Harry's heart sank the moment he arrived in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. Back to reality, he thought sadly.
Sunday's Prophet was still on the table, and next to it was the new issue, which featured a long interview with Doctor Niffler. He only skimmed it, but he learnt that he'd always displayed the telltale signs of abuse, and that his past and current behaviour could be understood perfectly through that lens.
Mind your own bloody business! thought Harry vehemently. What happened to you as a child, Doctor Niffler, to turn you into such a nosy old cow?
Before leaving for practice, Harry wrote a quick letter to warn Phil about all the faerie codswallop he'd allowed Penelope to believe. He didn't know whether Phil was planning to see Rachel again, and Harry didn't want him to be caught in an unexpected web of lies.
When he arrived at the Cannons facility, Lara greeted him. 'Good morning, Harry. Is there anything you want to refute from yesterday's article, like Darren did last week?' She held out a marker pen and indicated a large poster board on her desk.
Sighing, Harry took the pen from her. In large letters he wrote, 'It's all true.'
'Oh, Harry,' she said sympathetically. 'I'd hoped at least some of it was an exaggeration.'
'No, for once Rita was completely truthful. I suppose there's a first time for everything.'
She looked at the poster. 'Do you want me to display this, or should I just Vanish it?'
'You should probably display it. It'll save everyone the trouble of asking.'
She used her wand to suspend it in mid-air next to her desk. 'Darius suggested you might want to meet today with the publicity or legal departments, or both. Shall I set those up for you?'
'The legal department? I didn't know the Cannons had a legal department.'
Lara said, 'It's just two people—team solicitor Victor Squabble and his assistant Sandra. They work closely with both Gringotts and the Ministry to handle contracts, permits, and so forth. But they could also advise you on pursuing legal action against Rita Skeeter.'
'I didn't realise that was an option. I've never had any recourse in the past.'
'I don't know whether you'll have any now, but Victor's the one to ask.'
'All right, then please set that up. Cheers,' said Harry. 'As for the publicity team, I don't think I need a meeting. I'll just pop into Susanna's office right now and thank her for making those statements on my behalf.'
He went down the corridor but was immediately hailed by Mrs Thwip. 'Mr Potter, do you have a moment?'
'Er, yes,' he said, entering her office. 'What can I help you with, Mrs Thwip?'
But before she could answer he saw why she'd called him in. Her desk was piled with boxes containing a variety of baked goods. 'As you can see, Mr Potter, you've received a number of gifts since Saturday's match. In addition to food, there's a large amount of handmade garments, and toys as well,' she said, indicating a stack next to the wall.
Harry was touched but also puzzled. Don't people realise I'm grown up and no longer live with the Dursleys? he thought. 'What do you recommend I do with all this?' he asked. 'Nobody should eat the food, obviously—Merlin knows what it might be laced with. But what about the other gifts?'
'They're still arriving, but I'm planning to sort them into categories for easier redistribution. For example, first I'll divide the garments by age, and then subdivide the adult garments so you can choose which ones you'd like. Jumpers, scarves, socks–'
'Thank you, but I've no intention of keeping any,' began Harry, until he registered something she said. 'Did you say socks?' he asked. Dumbledore always needed socks, he recalled. 'Yes, I might have a look at those.'
'Noted. Naturally I'll arrange for everything to be checked for charms and curses, but then I can redistribute them amongst appropriate charities. For example, there's an excellent foundation for war orphans.'
'That sounds perfect,' he replied. 'I haven't yet reviewed the summary of charity requests you prepared, but I'll try to get to it this week.'
'I'll have an updated list by tomorrow, Mr Potter.'
'Yes, of course.' How have I already fallen so far behind? he wondered. Because you ran off and played truant with a Muggle, chided his inner voice.
'Thank you again, Mrs Thwip,' said Harry, slipping out the door. He had only a minute to thank Susanna for handling matters so well on Saturday, but fortunately she didn't have any surprise decisions for him to make involving biscuits or ear muffs.
Tuttle was just beginning to glower when he arrived near the benches. 'I see we all made it,' she said. 'First I'd like to congratulate Potter on his impressive right hook, which from the sound of things was the only reasonable response to Gilstrap's final round of taunts. Normally I'd demote you to the reserves for getting ejected, Potter, but I'll give you one free pass for extenuating circumstances.' She levelled her gaze at him and added, 'I realise demotion isn't much of a threat, since Barrowmaker's in no condition to start, but I'll have your hide if you ever lose your temper again during a match—do you understand?'
'Yes,' said Harry with a crisp nod. 'It won't happen again.'
'Good. And I'm not done with you—I'm taking charge of Seeker training this afternoon. Consider that your punishment.'
She gave detailed notes from Saturday before discussing their next opponent. 'As you should all know, on Thursday night we have a home match against the Caerphilly Catapults. Potter, have you ever played at night?'
'No.'
'Then you've a new skill to learn, during a compressed week. You'll get Friday off, though, so I expect you to work like mad between now and then. Starting now—ten laps.'
Not wanting to converse with anyone, Harry broke into a brisk run. That could have gone worse, he thought. He knew better than to worry about their private training session—he'd learnt Tuttle was harsher in front of the group than she was one-on-one.
