actually pulled it off. I can't tell you how glad I am to hear it." He chuckled and said, "So, what's with the Death Eater robes? You really gave me a start—I didn't know where I was."

Hermione explained how fashion had changed, and that even flowers were popular. "Harry's almost never without them."

"Look at that!" exclaimed Rob, noting his boutonnière. "That's my wife's favourite you're wearing." His face fell, and he said, "Poor Fiona, thinking I was dead this whole time. I last saw her this morning—from my perspective, anyway."

Tate led them to a private fireplace, sparing them a trip through the Atrium, which was the last thing Harry wanted. No, the last thing I wanted was for Rob fucking Dunning to return, he thought bitterly. Harry mumbled his goodbyes, dreading the separation from Alistair, and Rob thanked them again.

"For everything—winning the war, and for rescuing me," he said to Alistair. "I'm sure I'll do a better job thanking you once I understand what happened, but in the meantime ..."

Before Rob could finish, Harry took a pinch of Floo powder and threw it into the flames—he couldn't take it any longer. "Grimmauld Place," he barked, not caring if he went astray. But he made it home without incident and slumped to the floor.

Hermione arrived next and was instantly at his side. "Oh, Harry! I'm so sorry! How can I help?"

His head ached, and he cradled it in his hands. "You don't still have that Time Turner, do you?"

To her credit, she didn't scold him for wishing Rob were still dead. Instead, she let him bemoan the sudden end of his relationship. "It's over, right?" he asked more than once. "There's no way she'd pick me over him, is there?"

Hermione dodged the question by focusing on Matthew. "Naturally, she'll be torn—she loves you, after all. But Matthew needs his dad, so unless they were having marital problems–"

"They weren't. By all accounts they were soulmates—that's probably why he couldn't fucking die."

"You know that's not true—people lose their soulmates all the time. It was probably some weird magic pertaining to the Love Room. Hopefully we'll learn more."

Dark thoughts filled Harry's head. "Maybe it was a Horcrux, and he just fooled everyone into thinking he was good, like Wormtail. Or Snape, only the other way round." Harry's eyes shot open. "He was asking for Rookwood! They must have been allies, only Rookwood double-crossed him! We need to tell Kingsley, so they can investigate while he's still in hospital!"

Hermione was patient, allowing Harry to rant before guiding him back to reason. They'd gone to the kitchen, which seemed the proper place to mope, and she plied him with tea until Ron turned up.

"Blimey, do you need a drink?" he exclaimed, and Harry nearly hugged him. Firewhisky wasn't as effective as Alistair's mind magic, but it was the next best thing, and Harry eventually relaxed.

"Just don't drink too much," Hermione warned. "Fiona will probably turn up soon."

"No, it'll just make things easier for her," said Harry, stretching his neck and arms. "Of course she'll choose the father of her child over a drunken manwhore. Is it too late to go pulling? Or to the Boudoir! I'm sure they'd let me in for free, particularly if I tell them what happened."

"Right, when's this going public?" asked Ron, moving the bottle out of Harry's reach.

"Good question—do you reckon I should call Rita? She'd sell her soul for an interview right now!"

"Too late," said Hermione dryly. "But I'm sure they'll keep it private‚ at least for now. Department of Mysteries, after all."

Ron's next stroke of genius was to fetch takeaway—fish and chips, to soak up the drink—and Harry was relatively sober when Fiona arrived. She found them in the drawing room, and Ron scarpered almost immediately. But Hermione gave her a hug, and Harry couldn't hear their brief exchange.

Once they were alone, Fiona cautiously approached him. "I'll say it right now: I have no idea how to do this."

"I don't think even Narcissa would know what to say," replied Harry, searching her face for clues. "Do you want to sit down? I promise not to grope you."

"I'm not worried," she said, sitting beside him. "Oh, Harry ... I'm so sorry."

Harry's feeble hope vanished, and his chest felt like lead. "Will he be all right?"

"Yes, he'll be fine. He's somewhat depleted, but they'll probably release him tomorrow."

Harry refrained from asking whether Aurors were questioning him. "Do they know what happened?"

"Augustus Rookwood happened," she scowled. "And if it weren't for you and Alistair, Rob might have been stuck there forever. You probably don't want my thanks just yet, but–"

"You're right, I don't," he said, more sharply than he intended. "I'm sorry, I know how that sounds. A few months ago I'd have celebrated, but ..." Harry's throat clenched, and he took a moment to compose himself. "Did you tell him about us?"

"Yes. I'm bringing Matthew over tomorrow, and I can't have him blurting it out."

"How did he take it?"

"He was completely gobsmacked, not least because of your age. He doesn't know about Sorceress yet, or underwear adverts, so that made things easier. But it's still a big shock, considering he last saw me this morning."

Hope flared in Harry's mind that Rob wouldn't forgive her, but his common sense caught up. Of course he'll forgive her—she did nothing wrong. For Merlin's sake, she lived like a nun for more than a year.

Harry belatedly asked how she was doing, and she took a deep breath. "I never knew it was possible to feel so many emotions at once. Gratitude, elation, anger, guilt." She turned to face Harry. "And grief. Because I also love you, and lord knows I'll miss you."

She started to cry and, without even thinking, Harry began to kiss her. After a moment he backed away, realising what he'd done, but she pulled him closer. Within seconds they were horizontal, with Fiona on top, feverishly unbuttoning his clothes.

"No, you're married," he said, not wanting her to stop.

"I can't stay the night, but I also can't pretend I don't still want you. You brought me back to life," she said, pausing to kiss him again. "And now Rob too."

"Don't talk about Rob," Harry ordered, and Fiona obeyed. They made love quickly—intensely—and afterwards they cried in each other's arms. "Were you expecting that to happen when you came over?" he asked.

"I don't know. Like I said, I have no idea how to do this."

"Nor do I. By the way, when will this go public?"

"His parents already know, and word will spread quickly, especially with your name attached."

Harry sighed. "Brilliant. Maybe I should call Rita after all."

