His fellow Cannons had always impressed Harry as a cheerful lot—particularly given the team's standings—but they were especially buoyant on Monday morning after the match. Not even Tuttle could bring them down with her one of her 'motivating lectures' at the beginning of practice.
'I suppose you fancy yourselves the best team in the league, now you've got a one-game winning streak,' she barked. 'But nothing upends a winning team like getting cocky, and you lot are some of the cockiest bastards I've seen.' She glared at Harry. 'Hey Potter, do you reckon you can keep off the front page of the Prophet three days running?'
'I've started a wagering pool,' interjected Suresh. 'So far the longest interval anyone's chosen is five days.'
Harry had learned there was no point in replying to Tuttle's snipes, so he simply waited for her to move onto her next target. 'And Bellamy, you looked like you were more interested in preening for the cameras than throwing the Quaffle.' That was wholly unjust, thought Harry—Ryan had led the scoring, and it wasn't his fault the Prophet had taken a good photograph of him.
'We've got an important match on Saturday, at home against Appleby. Don't assume you can let the crowd do all the work for you—the Arrows have steamrolled their last three opponents, and they'd like nothing more than to wipe the floor with the Cannons. So I want you to come out swinging with our most aggressive moves yet. That means all of you, so quit scratching your arses and start running.'
Janet sidled up to Harry as they began to jog. 'She's very inspiring, don't you think? It's a shame she couldn't have been in that tent with you and your mates during the war.'
'It looked like you wanted to be in a tent with one of my mates the other night,' teased Harry.
She waggled her eyebrows and said, 'He's a tall drink of Firewhisky, that Ron Weasley. But I noticed you vanished again. Did you need help getting to sleep after your big day?'
Harry broke into a sprint to leave her behind. As much as he enjoyed bantering with Janet, he preferred to let his mind wander during his daily run.
Lara had asked him that morning whether he could stay after practice to meet with the publicity department. He assumed it was primarily to review the merchandise they were creating—when he signed his contract, the goblins told him to demand approval rights over all uses of his name and image, and Darius had readily assented. But he suspected the publicity team wanted to talk about the Lord Black business as well.
Harry had no intention of using the title, and he was considering issuing a statement to that effect. He wanted to nip this thing in the bud before everyone started calling him Lord Black—he'd needed to correct three different people during his shopping trip on Sunday. From what he'd gathered, the only other wizards who used titles were pure-blood prats with Death Eater sympathies, and he had no desire to be grouped with them.
He started thinking about how Sirius would have handled it and soon found himself imagining an alternative timeline in which Sirius hadn't chased after Wormtail but had adopted Harry instead. Sirius would have spurned the title as well, and they'd have enjoyed a pleasant life in a cottage somewhere. Harry smiled at the image of bachelor Sirius pushing Harry in a pram through wizarding districts, charming all the witches with his good looks and his plight as the twenty-two year-old single father to the Boy Who Lived.
Harry could imagine Sirius parking him in his cot with a charmed mobile overhead to entertain him, whilst Sirius entertained a witch in an entirely different manner. And eventually Sirius would marry and give Harry a stepmother and siblings, and he could have grown up normally.
Except for the Horcrux, thought Harry. And the prophecy. No, there was no scenario in which he could have had a normal life, except for the unthinkable one in which Neville had been targeted by Voldemort instead.
Harry had long since noticed that his 'if only' fantasies involved Sirius more often than his own parents. He had so few memories of James and Lily Potter, and none of them were first hand. He had his Dementor-induced memories of their deaths, and then the ghostly versions of them that had appeared during the Priori Incantatem episode with Voldemort's wand. He had seen Snape's Pensieve memories, which showed James in the worst possible light. And then there was the version of them he had met using the Resurrection Stone, when he believed he was about to join them in Death.