Impatient to get back onto his broomstick, Harry ran faster than usual. Not that it would make a difference—the flying drills wouldn't start until after calisthenics—but running fast gave him the illusion of control. I can't control what the Prophet prints about me or whether people attack the Dursleys or send me toys I could have used fifteen years ago, but at least I can decide how fast to move my legs around the bloody pitch.
He wished he could tell his teammates, 'Pretend you never read it. Just pretend I was raised by immortal warlocks somewhere, or that I was in a coma between the night my parents were killed and the day I first rode the Hogwarts Express.' Harry knew that made no sense, but until Saturday most people had forgotten he'd spent a decade away from the wizarding world. If only that were still the case, instead of everything they knew about him now.
The Boy Who Was Abused. The Boy Who Was Forced to Sleep in a Cupboard. The Boy Who Dudley Beat Up. The Boy Who Dumbledore Manipulated. The Boy Who Didn't Fight Back.
Bugger that! thought Harry savagely. Nobody else was going to decide who he was—those days were over. He certainly wasn't a boy anymore, as four different women could attest. He'd defeated Voldemort and slain a Basilisk. He'd been Master of the Elder Wand, and Master of Death. He was the last remaining Potter and head of House Black, and if he felt like combining the two there was nobody to stop him. Not Voldemort, or Bellatrix Lestrange, or Walburga Black. None of his dead fathers were there to tell him what to do, and neither were Severus Snape or Albus bloody Dumbledore.
And Rita Skeeter could go fuck herself. She was nothing without people like him to write about. And he didn't even need fame to pull women—Penelope had wanted him from the start, even when he was clumsily lying to her about sodding America. He'd seduced her with his power, which transcended fame and magical strength and whatever else supposedly made a person special.
His heart was pounding from running so fast, but he didn't want to slow down. He wanted to keep running until the moment he mounted his broomstick and took off, and then fly like a bloody maniac. It was absurd that he didn't have a decent broom at home—he'd ask Lara to contact Silver Arrow straight away.
Harry realised he'd lost count of how many laps he'd run. 'Janet, what lap are you on?' he asked as he approached her.
'Eight,' she said. 'Which, judging from the number of times you've passed me, means you're on number twelve. In a hurry, Potter?'
'Yes,' he panted. 'I'm in a hurry to get onto my broomstick and fly around without some arsehole tailing me the entire time.'
'I'm not surprised,' said Janet. 'Gilstrap's lucky you didn't curse him. And so are you, for that matter—that would have been a ten-minute foul at the very least, and you might have had to been required to miss the next match. Punching him was definitely the way to go.'
'It was satisfying,' he admitted. 'Punching is surprisingly fun when you're a wizard, since you know you're not likely to do actual damage, between Healers and innate magical healing.'
'Do you reckon that's why you were able to withstand your cousin so well?' she asked matter-of-factly.
Harry was taken aback—he'd never discussed his childhood with so little preamble. 'That's a good question. I never thought about it, but you're right. I should have had all sorts of injuries growing up, but I always seemed to bounce back.'
'Nice work, Snitchbottom! Good to see your wizarding blood earning its keep. Are you going to keep running, or will you go flirt with Lara before calisthenics?'
'I do not flirt with Lara,' he protested. 'But I should have her pester Silver Arrow for another broom—thanks for reminding me.'
'I live to serve!' she called as he ran towards the building.
Harry felt better after the brief conversation with Janet. He appreciated that she hadn't made a big deal about Rita Skeeter's article—in her mind he was clearly still the same old Snitchbottom.
He was still breathing hard when he entered the building, and Lara looked up from her desk. 'Is everything all right?'
'Yeah, I'm fine. Do you reckon Silver Arrow would send me another broom for home use?'
'For the amount of free publicity you're giving them? Definitely!'
'Excellent. Do you want my old Firebolt Ultra? I've no use for it, surely.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'Are you serious? My younger brother would love it!'
'Done. I'll bring it in tomorrow. Would he like some Firewhisky as well? It's verified free of Love Potions and Veritaserum.'
'He's thirteen, so I think we'll pass. But thanks for looking out for him.'
'My pleasure.' Harry had a sudden inspiration. 'Say ... if I write a letter, can you post it for me? Owl post.'
'Yes, of course. Do you need a parchment?'
'Any scrap will do—I want to invite my friend Neville to dinner. Oh blast, he's probably at Hogwarts ... do you think an owl will reach him in time? Maybe I should Patronus him … I wonder how far Prongs can travel. Scratch that—I can just have Kreacher deliver it.'
'That's not necessary,' said Lara 'The team has several express owls—I'm sure I can use one of them.'
'Brilliant, thanks.' Harry took a parchment and quill from her and wrote a brief message:
Dear Neville,
Please excuse me for not replying on Saturday. I appreciated your letter, and I'd like to see you tonight if you're available. Would you care to join me for dinner at Grimmauld Place? Six o'clock or whatever time suits you.
Best,
Harry
He addressed it and gave it to Lara. 'I've a mad urge to see him, and I've decided to trust it.'
'Abetting mad urges is part of my job,' she replied. 'Speaking of which, you're scheduled to meet with the team solicitor at quarter past one.'
Nodding, Harry peered out the front window. 'It looks like they're about to start calisthenics ... I should go. Thanks for everything.'