"Don't you dare!" cried Fiona. "Seriously, you deserve privacy right now."

"I'm leaving next week on a press tour to America, remember?"

To his surprise, she actually laughed. "Great Merlin, you'll be single in America. They're doomed over there."

"I'm not single," he said, even though it was technically true. "Just like you weren't single after Rob died. Disappeared, rather."

"You're right, I wasn't. And I still don't know what I'm doing." She sat up and started pulling her clothes on.

"Will you tell Rob about this?"

"Only if he asks. But I don't think he will."

Harry escorted her to the fireplace, and they kissed for what he knew would be the last time. It was well past midnight, and the portraits were mostly asleep, but unfortunately one was still up.

"Sweet bloody Merlin, what a night you've had!" cried Jamie, from his frame in the dressing room. "Are you all right?"

Harry glared at him. "Fiona's husband came back from the dead and I've basically been dumped—do you think I'm all right?"

"Sorry, stupid question," said the portrait. "Forgive me, I'm still learning."

Touched by Jamie's rare show of sensitivity, Harry softened and said, "Good point. And in answer to your question, I feel like shit."

"Could you be more specific? This strikes me as a teaching moment."

"Bugger, it is! I'm supposed to confide in you, aren't I?" Jamie nodded, and Harry said, "Can it wait till morning? I'm completely knackered."

Jamie grinned. "Oh right, you got in there one last time—well done!" Harry glared at him again, and the portrait said, "Oops, too soon."

Harry slept fitfully and awoke before dawn. He'd grown accustomed to waking up with Fiona, and it hurt doubly to know they'd no longer share a bed. Not unless Rob snuffs it again. And this time I'll insist on a body.

Unable to fall back asleep, he looked in on Jamie. "Are you there?" he called to the empty frame.

"Yeah, just a sec," came the voice, which still sounded strange to Harry's ears. Jamie came into view, wearing a striped Breton shirt beneath a waistcoat and outer robe. "What do you think?" he asked, holding up a scarf. "I'm trying to come up with something different, for the trip to America."

Oh, hell no, thought Harry, imagining a dozen ways Jamie could wreak havoc over there. "You're not going to America," he said firmly.

"Not me, you!" said the portrait. "The way I see it, you have two options. You can either brood the entire time—and become a huge object of pity—or you can throw yourself back out there. I vote option two."

"Why am I not surprised? Can I wait until next week, or shall I nip to the Boudoir before breakfast?"

"No, this needs to be public. Just last week, Seth was complaining you've gone all monogamous, setting a bad example for the youth. But now you can double down on promiscuity, and no one will mind, since you have the perfect excuse."

"Blimey, you're right!" said Harry brightly. "Three cheers for Rob Dunning! Now I can fuck my way from the Atlantic to the Pacific, just like I've always wanted! In fact, that's what I really saw in the Mirror of Erised!"

"I'm pretty sure that's sarcasm, but I'll give you a free pass, due to circumstances," said Jamie. "See, isn't that fun?"

Indeed, Harry felt a lot more awake than he had just a minute earlier. Jamie has a point, he thought, but he was loath to admit it. "Yes, I enjoy a good rant, but that's not what you're suggesting. You're suggesting I cheapen Fiona's and my relationship by acting like it never happened."

"No, you'll be honouring it! Nothing says 'my heart is broken' like a high-visibility international shagathon!"

"Cheers, I'll keep that in mind. But didn't you want to hear about my feelings?"

"Yes, of course. Lay them on me." Jamie began tying his scarf, looking past Harry into the full-length mirror. "Don't worry, I'm listening."

Sceptical, Harry tried putting his feelings into words, which didn't go very well. "When Rob fell out of the Veil, I ... I ... well, I just ..."

Jamie glanced at him without interrupting his scarf experiments. "You what?" he prompted. "Were you angry? Did you feel sick? Were you scared?"

"I wasn't scared!" snapped Harry.

"I don't know, you're the Slytherin. Maybe you're always scared now."

"I was shocked, all right! And upset. Here I'd convinced myself no one could come back from the Veil—Sirius certainly didn't—and suddenly the last person I want to see pops out."

"Surely not the last person! What about Voldemort? I'm sure you wouldn't want to see him. Or Bellatrix Lestrange, or maybe Umbridge."

Harry considered Jamie's point. "No, I'd have preferred Umbridge, since we could just send her back to Azkaban. But you're probably right about Voldemort and Bellatrix."

"See, I know you better than you think. Anyway, go on."

For the next half hour, they went back and forth, with inarticulate statements from Harry and more prompts from Jamie—peppered with dubious advice.

"You should really talk to Rita. She'll know how to spin this. Or maybe Narcissa. Can you skive off training today?"

"No, I'm sure Owen wants to see how I'm doing. But yeah, I should send some owls before I go."

Unsurprisingly, Rita had already sent him a letter, which arrived during breakfast:

Dear Harry,

I just heard the news, and I'm at your service. Just say the word, and I'll dig up some dirt to tilt the odds in your favour, if you want to keep the thing going. Although I'd personally vote for a clean break, since there's nothing like a single Harry Potter-Black.

The scoop came too late for this morning's Prophet, and for now St Mungo's won't confirm it. But it'll be all over the radio by afternoon, so I recommend quick action. You can find me at the Dapperling after ten, or at my flat beforehand, should private consolation be required.

I jest! But be prepared for an onslaught of older women, now that you've opened the doors.

Yours always,
Rita

Harry sighed heavily, knowing she was right, and he wrote back saying he'd find her after lunch. He wasn't planning to give a long interview, since he mainly wanted privacy, but he also wanted to protect Fiona, who might otherwise be dragged through the mud.

When he arrived at the Cannons' training grounds, Owen was already there. "I wasn't sure if you'd come," Owen said. "No one would blame you for taking the day off."

"I love flying, remember?"

"Then don't let me stop you. Unless you want to talk."

They were outdoors, and Harry gestured towards the building. "Does anyone else know? Besides Ryan, that is."