But otherwise his parents were more of an idea than a reality. Harry had attended numerous funerals and memorial services after the war, and he'd frequently heard how the deceased 'lived on in our memories.' But James and Lily only lived on in a handful of memories—Minerva and the other professors who remembered them, the surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix, and perhaps even Aunt Petunia. But otherwise they were slowly vanishing, and Harry would be unable to preserve more than a few vague impressions.
Is that what human lives ultimately amount to? he wondered. He knew he would likely be remembered as a hero, but with increasingly less emotion as the years passed. In the end he'd probably be best remembered as a Chocolate Frog Card—'I've got Harry Potter again and I've got six of him ... do you want it?'
But did it even matter if he were remembered? People talked about fame in terms of immortality, but that always reminded him of Voldemort, who had shunned human contact. Harry, on the other hand, craved human connection. He craved it physically, as he'd come to discover—he'd already made plans with Helena for Wednesday night. And he found he was enjoying meeting new people more than ever before. If someone had told him even a couple months earlier that he'd pay an ungodly amount of Galleons to fill his house with strangers, he'd have been shocked speechless.
It had irritated Harry to see his picture on the Prophet yet again on Sunday. But he loved the cheeky banter he'd shared with Helena, and he looked forward to its sequel. He'd also enjoyed the experience of trying on robes with Althea, basking in her full and undivided attention. Harry had felt whole in those moments, without thoughts of past or future, Horcruxes and loss. He wanted to live exclusively in that sense of presence.
Fortunately he'd be back up on a broom soon enough, where he experienced it as well. His laps finished, he walked to the building to fetch his Silver Arrow and splash water on his face. When he left the locker room, Ryan was there.
'Hi, Harry. I heard from Hermione that you wanted music for your upcoming party. I'd be happy to help—I can even bring my stereo.'
'Yes, please do, and thanks!'
'I assume she told you about us?' asked Ryan, a little shyly.
'She did, and I'm happy for you both. And you should take that as high praise—I'd probably curse anyone I didn't approve of.'
'Understood,' said Ryan. 'I'm glad her mates are looking out for her. Speaking of which ... I thought she could sit with my group during Saturday's match. That way you don't need to provide her a ticket—I'm sure you still have a million people you want to invite, and I heard the match is sold out.'
'Already? Clearly I need to talk to Lara sooner about getting extra tickets this season.'
'You'd best get on it—apparently they're going fast. I'd offer you some of mine this week, but my mates won't be put off any longer, and my parents will be back by then.'
'No worries,' said Harry. 'And heads up, I'll be giving you four extra invitations for the party, not counting yourself and Hermione.'
'Fantastic, cheers! I think the party's a great idea, and you're very generous to do it—I know how much you value your privacy.'
'I do, but I'm realising there are more important things than privacy.'
They grabbed their brooms and went out the pitch, where the trainers set them to flying. The drills were more varied than usual, and a good deal more aggressive. Harry didn't get to experience his usual expansive state, but he enjoyed the sheer adrenaline of daredevil flying in a pack. Nobody crashed into each other, but there was a good deal more jostling than usual, and some of the moves bordered on fouling.
'I want you to push it to the very edge this weekend,' ordered Tuttle. 'The Arrows won't see it coming, and I guarantee the fans will love it. I wouldn't risk it with an away crowd, but this lot'll be on our side.'
After their morning session, Harry and the other starters showered and went to the pub for lunch. When he told them about the party they were thrilled, particularly at the prospect of inviting their school friends.
'You're really going to open up that sarcophagus you call home to a bunch of lowlifes?' asked Janet. 'Aren't your classmates afraid it'll be catching?'
'Where exactly did you get your impression of Hogwarts students?' asked Harry. 'Except for a few stuck-up pure-bloods, they weren't particularly snobbish.'
'That was my impression as well,' said Gary. 'I think you're conflating Hogwarts students with Muggle public-school stereotypes, with no basis for it.'
'Oh, we've a basis for it,' said Renée. 'How about the fact that there's never been a non-Hogwarts Minister for Magic, ever?'