The trainers led Harry and the other players through their exercises, and then it was time to change into practice robes and start flying. Finally! thought Harry, who shot into the air the second he stepped out of the building. Why didn't I do this on Saturday afternoon? I should have flown to Privet Drive in plain sight, Statute of Secrecy be damned.
His mind began to wander as he flew. What the hell was wrong with Voldemort? He was capable of unassisted flight, but he still needed to torture people for kicks? Harry had often wondered why Voldemort acted as he did, but then he remembered. Oh, right—he had a shattered soul. Tom Riddle had been sixteen when he killed Myrtle and created his Horcrux, and he was lost from then on.
Note to self, thought Harry. Don't make any bloody Horcruxes. Never kill again if I can possibly avoid it. And for Merlin's sake, no Dark magic, ever.
The trainers ordered a series of aggressive drills, to Harry's delight. And unlike the week before, none of his teammates were required to hurl insults at him.
'I'm not even certain how we're supposed to interact,' said Suresh as he flew near Harry. 'Last week I would have called you an overcompensating closet case, but now you're just my well-dressed mate who likes flowers.'
'I know,' said Gary. 'Potter, are you still a colossal egomaniac, or has that blown over?'
'No, I'm a pathetic victim this week. Try to keep up.'
'You certainly schooled Gilstrap,' said Suresh. 'He refused to talk to reporters after the match, and rumour has it his teammates are furious with him.'
'For missing the Snitch?' asked Harry.
'No, for whatever he did to set you off. Everyone could see you were fine for most of the match, so it was clear he crossed the line somewhere near the end.'
'He did,' replied Harry, and he told them what Gilstrap had falsely claimed about his father.
Gary shook his head in disgust. 'The Cannons could certainly teach the other teams a thing or two about sportsmanship. There are worse things than losing a bloody Quidditch match.'
'Thanks to Snitchbottom and Owen, that's what they're finding out,' said Suresh. 'How many years has it been since the Cannons won four in a row?'
'Since before my time, certainly,' replied Gary before zooming off.
Harry enjoyed the flying drills as always, and he was grateful that his teammates were treating him as usual. He'd been nervous about their lunchtime conversation, but everyone clearly understood he didn't fancy talking about what Rita's article had revealed.
'Does anyone have plans for the long weekend?' asked Renée, when they were seated at the pub.
Harry was surprised by how many of his teammates had made plans. Gary was taking his wife and child to the Isle of Wight, and Renée and her girlfriend were going to Edinburgh. Ryan and Suresh were both visiting family, and even Janet had something planned with Ron, starting on Friday afternoon.
'Er,' began Harry, when his turn came around. 'I'm delivering goblin artefacts to Gringotts on Friday morning.'
'I'm sorry, what?' asked Janet.
'Apparently the goblins really like me now, and they demanded I personally deliver recovered goblin artefacts on behalf of the Ministry, as part of a new diplomatic effort.'
'Are you certain this isn't a trap?' asked Darren. 'You may have forgotten, but I seem to recall you and your mates broke into Gringotts and stole a dragon, amongst other things.'
'It's not a trap. But you should know that the dragon was half-blind and rather feeble,' said Harry. 'It was no Horntail.'
'Oh, you stole a geriatric dragon,' said Gary. 'No wonder they like you. You probably did them a favour, taking it off their hands.'
'No, I gave them a goblin-made artefact I found in the Black family vault, and from the way they reacted you'd think I was the first wizard ever to do that voluntarily.'
'You probably were,' said Suresh. 'What kind of artefact was it?'
'A drinking horn. Bloody useless, if you ask me—you can't even set it down without spilling the contents.'
Gary and Suresh both laughed. 'You really are a lightweight, Snitchbottom,' said Gary. 'But I'm glad you've lined up a post-Quidditch career as a diplomat.'
'I expect the goblins liked you even more after seeing that photo of you punching Gilstrap,' said Darren.
'Ugh, was there a photo? I didn't even look at the Quidditch coverage.'
'Yes, it was brilliant,' said Janet. 'You looked terrifying, knocking him from his broom and then shouting at him.'
Harry wasn't certain how he felt about being photographed during a moment of violence. 'That sounds disturbing,' he said. 'Did anyone raise doubts about my sanity?'
'No, because you cast a Patronus just minutes later. They ran a photograph of that as well.'
'Really? The Prophet ran a photo of Prongs?' said Harry. 'That's actually pretty cool.'
'It was,' agreed Renée. 'I must say, the entire issue painted a rather wide-ranging picture of you. Yeah, there was the main article, with all those old photographs, but the sport section made it clear you're nobody's victim.'
Some of the others nodded and Janet said, 'Can we pause to note how cute you were in those old photographs? You were nothing but hair, eyes, and glasses back then.'
'And enormous school uniforms,' grumbled Harry.
'So what,' she said dismissively. 'That was then, this is now. You looked smashing in those pinstriped robes—I'm glad your aunt didn't stunt your taste.'
'Actually, I learnt about flowers from her. Not in a fun way, of course—more of a "Deadhead those roses and move the dahlias over there" kind of way. But at least I had something nice to look at.'
'Ron claims you're accepting a sponsorship from your florist,' said Janet. 'Was he having me on?'