"No, just me—Fiona called this morning."

Harry realised that Owen and Jill were probably happy, since their friend was back from the dead. If Fred were suddenly alive, for example, Harry would be overjoyed, no matter who it inconvenienced.

"Congratulations," he said weakly. "I know it's a drag for me, but it's good news for you."

Owen stopped him short. "Harry, I hereby grant you permission to be a selfish twat, at least through the weekend. I'm serious, whinge all you like."

Harry did just that—for a little while, at least. But he also wanted Owen's advice. "How am I supposed to get through this?" he asked. "And don't tell me to expand into awareness, because I tried, and it didn't work."

"Of course not, it's too soon. But you'll feel better eventually, I promise. After all, you got over Ginny." Harry started to protest, and Owen said, "I realise that sounds callous, but my point is that things change, and you will get through this. And, if I know you, you'll probably be just as happy with whoever you end up with. Not to mention the bit where you're directly responsible for saving a life."

The other players were running laps, but Owen had contrived to work with Harry alone, so they were free to keep talking. "I know, but in a way, that's the hardest part," Harry said. "I can't just wish it never happened, or that Fiona and I had never met, because otherwise Rob would still be stuck. Which makes it feel ..." He paused, reluctant to say it aloud. "Makes it feel predestined."

"Not keen on being a tool of fate, are we?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" said Harry bitterly. "It's not as if fate has ever shat on me before. Oh, hang on—it's shat on me right and left."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But does it help to view it from Matthew's perspective? After all, he's getting his dad back."

Harry had already considered this and was ashamed of how he felt. "Honestly, I kind of hoped I could be a dad to him someday. Obviously I can't erase the past, no more than Sirius could erase mine, but I liked the idea of ... filling the gap."

Owen studied him a moment. "You'll be a tremendous father one day. You know that, right?"

"I hope so. I've been doing better with Teddy, although that might change now that I can't bring him round all the time." Harry looked down and said, "I hoped Matthew would come to see him as a younger brother, but I suppose he'll have a real brother or sister before long."

"You and Teddy are always welcome, and Matthew's over almost daily, with or without Fiona. And you don't need to rush into fatherhood. It was lovely you were willing to step up like that, but really, you're only nineteen."

"So, I'm just a kid again?" said Harry, annoyed.

"That's not what I meant. Yes, I once thought you weren't mature enough for Fiona, but I've admitted I was wrong. That said ... there may be value in acting your age again, to make sure you're not leaving any parts of yourself behind."

"Is this your way of suggesting I start sleeping around again?"

"There's something to be said for distraction. Although I don't recommend the self-destructive variety, which it could easily turn into." Owen chuckled and said, "You don't have a fuckmate, do you?"

Harry paused to consider it. "The closest I had was Sophie. And actually, I'll see her in America next week, to promote London Underground. Although she mightn't be keen to see me, considering how things ended."

Owen reminded him he'd done nothing wrong, and later, while flying, Harry caught himself wondering if she'd fancy a stateside fling. That would be perfect, he thought—the problem with rampant promiscuity was the lack of a connection, but he and Sophie had a genuine bond.

Between flying and imagining naughty adventures on a wizarding train, he felt better after practice, and he even told his teammates about Rob. "Toffer, oh my god!" cried a stricken Gemma. "What do you need? Can we get you drunk or something?"

"Thanks, but Ron beat you to it last night."

Janet threw her arms around him, "Oh, Snitchbottom, I'm so sorry! I'm glad Ron took care of you, though—you can always count on a Weasley. But what about the weekend? Is someone looking after you?"

"Really, it's fine. And I leave for America on Tuesday, so I'll have a change of scene."

"I'm still upset I'm not going," said Gemma, as they walked to the lockers. "Dave wanted to bring me as his plus-one, but Spudmore nixed it. Apparently, my mere presence might remind people the Firebolt has issues. Which is complete bollocks, since almost no one has Light magic, and it's not like people there will recognise me."

Harry stifled a grin—Gemma mentioned her new boyfriend at every turn. "Is Routledge still giving you a hard time?" he asked.

"Is he ever! And just to rub it in, he keeps thanking me, since they originally weren't going to pay what he was asking."

"Honestly, I'm glad he'll be there too, since he'll be an ally for the rules change."

"Oh, crap!" she blurted. "You were supposed to keep an eye on him in America, but now you'll be single." Harry asked what she meant, and Gemma said, "Sorry, I forgot you're out of the loop. His girlfriend still hasn't given it up, and he's going out of his mind. I said it was a bad sign if he needed Harry Potter to make him behave, but now we can't even count on that."

"I'd never let him cheat on Daphne!" said Harry, affronted.

"Not deliberately, but by osmosis somehow."

He didn't reveal his hopes regarding Sophie, since Gemma had never liked his supermodel ex. But when he saw Rita an hour later, she mentioned Sophie straight away.

"Harry, I don't know how you do it, but even your calamities are well timed where gold is concerned. Because underwear sales will go through the roof if you and Sophie reunite. I assume she's on your short list?"

They were in a private room at the Dapperling, which meant he was free to shout at her. "It hasn't even been twenty-four hours since Rob came back! Has it occurred to you I might need to grieve? I did with Ginny, certainly."

"But that was your first love," she countered. "You're a man of the world now."

He kneaded his forehead and said, "Why exactly did I agree to talk to you?"

"So I can craft your message. Otherwise those hacks will just speculate, and we can't have that."

Harry was too tired to keep arguing. "Fine. Here's what I want: Privacy. I realise that's impossible in my case, so I'm willing to share a few details if you'll leave Fiona alone. And Rob, I suppose."

"So noble!" she said, with feigned admiration. "Throwing yourself over the cauldron like that!"

"Rita, knock it off—this is hard for her too."

"Really? May I quote you?" She leaned closer and said, "Was there break-up sex?"

"That's it," he said, standing up. "This is pointless."

The colour drained from her face. "I'm so sorry," she said, sounding oddly sincere. "You've had a terrible shock, and I've fallen into the trap of forgetting you're human. After all, you brought someone back from the dead."