'Or any non-Hogwarts alumni on the Wizengamot, ever,' added Suresh.
Gary held up his hands in surrender. 'All right, you win. That really is appalling. I'd apologise, but I'm Muggle-born so I can't claim any responsibility.'
'No, you just get the fringe benefits,' said Darren.
'I've a question,' said Harry. 'What even governs which school someone is admitted to? I received a Hogwarts letter and that was the end of it. I suppose my parents went there before me, but my mother was Muggle-born. Why did she end up at Hogwarts rather than, say, West Chipworth?'
'Careful, Snitchbottom—you're asking about deep, hidden magic,' replied Ryan. 'You're right that school admissions generally run in families, which is why the older schools like Hogwarts have a higher percentage of old family pure-bloods.'
'Lord Black,' coughed Darren.
'But there's no apparent logic to where Muggle-borns get placed,' continued Ryan. 'Proximity doesn't matter, since most students travel to school by Floo or portkey. There's a persistent rumour, however, that the placement of Muggle-borns is determined by the Department of Mysteries.'
'The Department of Mysteries?' said Harry. 'Are you serious?'
'I've heard that too,' said Renée, and a few others nodded.
Harry's mind reeled. Hermione—without whom he could never have defeated Voldemort—was Muggle-born, and Harry himself was the subject of prophecy. Had the Department of Mysteries deliberately brought them together? Furthermore, his mother had been placed at Hogwarts as a Muggle-born, and she never would have met his father otherwise ... Had Harry's entire existence been orchestrated by the shadowy Ministry department?'
'Oh dear, I think you just broke the Chosen One,' said Janet.
'I seem to recall he spent some time in the Department of Mysteries,' noted Darren. 'You didn't come across The Big Book of Fucking With People's Lives, did you?'
'No, just the Hall of Prophecy,' said Harry absently. He was still lost in thought.
'Hold on, that bit was true?' asked Darren. 'I was joking when I said you'd been there. I assumed it was just more bollocks invented by the Prophet.'
How much autonomy do I even have? thought Harry. He'd come to consider Dumbledore his manipulator-in-chief, along with the mysterious forces that had driven the prophecy. But if the Department of Mysteries was placing Muggle-borns, there had to be a whole other level of interference.
'Harry, are you all right?' asked Ryan.
'I'm sorry, yes,' he replied, flustered. 'I just got caught inside wheels within wheels.' He turned to Darren and said, 'Yes, the battle at the Ministry in '96 started in the Department of Mysteries. But that's where my godfather died, so I'd rather not talk about it.'
There were nods and expressions of sympathy before the group fell into silence and concentrated on their food.
When they returned to the pitch for training, Harry was greeted by Tuttle. 'I'm in charge of your training this afternoon—we'll be working on disruptive feinting techniques. You're a particularly aggressive flyer and we should make the most of it.'
'Where's Owen?' he asked. 'Will he be participating as well?'
'No, not with his injuries. I sent him to the weight room with a trainer instead.'
Harry was disappointed not to train with Owen, but he was curious what a one-on-one session with Tuttle would be like.
'I'd like to know more about your flying history,' she said, in a surprisingly conversational tone. 'Any injuries?'
'Yes, a broken arm and a cracked skull, both from Bludger strikes.'
'But never a crash?'
'No.'
'Ever fallen off your broom?'
'Yes, but it was because a hundred Dementors turned up.'
'Sweet Merlin,' she muttered, shaking her head. 'Right, so you've never had a contact injury other than the Bludgers. That's good—means you're not going to be jittery when we take it up a notch.'
'What do you have in mind?'
'I want to see you feinting, a lot. You're already nearly as good a spotter as Barrowmaker, and after your performance against the Falcons you'll have a reputation for it. No Seeker is going to risk not following you when you feint, so go for it. And I'm not talking about airy-fairy feints into the clouds—I want you to feint like a fucking Bludger. Go for their Chasers. Disrupt their Beaters if they're not in control. Fly at their bloody Seeker if you have to. And then before they know what's hit them, resume your Seeking pattern.'