'No, I'm really doing it. I'll tell Mrs Thwip to reply to them today.'
'Brilliant,' said Darren. 'Will you wear flowers to practice?'
'No, but I might surprise you with a corsage if you're nice to me.'
Harry left the pub early for his meeting with Victor Squabble. The team solicitor was tall with broad shoulders and a mane of dark hair, and his assistant Sandra was middle-aged with long braids. 'It's nice to meet you, Potter,' said Squabble, extending his hand.
'Thank you for making the time, and please, call me Harry.'
'And please call me Victor. It's bad enough having a surname like Squabble, but to be a solicitor on top of that. You can see why I chose not to become a barrister, in spite of pressure from my father and grandfather.'
I'll have to tell Hermione about this, thought Harry. More evidence for our theory. 'Do you really think I have any recourse against Rita Skeeter? She's been targeting me for years, and I've never been able to do anything about it.' Except for that time Hermione caught her in a jar, he added mentally.
'She's been hard to pin down,' admitted Victor, and Harry stifled a smirk. 'She almost always manages to avoid breaking the law, and when she does it's in cases where the wronged individual is the only one who could press charges.'
'You mean like how she modified Bathilda Bagshot's memory during the war, to write that book about Dumbledore?' asked Harry.
Victor shook his head. 'No, that was a clear violation of the law, but she got away with it because the Death Eaters were in power. That's also how she finally registered her Animagus form without being punished.'
'I wondered about that,' said Harry. 'Hermione looked it up when Rita slandered us last autumn.' He recalled how furious she'd been to discover Rita could no longer be blackmailed.
'Back to my earlier point,' said Victor, 'the only person with the right to complain about Rita stealing her invitation to your party and impersonating her, for example, was your classmate, but there hasn't been a peep out of her.'
No, thought Harry. She's exceedingly shy.
'But in this case, you can file a grievance on behalf of the Muggles she Obliviated and request a hearing before the Wizengamot.'
'Are you serious? For mistreating Muggles? I didn't know Muggles had rights under the wizarding legal system.'
'They don't exactly, short of the right not to be killed or tortured. But any witch or wizard has the right to complain on their behalf, and then the Wizengamot decides whether the grievance warrants a hearing, which could result in punishment.'
'What kind of punishment?'
'A fine at the minimum, but at the most severe it could result in a prison sentence.'
'Azkaban?' exclaimed Harry, and Victor nodded.
'I see your expression, but remember Azkaban is nothing like how it used to be.' It was true, thought Harry. Kingsley had sent a delegation to Nurmengard to study methods for detaining wizards without Dementors. 'She'd have no access to her magic during her incarceration,' said Victor, 'and depending on what level she's sentenced to she'd have limited access to recreational activities. But it's no longer the hellhole it once was.'
'All right,' said Harry. 'How would I file a grievance?'
'Normally it's a slow process,' said Victor, 'but you've a unique advantage as the head of an ancient house.'
'Oh, bloody hell ... this isn't a Lord Black thing?'
'No, this predates 1707,' smirked Victor. 'As the head of House Black, you have a seat on the Wizengamot, which means you can bypass the normal queue for having your grievance reviewed.'
Harry frowned. 'I have to admit, I have mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, it's downright undemocratic that I'd have a swifter path to justice. But on the other hand, she really needs to be stopped, and I'd rather it happen sooner than later.'
'You'd be doing a lot of people a favour,' interjected Sandra, who hadn't previously spoken. 'She's been crossing lines for years, as you well know, and somehow the complaints filed against her never see the light of day. I've reviewed the relevant laws and you have a good case against her, should the Wizengamot be willing to hear it.'
'How likely is that, do you think?'
'I can't say I have a lot of experience with the Wizengamot,' admitted Victor. 'My speciality is contract law and Quidditch league negotiations, and I've only twice appeared in court, back during my apprenticeship. But I'd be surprised if anyone voted against you, particularly in the current climate.'
'I guess we'll find out. When is the next Wizengamot session?' asked Harry.
'It's the Wednesday after next,' replied Sandra. 'Do you have the proper robes?'
Harry groaned. 'Would I really have to wear Wizengamot robes?'
'I'm afraid so,' she said. 'If you were appearing to testify you wouldn't have to, but since you're invoking Wizengamot privilege you'd need to dress accordingly.'
'Those robes are ghastly,' said Harry. 'They're absolute tents ... do you know what the rules are about them?'
Sandra put on her reading glasses and reached for a book that was on the table. 'Let's see,' she began, flipping to a bookmarked section. 'The colour is mandated, but any competent tailor can manage that. You'll need to wear a slightly darker necktie.' She flipped the page and looked at Harry. 'But that seems to be it. Everything else is just tradition, including the hats.'
'So I could ask my tailor to make something I prefer, as long as it's the right colour and includes a matching necktie? What about the funny hats the lords wear.'
'That's entirely up to you,' replied Sandra. 'You wouldn't be invoking lordly privilege, so you've no need to identify yourself as such or sit with them.'
'That's fortunate,' muttered Harry. 'I assume they're vastly outnumbered by the rest of the voting members?'
'Yes, four to one,' confirmed Sandra.
'Good,' said Harry. 'Is there anything else I need to know in advance?'