Harry tentatively sat down again, knowing he needed her help. "He was never dead—he was trapped. And I didn't personally free him, I merely set things in motion."

"The DOM's not talking, of course, and I don't think I can get away with my 'anonymous Unspeakable' trick. But it's common knowledge you went there with Alistair Cross, and then the story just falls into place." He prompted her to continue, curious whether she was right. "Someone wanted to study your Light magic—and Granger's as well. But in exchange you demanded to bring Alistair, to see if there was a way to fish Sirius Black out of the Veil. Only Rob Dunning popped out instead."

He tried to keep his expression neutral. "You can mention Alistair, if it's common knowledge, but I won't comment on the rest."

"Understood," she said, consulting her notes. "What about a body? Did Alistair find one?"

"No," said Harry, and he realised too late he'd confirmed most of her theory. "Sirius is long gone."

"Then how did Rob Dunning survive? The Veil was used for executions, after all."

"That's not my story to tell. But he's definitely back—I saw him with my own eyes."

"Have you talked to him yet? Does he know about you and his wife?" Rita's eyes gleamed. "Does he know about Sorceress?"

"Definitely no comment. And again, I'd like to keep them out of this. So, please, only ask questions about me."

She tilted her head. "How are you doing?" she said gently. "It must have been a terrible shock."

Harry knew her compassion was a sham, but he humoured her by pretending it was real. "It was. I was in love with Fiona—I still am, in fact—but I need to accept that it's over. In that respect, it's no different to any other breakup, only in this case it's nobody's fault."

Thanks to his conversations with Jamie and Owen, he was able to convey how he felt without revealing too much. He also said how helpful his friends had been—Ron and Hermione in particular—and that he was looking forward to the trip to America.

"Bringing us back to Sophie," said Rita. "Have you owled her yet? Are you planning to rekindle the romance?"

Harry didn't want to lie, but he also didn't want to announce his intentions. "No, and no comment."

"What about older women in general? I know Sophie's a few years older, but Fiona pushed the margin much higher. Do you plan to continue in that direction?"

And here it is, thought Harry, annoyed. "I know what you want me to say."

"Actually, I'm not sure you do," she said, ruffling the edge of her Quick Quotes Quill.

"You want me to say 'Older women are brilliant!' or 'Age is just a number,' or something else you can feed to the Witch Weekly crowd."

"I can't say I'd mind pitting you against Lockhart again, but if I'm being honest—which I occasionally am—I think you need to act your age for a while." Harry bristled, and she said, "Don't bite my head off‚ hear me out!"

He crossed his arms and leaned back. "Fine, go ahead."

"You got serious with Fiona too quickly, and vice versa. I don't know precisely what she saw in you, other than the obvious—which is more than enough, really. But in her you saw a home, a family, and everything else that was stolen from you."

"Not this again! For the thousandth time, I don't see her as a mum!"

"No, certainly not. But she gave you a cosy magical household—with a cherished little boy, even. What's more, you rescued her from grief, and we all know how much you like rescuing people."

"So, it wasn't love at all? She just ticked all the boxes from my childhood trauma? Thanks, Doctor Niffler!"

"Harry, darling, calm down. Clearly you loved her, and I'm sure it was sincere. But you also skipped past the hard bits of building a family and just stepped into someone else's. A family that looked a lot like yours should have been."

Still angry, he said, "Will this go in your article too? Although I'm surprised I haven't read it already."

"No, this is free advice from a concerned onlooker. You took a vow not to marry too soon—a perfectly brilliant vow, I might add. I'm merely suggesting you remind yourself why you took it and adjust your life accordingly."

"Cheers. Are we done here?"

Rita looked down at her notes. "Yes, I'm sure I have enough. Just give me a minute and I'll dash off a statement for the radio."

When Harry read it, he was grudgingly impressed. "Not bad, Skeeter. I suppose our alliance will live another day."

"Together forever, darling. And do have fun in America—I wish I could go myself! It's not just the women over there who love British accents."

When Harry got home after the interview, he was ready to collapse, but a pile of letters had arrived. He set most of them of them aside but opened the one from Narcissa, which was an offer of tea and sympathy. Sounds perfect, he thought, realising how much he valued her. "Yes, Sirius, she's my family now," he said aloud. "Get over it."

After a much-needed nap, he turned up at Malfoy Manor, feeling very small. He wore plain robes without flowers, which Narcissa noted with concern. "I know it's counterintuitive, but always dress better when you're upset," she said, smoothing his lapel.

"I'm sure you're right, but I just couldn't. Fiona loves how I dress, and my best clothes all remind me of her."

"All the more reason to wear them, to form new associations," she said, then pulled him into a hug. "Oh, my poor dear. What a terrible shock!"

He relaxed in her embrace and actually sniffled, which she kindly didn't mention. "It's just an adjustment," he said, not wanting to let go. "I've been through worse."

"Of course you have, but that doesn't make it easier." She stroked his hair, and he drank in the affection. So this is what mums do, he thought, with a hint of envy towards Draco.

She served him tea and his favourite chocolates, which he knew came from France. "I'm sure I'll be fine soon enough," he said. "After all, we only dated for three months."

"But you saw a future with her," said Narcissa, and he nodded. "I must say, you've certainly shown you're a traditional wizard at heart."

"If by 'traditional' you mean 'romantic,' then yes. My father was the same way, although I don't plan to marry as young as he did."

"Are you sure about that? I know you took a vow, but it's not magically binding."

"No, but–"

"It's fortunate you didn't marry Fiona, given the circumstances," she continued. "But if you fall in love with another suitable witch, I see no reason for delay. You have a house, and house-elves, and a place in society. And from what I've seen, you're very devoted."

A part of Harry longed for what she described. Indeed, he'd had a taste of it with Lydia, and he could easily imagine coming home to a girlfriend or wife. I'd fly with the Cannons all day, and she'd have her own career—ideally one where she's free on Saturdays, to cheer me on. He knew he still needed to grow up, but they could do that together, and he'd have exactly the life he wanted without having to wait.