Harry nodded. He'd done his share of feints, but he'd never tried anything as radical as what Tuttle was describing.
'If you do this right, the other Seekers are going to be scared shitless. I want them to see the man who ended You-Know-Who.'
'Tuttle, I hope you realise I didn't defeat Voldemort with raw power. Not even close.'
'I know that. You defeated him with dogged determination and great brass bollocks. You called him "Riddle" for fuck's sake. That's what I want to see out there.'
'All right,' said Harry. 'I'm in.'
'Good,' she replied. 'Right now I don't want you interrupting the other players' training, so I'm just going to have you show me your most aggressive solo moves—anything that might pass for a feint. So no corkscrews, obviously. But show me some sharp turns, erratic paths, hairpins around the posts, you name it. There should be sparks coming out of your broomstick when you're done. If you break it we'll get you a new one, but push it to the limit.'
Harry felt his excitement rising, and at her nod he kicked off and rose to a clear area above the pitch.
And then he flew like a bloody maniac. He imagined he was following a wildly capricious Snitch, rapidly changing direction in three dimensions. He gunned for the base of one of the goalposts before turning at the last moment and weaving through its neighbours. It was simultaneously exhausting and exhilarating, and he felt his conscious mind relax control as he surrendered to the chaotic energy.
Tuttle eventually whistled him to the ground and said, 'Holy shit, no wonder the Ministry was afraid of you. What did you think?'
His heart was racing. 'I loved it, but it was exhausting.'
'That's fine—you don't need to do it continuously. Just every five minutes or so.'
'The trick is going to be getting back into proper spotting mode between feints,' he said. 'They require very different mental states.'
'That's what you're going to work on this week. I don't expect you to get the hang of it right away, but hopefully by Wednesday you'll have the knack. If not, we'll return to the old strategy. And don't feel bad if it doesn't work. This is an experiment, but it could pay off big.'
She had him practise flying for a while longer before blowing the whistle and gathering everyone near the benches. 'Starters versus reserves, ten minutes,' she barked in her usual tone.
Harry didn't warn Owen about what he was going to do. He knew Owen was expecting him to fly more aggressively, since Tuttle had mentioned it after the match. But this was going to be more insane than anything he'd shown Owen before, and he wanted to maintain the element of surprise.
The balls were launched, and Harry began his normal circling pattern. Owen flew by and said, 'Don't get cocky, Potter. Saturday was only beginner's luck.'
'You're just jealous because I've already won more matches than you did.'
Owen laughed and flew off, and Harry reset his intention to let the Snitch appear to him. He circled, and after about five minutes he began his first feint, a rocket blast towards the goalpost. Owen started to follow him, and before he was able to verify the Snitch wasn't present Harry turned erratically, forcing Owen to keep following in case the Snitch had changed direction. Finally Harry shot upwards through a knot of players before resuming his circling.
'What the blazes was that?' asked Owen. 'Was that a feint or did you just have a stroke?'
'I thought I'd show you what decent flying looks like.'
'And here comes the ego,' said Owen. 'It'll be your downfall, Potter. Or should I say Black?'
'You're better off saying some Cushioning Charms,' replied Harry before flying off again.
Owen was next to feint—a textbook manoeuvre which Harry stopped following in short order. 'It's cute you thought I'd fall for that,' said Harry.
'You're not famous for your brains, Potter. Isn't that what you kept the Mudblood around for?'
'I dare you to say that around Ryan. They're dating now.'
'So she shot you down again? That's just sad. You were literally the only person she saw for weeks and she still wasn't interested. But then I guess she knows you better than anyone.'
Harry was surprised by how much that taunt rattled him. He flew away from Owen to clear his head and resume his Seeking pattern.