'Not at present,' replied Victor. 'Sandra will submit your request to the Wizengamot secretary and you'll be added to the agenda.'
'How long do you expect it to take?' asked Harry. 'I don't want to miss all of practice.'
'Normally these items are dealt with first, so you should be back here by ten o'clock,' replied Sandra.
'I'll also prepare a statement for you to read to the court that morning,' added Victor. 'We'll show it to you in advance, in case you want to tweak anything.'
'Thank you,' said Harry. 'I can't tell you how much I appreciate having this kind of support.'
'Don't mention it,' replied Victor. 'I'm glad if we're able to help in some way.'
Harry changed into his practice robes and joined his teammates on the pitch. 'Seeker training with me, Potter,' said Tuttle. 'I've sent Barrowmaker to the weight room with a trainer, to help him recover from Saturday's match.'
Harry knew Tuttle was joking—Owen had been in the match for less than a minute. 'What do you have in mind for today?' he asked.
'We'll get to night training later. But let's sit down first—I want to talk.' She indicated a spot on the benches and they sat down. 'What pushed you over the edge on Saturday? You were fine for more than two hours.'
Harry explained what had happened, and Tuttle scowled when he got to the part about Gilstrap's father. But she didn't speak until he'd finished.
'That bit about his father, and how he'd have been fine if you and your mates had ended the war a week earlier ... how did that affect you?'
'At first I said he was splitting hairs, and that we'd done the best we could. I mean, I was sorry his father had been tortured, but he was hardly the only one. But as soon as he mentioned it, I couldn't help thinking of my friend Neville's parents, who were tortured to insanity during the first wizarding war. I sincerely hoped that wasn't what he'd meant, but from his tone I could tell that it was, even before he said it.'
'And how did that make you feel?'
'I felt sick. I felt responsible. I started wondering if we really needed a whole month to plan the break-in.'
'I read about that month,' replied Tuttle. 'You and your mates had just been rescued from captivity. You were malnourished, and Granger had been tortured.'
'And Dobby died,' said Harry numbly.
'Who was that?'
'A house-elf. He's the one who rescued us. None of the articles bother telling his story, but I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for him. You'd still be living under the Death Eaters if it weren't for him.'
Tuttle shook her head in disbelief. 'Three teenagers and a house-elf. We need to do a much better job preventing the next war, I'll tell you that.'
'No argument here,' said Harry.
'So you immediately started blaming yourself and wondering if you could have done better?' she asked.
'Yeah.'
'I understand why you reacted that way, Potter. You have a good heart—everyone knows that. But you're not superhuman, in spite of surviving two Killing Curses, and you need to accept that you're not perfect.'
'I know I'm not perfect,' he said. Did Tuttle really think he was that egotistical?
'Of course you know you're not perfect—you're not delusional. But do you accept it?'
Do I accept that I'm not perfect? Harry asked himself.
'I have regrets,' he admitted, remembering how Sirius had died. He remembered how he'd allowed Wormtail to escape … how he'd been fooled by the fake Professor Moody … how he hadn't urged Tonks to stay with her newborn baby. And perhaps his worst regret of all, that he hadn't figured out he was a Horcrux and sacrificed his life even an hour earlier. 'I have loads of regrets. I screwed up in a million different ways.'
'Damn right you did, and you'll screw up in a million more ways.'
He glared at her and said, 'Cheers, I feel much better now. Any other words of advice?'
'We can't help screwing up, Potter. It's human nature. But we can learn from mistakes without getting mired in them.'
'Right, but how does that help me during a match, when someone like Gilstrap knocks me sideways?'
'First off, I don't think anyone's going to taunt you again like that—Gilstrap certainly learnt his lesson. But it all comes down to practice. Whenever you notice you're berating yourself about something you could have done better, you need to stop and say to yourself, "Well that's how it happened."'
Harry nodded slowly, thinking again about how Sirius had died. The usual chorus of regrets began: We shouldn't have gone to the Ministry ... I should have known it was a trap ... if only I'd practiced Occlumency better. And then came a new voice: Well that's how it happened.
It wasn't a good feeling. It didn't bring Sirius back, certainly. And Harry knew he'd have to practice it again and again. But there was a peaceful aspect to it, and he felt the memory inch slightly towards the past, where it belonged. Well that's how it happened.
'I can see how that might help,' he said. 'But it's not going to happen overnight.'
'No, it won't. But anything can become automatic if you practice it enough.'
Harry frowned and asked, 'Do I really want it to become automatic? I don't want to start behaving like an entitled prat or whatever they accuse me of next week and then brush off any regrets.'
'No, and you shouldn't. But you've proven you have a conscience, so I doubt that'll happen to you. And you say you have friends to keep you in line, right?'
'I do, yes.'
'So practice accepting the things from the past that you can't change,' she advised. 'Things with your relations, for example.'
Harry sighed. 'I still can't believe everyone knows. I could kick myself for blurting it all out on Saturday.'
'Well that's how it happened, Potter, so quit whinging about it.'
He smiled and said, 'Good point.'
'Now about Thursday's match ... what do you know about Caerphilly?' she asked.
'Er, it's in Wales?'
'Right, that's not going to help you. Have you met Isla Preston?'