The life I had with Fiona, he realised, and Rita's assessment hit home. "I agree that sounds nice," Harry said, "but we're talking about less than two years. A lot has changed for me in only the past six months, so I should probably just stay the course."

A small sigh from Narcissa. "Very well," she said, refilling her tea. "Have you any ... near-term plans?"

Harry smirked. "Are you asking when I'm getting my wand polished?"

"Harry!" she cried. "I realise you're under a strain, but we still have manners!"

"I'm sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "What was your question again?"

A blush crept over her cheeks. "Do you have plans for, erm, getting your wand polished?"

They were both laughing, and Harry said, "Maybe in America. Sophie will be there, and if she's not upset with how I ended things, she might be up for a fling. The French are brilliant that way."

"So, you're not planning to resume your ... prior habits?"

"I can't predict the future, but I doubt it." Having already shocked her, he explained the concept of 'friends with benefits,' which was more polite than calling them 'fuckmates.'

"Does that mean there's no commitment?" she asked. "Or even monogamy?"

"That's the idea. You just see each other when it suits you, and no one gets hurt."

Narcissa scoffed and said, "That's perfectly ludicrous. Of course someone would get hurt!"

"Ideally no. Although I've never really tried it, except with Sophie. Oh, and with Alex." He frowned, recalling how that turned out. "Although those were more like flings. I assume fuckmates are more casual."

"Fuckmates!" she gasped.

"Sorry, I'm under a strain," he said, raising his hands.

Narcissa rubbed the base of her forehead. "You remind me more of Sirius with each passing day."

She asked how he was handling the press, and he told her he'd met with Rita. "I'll have a few interviews in America, but otherwise I plan to stay out of view."

"Forgive me, but aren't you going to America to try changing the rules of Quidditch?"

"Well, yes. But it won't just be me—there'll be heaps of big-name players."

"Do I really need to enumerate all the ways you'll stand out?" she asked, arching a single brow. "I know Rita Skeeter has sold any number of stories about you to the American press."

Harry blinked. "How do you know about those?"

"My solicitor, of course. He monitors everything pertaining to House Black, which keeps him rather busy. I could have him send you a file, if you like."

"No, that's all right," said Harry, with a growing sense of dread. He'd been looking forward to the trip to America, since the visit to Boston had gone so well, but Rita's articles might have changed the landscape.

They spoke a while longer, until Draco arrived through the Floo. "Potter, what are you doing here?" he exclaimed, clearing the ashes from his robes.

"I thought he might like a sympathetic ear," said Narcissa, with a meaningful look at her son.

"Yes, of course. Harry, would you care to join me in the smoking room?"

Harry was tired of talking, but the alternative was to go home and brood, so he accepted Draco's offer. "Where did you hear about it?" he asked when they were seated.

"At Pratt's, during lunch," said Draco, a trifle coldly.

Is he upset with me? Harry wondered. But he was curious which rumours he might need to combat, so he asked Draco what people were saying.

"Everything you'd expect. Reginald Baxter tried taking bets on whether Fiona would choose you or her husband, but everyone picked Dunning."

"They're not wrong. I saw her last night, and it's definitely over."

"I'm sorry to hear it," said Draco stiffly. "She seemed like a lovely person, and I know how fond you were of her."

Harry nodded, and there was an awkward silence. Am I supposed to confide in him? For all they were mates, Harry had seldom told Draco about his feelings, except when they were both pissed.

"I'll be honest," said Harry, "I've been talking about this nonstop and could use a break."

"Understood. I'm sure your other friends have been most helpful," he said, with an emphasis on the word "other."

For a moment Harry just stared, until he realised the problem. "Hang on, are you upset I didn't talk to you sooner?"

Draco's eyes were pale fire. "You could have at least owled me! I had to hear about it at Pratt's, just like anyone else!"

"I owled your mum! It's not my fault she didn't tell you."

"I was in Sheffield," he said coldly.

"I can't bloody well owl you in Sheffield! Vicki would see it!"

"Vicki wasn't there. And besides, you and I correspond by house-elf all the time."

Draco had a point—even Kreacher was capable of discretion while delivering post. "Why were you in Sheffield if Vicki wasn't there?" he asked, hoping to distract him.

"There's this video game called 'Mario Kart,' and Vicki always beats me, so I need to practise. But don't change the subject! As you may recall, I was the one who warned you not to ask too many questions about Rob Dunning, for exactly this reason!"

"True. But are you really saying it would be better if he were stuck in the Veil for all time? Or at least until some other vampire went poking about?"

"So that's what happened!" said Draco, his eyes bright. "I heard any number of theories!" His expression grew stern again, and he said, "In answer to your question: yes, you'd be better off if you hadn't meddled. It's not as if Dunning knew what was happening—from what I heard, no time passed for him at all."

"Draco, I appreciate your, er, loyalty," said Harry, not knowing how to describe something so appalling. "But I'm glad Rob's been freed. Imagine if he were trapped for, say, two hundred years? Only to come out and discover his wife and son were both dead."

Draco rolled his eyes. "You'll always be a Gryffindor. Just like the friends you confided in last night."

"Hermione was there when it happened! And Ron lives with me! Not to mention we fought a war together!"

"Always the war," Draco huffed. "I'll never measure up, will I?"

Harry snorted and said, "You realise they're both jealous of you, right? Hermione keeps trying to figure out why we're even friends, and Ron's afraid you'll turn me into a pure-blood snob."

"You're a half-blood," said Draco, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"And you're a snob," Harry countered. "But trust me, you didn't miss much last night—it was just hours of me whinging."

"That's precisely why you needed me. I would have put a stop to it."

Their conversation continued, and Draco advised Harry to consider dating Muggles. "I think Penelope's still single, but Vicki has other friends as well. Do you want to come out with us sometime?"

"Thanks, but I'm not comfortable telling lies," said Harry, before realising his blunder.

"And I am?" snapped Draco.