The Snitch was really taking its time, which gave Harry the opportunity to practice some truly radical feints. He forced several turnovers from the opposing Chasers, which was surprisingly easy when you flew at them like a madman. He also antagonised the opposing Beaters, which made Gary and Suresh's job easier.
Owen was impressed with Harry's attacks. 'I reckon they'll name that Beater move after you. They'll call it the Potter Kamikaze Feint.'
Instead of replying, Harry shot towards the ground, less than a minute after completing the Kamikaze Feint. But Owen didn't follow him—he simply launched into his circling pattern, prompting Harry to do the same.
The frequent feints were taking their toll. Harry was finding it increasingly difficult to settle into his usual Seeking strategy, and his old Omniocular habit was coming back. He was also getting tired.
Owen finally launched towards the goalpost, too far away for Harry to catch up. 'Barrowmaker's got the Snitch,' announced Tuttle, and the match was over.
'Are you all right, Harry?' asked Owen. 'I gather that was Tuttle's new strategy.'
'Yeah, and I'm not convinced it's a keeper. That was gruelling. How was it for you?'
'It was interesting, to say the least. But I'm probably not as tired as you are, since I couldn't keep up to begin with. I'll give you detailed notes later—your patterns were becoming predictable after a while.'
'Thanks,' said Harry, and they flew to the ground.
Tuttle was surprisingly encouraging during her post-match notes. 'That was a good start, Potter—I didn't expect you to nail it on the first try. And those attacks on the Beaters had real potential. That could become your signature move.'
Harry was relieved to go through their final stretches and head for the showers. He took his time until he remembered he had a meeting with the publicity team. Merlin, I'm knackered, he thought as he towelled off and exited the shower stall. Maybe Lara could provide him with an Energy Draught to get through the rest of the day.
'That was some truly deranged flying, Potter,' said Titus. 'I'm relieved you're on our side ... That was the first time I've had a Seeker accelerate towards me at top speed. I hope you don't start a league trend.'
'Revenge is sweet,' retorted Owen. 'It's about time Beaters were afraid of Seekers.'
'It was Tuttle's mad idea,' said Harry. 'Don't blame me.'
'Nice try, Snitchbottom, but she got the idea when you plowed into those Chasers on Saturday,' said Darren.
A towel-clad Janet came over from the women's half of the locker room and added, 'You realise, Potter, if you fly like that on Saturday, everyone's going to think you're stark raving mad.'
'That should at least convince them he's the true heir to House Black,' said Darren.
Harry dressed and dragged himself to Lara's desk, and she obligingly provided an Energy Draught. 'I'm not surprised you're knackered, after the way you were flying. Darius shouted for all of us to come watch through his window—I've never seen anything like it.'
'You might not see it after Wednesday,' replied Harry after drinking the potion. 'That's when we'll decide whether it's a strategy worth pursuing.'
'It was entertaining, that's for certain,' she said. 'But I suppose I should show you to the publicity department, assuming they're not all frightened of you.'
She led him down the hall to a large room he'd never previously seen. There were team banners and posters on the walls and a smattering of desks and drafting tables. Two witches and a wizard were waiting for Harry at a large table in the middle of the room.
They stood when he entered, and one of the witches said, 'Thanks for coming to meet us—' She hesitated, apparently uncertain how to address him.
'Please, call me Harry.'
'Right, but what about your surname?'
'Potter, same as always,' he replied, and there was a a collective sigh of relief.
'Glad to hear it,' she said. 'We had a bit of a panic with the Lord Black article ... Lara insisted there was nothing to worry about, but it's good to be certain.'
'I'm sorry I didn't think to reassure you sooner,' said Harry. 'I've known about the Lord Black rubbish for several weeks, and if I'd wanted to change my name I would have said something.'
'I'm glad that's cleared up. My name's Susanna Montfort, and I run the Cannons publicity department. And these are Thaddeus and Gillian,' she added, indicating the two others.