'Yes, at Seekers' night out. She was friendly, as I recall.' Not like Allie Hobbs from the Harpies, he thought irritably.
'She has a good reputation,' said Tuttle. 'You certainly won't have a repeat of Saturday's match. But she's a lot more experienced than you are, particularly with night games. And we only have three days to bring you up to speed.'
Harry had a sinking feeling—was Tuttle about to tell him he had to practice at night? 'How do we address that?'
'Goggles. Night mode. They'll simulate the stadium at different light levels. The trick is that it won't go straight from daylight to darkness—you'll be dealing with twilight. There'll be stadium lights, but it's still not what you're used to.'
'You're right. I've flown in low light before, but twilight's another story. Everything gets so flat.'
Tuttle stood and picked up a box. 'Here are the goggles,' she said, 'and I'll get the Launcher started. I want you to practice low-light spotting until Thursday's match. The goggles will cycle through all the light conditions you'll encounter.' She fiddled with the controls and handed them to him.
Harry put on the goggles, and he felt as if many hours had suddenly passed. 'Interesting,' he said, before turning towards the pitch and exclaiming, 'Blimey!' He'd forgotten that the goggles simulate the appearance of a packed stadium.
'Start flying,' instructed Tuttle. 'I'll get the Launcher going.'
At first the conditions were similar to what he'd experienced at Hogwarts in late autumn or early spring. But as time passed, the light became flatter and then the bright stadium lights illuminated. Bugger, this is difficult, he thought, and he knew his spotting percentage was dropping.
Spotting became easier again once it was completely dark, and eventually Tuttle whistled him to the ground. 'Right, that's about what I would have expected,' she said. 'Not bad for a first attempt, but you'll have to do a lot better on Thursday.'
'Understood,' he said, removing the goggles.
She took them from him and adjusted the controls. 'I'm setting it to simulate the most challenging conditions during most of the practice match. I'll honestly be surprised if you out-spot Barrowmaker today, but anything's possible.'
'Will he be wearing goggles as well?' asked Harry.
'No, we'll just aim more Bludgers at him.' Harry's eyes popped open, and Tuttle laughed. 'Just kidding. He'll wear goggles too.'
As predicted, Owen caught the Snitch that afternoon. 'Don't worry about it, Harry,' he said reassuringly. 'You'll get a lot more practice with low light between now and then. It would have been a miracle if you'd caught it today.'
'You mean like surviving two Killing Curses?' retorted Harry.
Owen burst out laughing. 'It's official—you're in the obnoxious Seeker phase. This should be fun.'
Harry shook his head and sighed. 'I told you it had started—and you didn't even taunt me today. How long can I expect this to last?'
'Good question. Perhaps Suresh can start taking wagers.'
'You're not helping,' grumbled Harry. 'Seriously, what was it like for you?'
'I can't remember exactly, but I think it lasted a couple of months. But my circumstances were different than yours.'
'So it's anyone's guess ... brilliant. Hopefully Lee will have his broadcast delay working tomorrow night.'
'You're doing another broadcast already? Isn't it a bit soon?' asked Owen, concerned.
'People are still attacking my relations,' said Harry. 'Ryan said there were twelve more attempts last night—I need to get on the air and urge restraint.'
'All right. But be careful.'
After practice, Harry Apparated to the far end of Diagon Alley and strode into Benedict Thimble's shop. It was less crowded than the last time he was there, but not empty. Althea was helping another customer, but Thimble himself came to greet him.
'Mr Potter,' he said. 'What a pleasant surprise! How may I help you?'
Harry lowered his voice and said, 'I need a set of Wizengamot robes, and I'm hoping you can make me something a bit more modern.'
Thimble shook his head. 'There's no updating Wizengamot robes. Everyone wears the same style—it's a requirement.'
'No it's not. We checked the guidelines, and the only requirement is the colour of the robes and the necktie.'
There was a gleam in the tailor's eyes. 'So other than that, I'd have free rein?'
'Exactly. Is there something you have in mind?' asked Harry.
Thimble was silent for a minute, and his eyes flitted around as he thought. 'Yes,' he mumbled, mostly to himself. 'That gathered sleeve absolutely has to go ... and taper it there ... a peak lapel, for formality ... jetted pocket.' He looked at Harry and asked, 'Will you wear a boutonnière? Normally I'm all in favour, but I think just a pocket square would be smashing—same fabric as the necktie.'
'I trust your judgment,' said Harry. 'What type of shoes should I wear?"
'A dress ankle boot, with only two or three pairs of eyelets. Deep oxblood, polished. I know just who sells them—I'll give you their name before you leave. Will you need a hat as well?'
'No, apparently the hats aren't required, and I won't be sitting with the lords.'
'Excellent. The regular Wizengamot hats are a horror, and the lords' hats are even worse. You'll make a tremendous statement if you enter bareheaded ... just promise me you won't comb your hair.'
'It wouldn't work if I tried,' said Harry. 'My hair does this regardless.'
Thimble looked at Harry's head appraisingly. 'Remarkable.' He jotted down a few notes and asked, 'When do you need them by?'
'The session is a week from Wednesday.'
'That's plenty of time. I can have them for you this Wednesday. Is there anything else I can help you with today?'