Well, yes, Harry thought, recalling Draco's numerous lies back in school. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. It's just that lies are harmful to Light magic, so I try to avoid them."

Draco was silent, and his lips formed a thin line. "You know, Potter, you of all people should appreciate my ability to lie. Mother's too."

Harry inhaled slowly. "You're right. And I do appreciate it."

Their eyes met, and for a moment neither of them spoke. "I should probably thank you as well," said Draco. "I'd still be under house arrest if you hadn't got me off."

His discomfort was apparent, and Harry tried easing the tension. "I thought Vicki got you off," he joked.

"Typical Potter manners," said Draco with disdain—and obvious relief. "You'll never be one of us."

"Excuse me, but your mum already asked whether I have plans to get my wand polished."

Draco inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring, and he turned even paler than usual. "Sorry, that came out wrong," said Harry hastily. "I mean yes, she literally asked me that, but she wasn't referring to herself."

A long, unsteady breath from Draco. "I heard several comments at Pratt's. Older witches, you know."

"I know, and don't worry. She's family, full stop." Draco narrowed his eyes, and Harry recalled the tangled branches on the Black family tapestry. "Oh bugger, not like that. Like a normal family."

Draco's brow smoothed, and he said, "Did she mention Lisa Black? Now that Fiona's out of the picture, I'm sure that's who she'll want you to court."

"I'm not courting anyone. And I think she has a boyfriend now."

"Still, be prepared for hints. Family resemblance, you know."

By the time Harry left, his mood was considerably lighter. He and Draco had mostly quarrelled, of course, but perhaps that was what he'd needed. "Cheers, I feel a bit better," he admitted before departing.

"That's why you should have sent for me at once. I'm sure your Gryffindor friends just coddled you."

He nevertheless relapsed a bit that evening, since his tutor Simon was also dating a widow. "Harry, I'm so sorry. I'd never admit this to Andromeda, but I found myself relieved Ted Tonks left a body."

"I understand completely," said Harry, wishing yet again Rob had actually died. He and Simon scrapped their original plan to attend a science lecture, since Harry was too agitated, and they went instead to the cinema. Harry suggested 'Casablanca,' which happened to be playing, but Simon warned against it.

"When Rick and Ilsa have their affair in Paris, she thinks her husband—a freedom fighter—is dead. But it turns out he's alive, and she abandons Rick to nurse him back to health. They reunite a year later, at Rick's nightclub in Morocco, and I won't tell you precisely what happens. But the ending is definitely bittersweet."

"Right—no thanks," said Harry, and they watched something else. He slept better that night but felt hollow again in the morning, and the letter he received didn't help:

Dear Harry,

This is a difficult letter to write, and it's probably even worse to receive. Normally I'd wait longer before reaching out, but time is of the essence, for reasons I'll explain below.

First, please accept my heartfelt thanks for saving my life. I know Alistair Cross did the heavy lifting, but it would never have happened without you. And I needn't describe the alternative, which is too horrible to contemplate. So, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I deeply regret that my liberation has cost you so dearly. For years I've only wished you well, and I hoped desperately for your success against Voldemort. Ironically, my efforts to assist you resulted not only in traumatising my family but also causing pain to the young man to whom I owe so much.

Just in case this letter isn't awkward enough, I'm going to make it worse by thanking you for helping Fiona. By all accounts, she was a wreck when you entered her life, and even my parents admit you were good for her. It's still hard to accept that she had an entire relationship during what I experienced as a single afternoon. But I certainly can't hold it against her, and for the most part I'm grateful for how you helped her in my absence. (I say "for the most part" because I've learnt about your life since the war ended. Bloody hell!)

Anyway, I'm writing because I'd like to meet as soon as possible, to explain how I survived. Forgive me for inflicting myself on you so soon, when I'm sure you'd rather wait, but the DOM is already pressuring me to retake my secrecy oath. So I'm afraid now is our best chance, even though I'm probably the last person you want to see.

We can talk either at my house or yours, as you prefer. Note that my parents might be at Everbrook, depending on when you turn up. I'm told they weren't your biggest fans while you and Fiona were dating, but I can guarantee they are now.

Yours sincerely,
Rob Dunning

Harry was torn. He was dead curious to find out what had happened, but he didn't relish a conversation with Rob. Nor did he want to see Fiona in her husband's company. Then again, it might lift his spirits to talk to Rob's parents, and he wanted to see Matthew again, if only for closure. After all, he'd been prepared to become the boy's stepdad, so it would be weird just to vanish from his life.

After sending Lodie with word he was coming, Harry agonised over what to wear. "You heard Narcissa," said Jamie, watching him reject one outfit after another. "Dress to the nines."

"But I'll look like a complete berk. Rob still associates fitted robes with Death Eaters, remember?"

"It doesn't matter what Rob thinks—it's all about how you feel. And besides, Fiona loved you in robes."

"Fat lot of good that does me now," said Harry bitterly, pulling on his Breton shirt. "At least this reminds me of Sophie."

"Wear it with the grey herringbone, and that checked scarf. Trust me, I ran it past Aurora Black last night, and she said it was terribly smart. And she definitely knows fashion—she poisoned three of her sisters for their dowries and spent it all on clothes."

Harry stared at Jamie in horror. "Please tell me you're not sleeping with her!"

"She was painted young and had a lingerie fetish. What do you think we're doing?"

"But how can you sleep with a murderer!"

"She's a portrait, so technically she never killed anyone—she only remembers doing it. But Banthora thinks I'm a good influence, since she no longer sneers as much as she used to."

"That's progress, I suppose," said Harry, donning the outfit Jamie suggested. He travelled to Everbrook by Floo, then followed voices to the kitchen and lounge.

No one noticed when he arrived, which gave him a moment to take in the scene. Fiona was at the table with Rob's mum and sister, lingering over tea, while Rob did the washing up. Matthew and his cousin Jacob were playing toy Quidditch, and Rob's father looked on, offering advice.