After greetings were exchanged, Susanna continued. 'Seeing as we're on the topic of Lord Black, what instructions would you like for us to provide to the press in that regard?'
'If it weren't for the Wizengamot seat I'd never have gone public,' said Harry. 'But if you're going to issue instructions, I'd like it made clear that I have no intention to use the title, and that I'd prefer not to be addressed that way.'
'Do you want to fully disavow the connection with House Black?'
'Not at all. Sirius Black was my godfather, and he deliberately made me his heir so I could steer House Black towards the Light. I take that responsibility very seriously—it's only the title that's a load of bollocks.'
Thaddeus was taking notes. 'We probably shouldn't phrase it like that. Wizarding lordships are highly respected, after all.'
'They shouldn't be,' said Harry. 'I'm told they were all granted in 1707, when the Ministry was established. They needed money for construction, and the biggest donors were rewarded with titles.'
'Surely there's more to it,' said Thaddeus. 'Or they're at least older than that.'
'Not from what I've heard, and I consider my source reliable. Personally, I'd like to blow the lid off this lordship rubbish entirely.'
Thaddeus shook his head. 'If you really want to, but you'll hack off a lot of pure-bloods that way.'
'I've already hacked off a lot of pure-bloods—I doubt this will make much difference,' said Harry.
'For the purposes of the team,' interjected Susanna, 'we should issue a simple statement requesting that Harry be addressed as before, and not as Lord Black.' She turned to Harry and added, 'If you want to make a political statement, you should probably do that as a personal press announcement and not under the auspices of the team. But we can assist you with that, if you like.'
'That sounds good, thanks.'
Susanna looked relieved. 'The next order of business is for you to review the merchandise we've designed. We'd like to start production straight away, in order to have it available for Saturday's match, and as you know we need your signed approval.'
'Yes, and I apologise for the inconvenience,' said Harry.
'Not at all,' she said. 'It's quite understandable, given the amount of fraudulent material published on your behalf. Stories about immortal warlocks and such.'
'Yes, and wrestling a giant squid,' added Harry.
Gillian looked crestfallen. 'You mean that one's not true?'
'Er, I'm afraid not,' said Harry. Sweet Merlin, she's clearly not Ravenclaw material. Presumably she's a good artist.
'Right,' said Susanna. 'We'll start with the basic items. Here's the picture we'd like to use for your official team photograph.' She opened a folder and revealed a parchment with a Spellotaped portrait of Harry in his Cannons robes.
'That's not bad, actually.' In the photo, Harry was smiling but in a very natural way. Nothing like Lockhart. He held his broomstick diagonally before him, in both hands, and his tailored robes were very flattering. 'Yes, that's fine.'
'Perfect, just sign your name here,' said Susanna, indicating the edge of the parchment next to the photograph.
She showed Harry a stack of photos, including group portraits, flying shots, and candid photographs as he interacted with his teammates. There was a particularly nice one depicting Harry and Owen, and he asked for a copy.
'Of course—just let us know which ones you like and what size you'd prefer.'
He signed his approval on all of them, and Susanna said, 'Gillian's the artist, so we'll have her take you through the more creative items.'
Gillian opened a box containing a small figure of Harry in his team robes, similar to the figure of Viktor Krum that Ron had purchased at the Quidditch World Cup. The miniature Harry walked and peered about with a friendly expression.
'Extraordinary,' said Harry. 'Is that a good likeness, do you think?'
Gillian looked back and forth between Harry and the small figure. 'I think so. It ought to be, really—it was magically generated from your photographs.'
'It looks good to me,' said Susanna, and Thaddeus nodded in agreement.
'All right, where do I sign?' asked Harry, and he was given another parchment.
Gillian pulled out a small poster. 'This is based on the design Darius gave us, produced by your friend I believe.' She unrolled it to reveal Luna's design of a bright orange lightning bolt against a dark background. 'I've modified it a bit. The lightning bolt is shaped more like your actual scar now, and I changed the background from black to midnight blue. Black and orange struck me as a bit too Hallowe'en, which seemed in poor taste.'