'No, but I've half a mind to be photographed in a three-piece Muggle suit one of these days, just to keep people guessing.'
'Ye gods, thanks for the warning! I can only imagine all the owls we'd receive the next day, from wizards telling us to cancel their orders. But yes, I'll be glad to make you a suit anytime you like.' Thimble led Harry to the counter and began writing up the purchase. 'Twenty-five percent discount, Mr Potter. You've been an absolute boon for business.'
'Thank you, it's much appreciated.' After leaving, Harry went to the shoemaker Thimble recommended, and to his relief they didn't offer him a raised heel, shoe, or otherwise.
When he returned to Grimmauld Place he was pleased to find a letter from Neville confirming dinner that night. Harry realised Neville was the only one of his old friends he wanted to talk to. He'd already invited a heap of Hogwarts friends to Thursday's match, but that wasn't nearly as challenging as seeing them in private. Harry still felt bad about ignoring Hermione, but he couldn't face her yet.
Neville arrived at six through the kitchen fireplace. 'Thanks for coming,' said Harry, 'and sorry about the short notice.'
'It's no problem at all,' replied Neville. 'In fact, you rescued me from dinner with Gran and Uncle Algie, so I owe you one.'
'I'm glad to be of service ... please have a seat. Kreacher's preparing pizza, which should be ready soon.'
'Thank Merlin! I've been craving it, and it turns out not all Muggle pizzerias are very good.'
'No, I suppose not.' Harry was tempted to reply with more small talk, but that wasn't why he'd invited him. 'I hope you'll forgive me for being blunt, but there was a particular reason I invited you tonight. I haven't wanted to talk to any of our old friends since Saturday, ever since my ... family history came out. I've spoken candidly to some of my recent friends and acquaintances, but it's harder somehow with people I've known a long time.'
Neville nodded but didn't say anything.
'I received letters from everyone, of course, and they've all been extremely kind and supportive. But I've hardly responded to any of them, and I was downright hurtful to Hermione when she tried drawing me out, even though she and Ryan had just warded my aunt and uncle's house.' Harry looked down and said, 'You've probably guessed why I feel comfortable talking to you, Neville, and I hope you aren't offended.'
'No, I'm not offended. I suspected as much when I heard from you today, though I certainly didn't think I'd be the first of our old friends you'd want to see.'
'You've never given yourself enough credit,' said Harry.
'Hannah says the same thing, but I don't agree with either of you. I'm certain I'm more confident than I once was.'
That's not a very high bar, thought Harry, considering Neville used to think he was a Squib. 'That may be, but I won't debate it with you.' He looked at Neville and asked, 'How are your parents doing? Do you see them often?'
'I visit once a week,' he said, 'but it's a one-sided interaction. My father hasn't looked at me in years. My mother is a bit more interactive but mostly just wanders. They both look older than when you last saw them, my father in particular. But they might still live for decades.'
Harry hardly knew how to respond. Was it good or bad news that they still had a long life ahead of them?
'Hermione insisted we get them examined by Muggle specialists last year, but there's nothing to be done,' continued Neville. 'By all measures the damage is permanent. But you didn't invite me here to ask after my parents ... I assume you want to know how I dealt with people finding out.'
'Yes, exactly. I just feel so exposed right now, and I'm wondering if that sounds familiar.'
'It does. I can't tell you how embarrassed I was to see you in their ward that Christmas,' said Neville, referring to when Harry, Ron, and Hermione accidentally surprised him there. 'Looking back, I know I had nothing to be ashamed of, but at the time it felt awful to be exposed like that.'
'I hope you weren't afraid we'd be unkind,' said Harry.
'No, of course not. It was just the looks of shock and sympathy, particularly from Ron and Hermione. But you were all right, I suppose.'
Harry briefly looked away. 'I actually knew already. Dumbledore told me a year earlier, when I saw his memory of the Lestranges' trial in his Pensieve.'
'And you never said anything to Ron and Hermione?'
'No, Dumbledore told me not to. He said it was your right to tell people when you were ready, although I suppose it didn't work out that way.'
Neville sighed. 'I don't know when I'd have been ready. The way you found out was as good as any.'
The pizza appeared silently on the table, and both Harry and Neville served themselves. 'I'd hoped I'd never need to tell anyone about my relations,' admitted Harry.
'You never even told Ginny?' asked Neville.
Harry shook his head. He took his time chewing and swallowing his first bite of pizza and said, 'She knew they'd neglected me—I suppose everyone did—and she knew my cousin was an obnoxious git, but I never provided the details. There didn't seem any point.'
'I feel for you, Harry. It was bad enough when you saw my parents at St Mungo's. But to have the story all over the Prophet, with photographs and everything ... it's amazing how well you're handling it. I don't know how you're able to tolerate so much scrutiny.'
It could have been you, thought Harry. Voldemort might equally have picked you. 'I didn't have much choice,' replied Harry, 'particularly since I joined the Cannons. I suppose now it's my own fault, at least to some extent.'
'It's hardly your fault that Rita Skeeter used illegal charms on your relations and everyone else who knew you growing up,' argued Neville. 'But I understand what you're saying. And I'm glad you joined the Cannons ... you seem much happier now than before.'
'You mean after Ginny dumped me? That's not saying much.'