This was her old life, Harry thought, noting how natural it looked. And completely alien—it was nothing like his life with the Dursleys, or even his current life at Grimmauld Place. It was "a cosy magical household with a cherished little boy," just as Rita had described, with no room for a scandal-prone Seeker.

"Harry, welcome!" said Rob's mother, rising from her chair. "Gene, it's Harry," she called to her husband.

"Oh!" said Gene, standing up. Harry had never seen them look so friendly, and he reflexively glanced at Fiona. She rolled her eyes, which momentarily broke the tension, but the gulf between them was too great. She's married to someone else, he thought sadly.

Gene and Charlotte showered Harry with thanks, even admitting he'd been good with Matthew. "He'll be a Cannons fan for life," Gene declared.

"I'm very sorry, for your sake, that things didn't work out with Fiona," said Charlotte quietly. "You were surprisingly devoted, I must say."

Harry managed a weak smile but didn't know how to reply. "Perhaps I'll see you around," he finally said. The Dunnings agreed that would be nice, and he was relieved when Rob interrupted.

"I'm glad you could get here so quickly. Come, let's talk in the parlour."

Where I used to snog your wife, thought Harry glumly. He wrapped things up with the Dunnings and followed Rob down the hall.

"Sorry about my parents," said Rob. "They've practically moved in, for fear I'll vanish again."

Harry selected a straight-backed chair rather than the sofa he knew all too well. For a moment they just sized each other up; Rob wore loose robes of the Arthur Weasley variety, which made Harry feel like a kid. Indeed, Rob seemed older than Fiona, which was ironic, since he was now a year and a half younger.

"What a strange way to meet Harry Potter," said Rob, breaking the silence. "Sorry—Potter-Black. That'll take some getting used to, I'm afraid."

"No one gets it right," Harry admitted. "But it's not a big deal, since people seem to know why I did it." He briefly described his wish to reinvent the Blacks as a Light family.

"And clearly it's working! Fiona says Light magic is all the rage now. Which seems appropriate, since it's why I'm still alive."

There goes my Horcrux theory. "Does that mean you're a Light wizard?"

"I am not. I'd like to be, but that's a task for another day." Rob settled into the sofa and said, "After the Ministry fell to the Death Eaters, I started researching Light magic. It was an open secret that only you could take down You-Know-Who and, given your past, I assumed Light magic would be involved."

"It was, but only barely. There were other factors as well."

"Yes, I have some theories about those, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Anyway, I wanted to discover if there was some way to harness Light magic against the Death Eaters. I also hoped to acquire it myself—in the Love Room, perhaps. But it's not so easy, as you know, and you can't just learn it from a book."

"Actually, Owen Barrowmaker might have been able to help," said Harry. "He had a breakthrough early in his Quidditch career. He still hasn't connected it to his magic, but the hard bit's already behind him."

"Really? Well done, Owen! I'll have to ask him about it sometime. Although I probably couldn't even have raised the topic back then, since my blood oath was particularly restrictive. Augustus Rookwood took charge of DOM security, and it covered anything that might help the cause. Your cause, that is."

"So, you wanted to access the Love Room to acquire Light magic?" asked Harry, thinking of Jester.

"Not precisely. I was more interested in the fountain, which I knew about but had never seen. You need special authorisation just to go in there, and I didn't have it." Rob turned to face the window, which looked out onto a brook. "You know about my family and water, right?"

"Yes, you have an affinity for it."

"More than that—we can coax magic from it. My great-grandfather even made a water-core wand. It wasn't his primary wand, but I've seen some of the magic he crafted with it—in this house, in fact—and it's extraordinary."

"Right," said Harry, still trying to piece things together. "So, you wanted to harness the the power of the Love Room using weird Dunning water magic?"

"Exactly. But first I needed access, so I came up with a plausible-sounding theory about using the fountain to create a cure for the Dementor's Kiss. Complete rubbish, of course, but half the reason they hired me was for my water affinity, so they were willing to let me try."

"The Ministry wanted a cure for the Dementor's Kiss?" said Harry, astonished.

"Yes. They tarted it up with some noble explanation, but the rumour was You-Know-Who wanted to revive one of his followers. Bartemius Crouch's kid, I think."

"Right, he received the Kiss in '95, after delivering me to Voldemort." After a pause, Harry said, "By the way, you can call him Voldemort now. No need to bother with You-Know-Who."

Rob grimaced. "Sorry, it's a lot to get used to. Two days ago, wizarding Britain was being ruled by a monster. But now he's dead, his followers are in Azkaban, and Harry Potter is an international sex symbol who's dating my wife."

"Was dating," Harry corrected. "She picked you."

"I know, and I'm grateful. But I feel sick about stabbing you in the heart like that. I owe you everything, and look how I've repaid you."

Harry really didn't want to talk about Fiona. "So, the Dementor's Kiss?" he prompted.

"Yes, I concocted a plan to cure it using the the Love Room fountain. Meanwhile, my real project was to imbue wands with Light magic—also with water from the fountain."

"Like the wand your great-grandfather made?"

"Not exactly. That one had a water core, which wouldn't work for most wizards. No, my idea was to take a normal wand and saturate it, to change the nature of the wood."

Harry pictured a bloated, unusable wand, and it nearly turned his stomach. "Wouldn't that ruin it?"

"It's all in the application," said Rob, with a mysterious air. "Water is both destructive and creative. It's used to shape wood, for example—that's how casks are made. And if you soak a wand just long enough, and use magic to help things along, you can turn a common wand into something entirely different."

Sweet Merlin, Rob's a genius! thought Harry. And slightly mad. "Would that allow anyone to perform Light magic?"

"Sadly, no—my idea didn't work. And neither did the Dementor's Kiss thing, but I already knew that was rubbish. However, I found an interesting effect." Rob leaned forwards and said, "My proposal for the Dementor's Kiss hinged on the nature of the soul. When a Dementor swallows a soul, they don't keep it—it merely passes through them. So, where does it go?" Rob gestured into the air and said, "It goes anywhere and everywhere. Which is why I proposed using the fountain to retrieve it—and put it back."