Harry nodded in agreement—his parents had been killed on Hallowe'en, after all. Perhaps Gillian is more clever than I thought.
'It's really a brilliant design—your friend is very talented,' she said. 'We'd like to use it on all sorts of merchandise: T-shirts, banners, mugs, Exploding Snap decks, and so forth.'
'Er, may I see the entire list? I'd rather approve them on a per-item basis.'
'Of course,' said Susanna, handing him yet another parchment. He signed his name to most of them, but withheld his approval on an ashtray, tea towels, a set of coasters, and knickers.
He felt a wave of gratitude that his Gringotts ban had expired and he'd had access to goblin legal advice. The last thing the world needed was Harry Potter-branded women's undergarments, or a house-elf using a stylised version of Harry's scar—and Voldemort's Horcrux—to cover his bits.
'We'd also like to put your autograph on a souvenir Snitch, if that's all right. Those tend to be very popular items—it's a regulation Snitch in every other respect.' Harry assented and signed his name twice—once on the approval document, and then on a clean parchment to be printed on the Snitch.
Next she pulled a large box from underneath the table and showed him various T-shirts and jerseys with his name and player number on it. None of them were as nice as his robes, but they were otherwise inoffensive, so he approved them.
'There's one other item,' said Gillian, a bit sheepishly. 'I'm not seriously suggesting it, but my little boy wanted me to show it to you.' She pulled out a drawing depicting Harry on a broomstick, catching the Snitch in one hand and levelling his wand with the other. At the receiving end of his Cannons-orange curse was a cartoon rendering of Voldemort.
'Wow,' said Harry, shaking his head in amazement. 'That is not even remotely how it happened. I wish it had been, though.' Everyone laughed, and he added, 'I won't sign approval for it, but I'd be glad to autograph it for your son if he'd like.'
'That would be lovely, thanks,' replied Gillian, and Harry signed his name one last time.
'I believe we're all set,' said Susanna. 'Thanks for being so agreeable, Harry, and of course we're delighted to have you on the team.'
'I'm glad to be here—best decision I ever made.'
'Not better than finishing You-Know-Who, certainly,' said Thaddeus. 'Cheers for that.'
That was a prophecy, not a decision, thought Harry, but he nodded politely.
The meeting finished, Harry went outside and Apparated back to Grimmauld Place. He was impressed by how well the Energy Draught had worked—he wasn't anywhere near as tired as he'd been immediately after practice.
He found himself a bit restless for company. Although he'd been tempted to make plans with Helena for that very night, he'd owled her instead suggesting Wednesday evening. He would have his new robes by then, and he wanted to take her somewhere nice to dinner. There was no concern she'd mistake it for courting, so it seemed a good opportunity for a night on the town.
Not knowing when his potion would wear off, Harry decided to see if Ron was available—there was no risk he'd be offended if Harry were suddenly exhausted and kicked him out. He fired up Prongs and sent Ron the invitation.
'Harry, where are you?' called Ron from the kitchen.
'In the sitting room.'
Ron entered and said, 'Hello, yes—dinner sounds great. Do you want to go out?'
'I'm thinking Café Kreacher,' replied Harry. 'Practice was exhausting, and I took an Energy Draught that might stop working at any moment.'
'Glad to hear they're pushing you. Did they wear out Janet as well?'
'Why, are you concerned she won't be up for some particular activity?' asked Harry innocently.
'I'm not seeing her tonight, but we have plans tomorrow, and I'd prefer to set expectations accordingly.'
'In answer to your question: no, they did not wear Janet out. Unless you count the team drills in the morning, which were more aggressive than usual.'
'So they're focussing on you, eh? I had a feeling they might want to weaponise you a bit more, after you forced that turnover,' said Ron.