"But how would that even work?" asked Harry, wishing Hermione were there.

"It wouldn't. I knew this going in, and it became even clearer the first time I entered the Love Room." Harry asked how it affected him, and Rob said, "Probably not as profoundly as it affected you, but I glimpsed how we're all connected—every last one of us. What's more, it's not limited to living beings. Every last atom in the universe is a part of this consciousness."

Harry felt the truth of Rob's words, even though it didn't match his own experience. Davina had explained how everything was subjective, which meant more than one paradigm could be true, as long as it didn't insist on its own reality.

"During my wand experiments, I discovered a curious effect. While in the Love Room, I felt an unusual link between myself and whichever wand I was using. At first I worked with old family wands, not wanting to damage my own." Rob slid a wand from his robes and rolled it in his fingers. "But I was eventually bold enough to try, and the connection was ... extraordinary."

"Extraordinary how?" asked Harry, caught up in Rob's narrative.

"It felt like me," he said simply. "Not an extension of myself, like before, but literally indistinct. I mean yes, I'm flesh and blood, and the wand isn't, but the label 'me' applied equally."

An uncomfortable thought arose, and Harry said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you know what that sounds like, right?"

"A Horcrux," said Rob. "But clearly it wasn't—I certainly didn't kill anyone." He frowned. "That's what Voldemort used, right?" Harry nodded and Rob asked, "How many?"

"Seven. Including me," he said, tapping his scar.

Rob took a deep breath. "So, that's why you had to die again. What saved you?"

Harry explained that Voldemort had taken his blood, and with it his mother's protection. Rob asked multiple questions—covering Horcruxes, Dumbledore, and death—which Harry answered without hesitation.

"Mine wouldn't work the same way. I didn't feel separate from my wand, so the link could never withstand my actual death. And you certainly couldn't use it to resurrect me."

"Then how did you survive the Veil? And what were you doing there anyway?"

A deep crease appeared at Rob's brow. "Rookwood," he growled. "I see now that he lured me into a trap." Rob described the Death Eater's fixation on the Veil, and his own drive to stop him. "I know this is ancient history for you, but for me it was only a few days ago. He kept dropping hints about 'high-priority research, by order of the Minister,' so you knew what that meant. And I needed to sabotage it."

There was a desperate edge to Rob's voice. "I thought I was safe," he rasped. "I certainly didn't plan to pass through the Veil. I was only planting a spying device, to see what he was up to. But Rookwood ambushed me."

He recounted their brief confrontation, in which Rookwood Disarmed him and forced him through the Veil. "Really?" said Harry. "They investigated him twice, and both times he was cleared."

"He was using a different wand. Trust me, I recognised it by then. Furthermore, I saw him leave for lunch first—that's why I went in. But it must have been a decoy."

"But if he hadn't Disarmed you ..."

"I'd have died," said Rob. "I'd also probably have died if he'd destroyed my wand, or thrown it through the Veil after me. But instead, he cleaned his fingerprints off it and left it on the dais, and they returned it to Fiona in a box. And it must have remained loyal, because it seems to work fine," he said, brandishing it.

"Will you go back to working for the DOM?" Harry asked.

"Unless the Cannons want me, which seems unlikely. Poor Matthew—he'll miss having a Seeker in the house."

"I'm sure he'd rather have his dad. How's he doing, by the way?"

"It varies by the hour. First he just stared, like I was an illusion. Then came the hugs and tears, followed later by shouting and a surprisingly strong punch. It's a good thing I was still at St Mungo's," he said, massaging his jaw.

"I'll miss him," said Harry. "He's a great kid."

An awkward silence followed. "Harry, I'm so sorry. I know how special she is, and–"

"Thanks, but don't," said Harry abruptly. "I have plenty of people to console me, and you have enough going on."

"You're right, I do." Rob paused, as if he wanted to say something more, but he seemed to think better of it.

They walked together to the kitchen, and Harry said, "By the way, thanks for trying to stop Rookwood. We had no idea at the time how many people wanted to help us, and it means a lot to hear about it now."

"I'm glad. And really, thanks again. I vastly prefer this version of England to the one I left."

Harry said goodbye to Matthew, who mostly seemed concerned he mightn't teach him to fly that summer. But Harry promised he would, and across the room he saw Fiona blink back a tear.

She accompanied him down the hall to the fireplace. "How did it go with Rob?" she asked.

"I didn't curse him, or even punch him, although I hear Matthew did."

"Poor kid, it's a lot to take in. And for Rob as well—three separate people already pulled him aside and told him about Sorceress."

Harry bit back a smile. "Gene and Charlotte were friendly," he said. "Does this mean I'm welcome at Dunnings again?"

"You can parade all the pure-blood princesses you like," said Fiona, laughing. "Just don't shag her in the cloakroom."

They continued joking a little longer, but it quickly felt hollow. Harry knew he should leave, but he couldn't bear saying goodbye. "I should go," he finally said.

"I'll never regret it," she blurted.

"Sorry?"

"I can only speak for myself, and not for Matthew, or Rob's parents. But I'm glad I knew you, and that we were together—and not just because you brought him back. Even if he'd never disappeared, the idea of you being nothing more than Owen's teammate ..."

She made a choking sound, and tears began to flow. "The year after Rob died was hell. Sheer hell. But you could relate to it. And thanks to you, I finally wasn't alone. I'm so sorry to leave you like this, but Harry, you have such a gift. Your heart—it's tremendous." He offered her a handkerchief, and she laughed at the Slytherin crest. "God, I'll miss you."

They hugged one last time, and Harry left through the fireplace. Ron and Janet promptly ambushed him, insisting they spend the day together. "What'll it be, Snitchbottom?" asked Janet, bouncing on her feet. "Reckless flying manoeuvres? Day drinking at home? Portkey debauchery in Ibiza?"

As tempting as oblivion sounded, he knew what he wanted to do. "The cinema," he declared, and they looked up the showtimes for "Casablanca."