'Yes, that's exactly the plan. Hard to say yet whether it'll work, though—it's a not easy to watch for the Snitch when I'm flying like a lunatic. Tuttle wants to give it until Wednesday, and if I can't make it work we'll return to Plan A.'
'I hope you can pull it off. It would make fantastic viewing, and I've got season tickets, you know. Received them by owl this afternoon.'
'That's great. Any idea who you're inviting this weekend? I have ten tickets this time, and I was planning to invite your whole family.'
'I've already asked George, so you don't need to invite him. But Charlie's been hinting he wants to see you play, so I bet he'd come home for a long weekend if you offered him a spot.'
'I'll do that. And I think I'll ask Hagrid as well. He'll need two seats, of course.'
'Merlin help the poor sod sitting behind him,' said Ron.
'I know—I'll ask Lara if I can swap those two tickets for something in the back.'
'So are you going to summon Kreacher or what?'
'Oh, right,' said Harry. 'Kreacher!'
Crack! 'Yes, Master.'
'Would you please prepare dinner for Ron and me?' He looked at Ron and asked, 'Is steak and kidney pie all right? And treacle tart?'
Ron nodded, and Kreacher said, 'Yes, Master, right away.'
After Kreacher had gone, Ron said, 'Don't get any funny ideas about having him serve it in the bedroom.'
Harry laughed. 'That was mortifying. Between Kreacher and the portraits, I don't have much deniability about my private life.'
'You'd better be careful, mate. If you think the Prophet has been intrusive in the past, just wait until they start photographing you with a different witch every week.'
'I'm sure you're right,' said Harry, 'but I'm sick and tired of letting the Prophet stop me from having a good time.'
'When have you ever done that?'
'That's a fair point,' replied Harry. 'But you see where I'm going. I've had enough of tiptoeing through the wizarding world for fear of catching attention. We can safely assume the Prophet is going to print whatever they like, whether it's true or not. So I may as well do what I want and let the chips fall where they may.'
'Famous last words, Potter. But I'm glad to hear it. I feel like we're both emerging from hibernation—last Saturday was like a long jolt of adrenaline. In a good way, not a Battle of Hogwarts way.'
'I'm glad you had a good time. And I don't need to worry about you seeing Janet now that Hermione is sorted.'
'What about Hermione?' asked Ron.
Harry realised the slip he'd made, but it was too late to take it back. 'Er, she's started dating Ryan.'
'Ryan Bellamy?' said Ron, incredulous. 'That's hard to picture.'
'Yes and no,' said Harry. 'He's more intellectual than you'd think, and he's obviously sincere. He practically asked for my permission first.'
'I'm glad it's not Darren,' said Ron. 'She may not be my girlfriend anymore, but she deserves better than to be a notch on someone's bedpost.'
'I'm in no position to judge, but I feel the same way.'
They talked about various topics and eventually migrated to the kitchen for dinner before Harry remembered to tell Ron about the party.
'You're doing it then?' asked Ron.
'Yes, I signed a contract with Gringotts and everything.'
'Thanks, mate. I'm glad I won't have to wear my Auror robes that night.'
Somewhere halfway through the treacle tart Harry felt the Energy Draught wear off. 'Feel free to finish eating,' he told Ron, 'but I need to call it a night.'
'No worries. Remember I'm still on an early schedule. Is there anything you'd like me to say to Murdoch on your behalf?'
'Ugh, I'd forgot about him already,' said Harry groggily. 'You can tell him he was right, and that I wasn't actually Auror material. I think my Dark wizard-hunting days are behind me. I'd rather hunt the Snitch.'
'I'll pass that right along. Thanks for dinner, and I'll see you on Saturday morning if not sooner.'
'Sounds good—have fun with Janet.'
Harry dragged himself upstairs, did the bare minimum of personal hygiene, and then collapsed on his bed. I'd rather hunt the Snitch, he thought once more before falling asleep.