'That's not what I meant. In hindsight it's obvious you didn't like your job at the Ministry. And you seem to have a lot more ... adventures now,' added Neville, looking firmly at his pizza.
God bless Neville, thought Harry. He just made my recent threesome sound like our attempt to keep Snape from finding the Philosopher's Stone. 'I suppose I do,' he acknowledged.
'I hope you don't feel ashamed by anything in Rita's article,' said Neville. 'Certainly none of it was your fault.'
'I know it wasn't my fault. But she described the time in my life I felt the most helpless, and to have that revealed against my will ...' He trailed off.
'That must be awful. I've often counted myself lucky that Draco Malfoy never announced my parents' condition to everyone. Surely he knew about it.'
'Do you really think so? I can't imagine him keeping his mouth shut all those years—I reckon his parents never told him.'
'Maybe you're right,' said Neville. 'He wasn't very big on restraint.'
They were mostly quiet as they ate, but Neville eventually said, 'I don't think anyone treated me differently after they found out. Did it change how you saw me?'
Harry thought for a moment before answering. 'I remember thinking how hard it must be to have parents still living but who don't recognise you. I at least got sympathy for being an orphan. But I don't think it affected how I saw you—it mostly made me angry at Voldemort.' He looked at Neville and asked, 'Did you ever wish you were just an orphan?'
'Often,' admitted Neville. 'Which I still feel bad about, even though Hannah tells me I shouldn't. I felt like being an orphan would have been less embarrassing somehow.'
'I hope you know you've nothing to feel embarrassed about. It's not as if you could have done something to prevent it, or to cure them. I could at least have fought back against my aunt and uncle.'
Neville looked at him incredulously. 'Are you actually faulting yourself for not being brave enough? Harry, you're the bravest person I know—the ultimate Gryffindor.'
'There are lots of brave people, probably braver than I am, in fact. And besides, the Sorting Hat wanted to put me into Slytherin, but I told it no.'
'You were able to outvote the Hat? I kept asking for Hufflepuff but it insisted on Gryffindor. That's why my Sorting took so long.'
'I think it's safe to say you proved yourself when you pulled the sword from the Hat during the final battle. Dumbledore told me only a true Gryffindor could do that.'
'I suppose,' replied Neville. 'But I think the houses oversimplify things. If anything, I was being loyal to Dumbledore when that happened.'
'True, but you literally said it to Voldemort's face, when you believed I was dead. And you'd spent months protecting students from beatings and Dark curses—you were a mass of bruises when we saw you that afternoon. Neville, like it or not, you're incredibly brave.'
Neville frowned. 'Then why didn't I stand up to my relations when they used to put me down all the time? Gran didn't have anything good to say about me until after the battle at the Ministry.'
Because that's how it happened, thought Harry. 'You weren't ready. You didn't believe in yourself yet, even though we all thought highly of you. You worked harder than anyone in the D.A., and you were unstoppable at the Ministry.'
'I'm glad I could help, and I'm proud to have played a small role in your fight against Voldemort.'
'I don't think you get it,' said Harry. 'You didn't just play a role—you were essential. Do you have any idea how important it was to kill Voldemort's snake?'
'Of course, otherwise you wouldn't have asked me to do it.'
'And why do you think I asked you and not someone else?'
Neville blinked. 'You didn't ask anyone else? I assumed you asked everyone you ran across.'
'No, just you. Ron and Hermione knew it was necessary, but I had a strong instinct to ask you. I reckon you were meant to do it all along.'
'You're sounding like Hannah again. You won't believe the theory she has about us. You and me, that is.'
Harry froze. Had Hannah figured out the prophecy?
Not noticing Harry's reaction, Neville continued, 'She's convinced the prophecy about you could also apply to me, because our birthdays are only one day apart and our parents were in the Order. She says the only reason I wasn't the Chosen One was because Voldemort tried to kill you as a baby instead of me.' He laughed and added, 'As if I could have been the Boy Who Lived!'
Harry was torn—he'd hoped Neville would never learn about the prophecy, but he hated for him to believe he wasn't good enough. 'I wasn't the Boy Who Lived any more than you were. I didn't do anything—it was all my mother's sacrifice. Don't you think your mum would have done the same?'
'You're right,' replied Neville, turning red. 'I shouldn't put down my mum like that. Merlin knows she was brave enough.'
'Bugger ... I'm going about this all wrong. I didn't mean to make you feel bad—not at all.' Harry took a deep breath and continued. 'Hannah's right. The prophecy could have referred to either one of us. The only reason it was me and not you was because Voldemort marked me,' said Harry, indicating his scar. 'That's why I could speak Parseltongue and feel what he was experiencing.'
Neville was silent for a long moment. 'You can't speak Parseltongue anymore?'
'No, that was all Voldemort.'
'What about your magical strength? Everyone knows how powerful you are.'
'No, I'm not—I've never been more than average. Both Ron and Hermione are far more powerful than I am.'
Neville shook his head. 'I find that hard to believe.'
'Believe it. Hermione found that illegal potion in the Black family Grimoire—the one that measures magical strength.' Neville looked shocked, and Harry said, 'She erased it, but not before brewing it. Turns out my magic is only slightly stronger than average.'
Neville still looked incredulous. 'What did the prophecy say exactly? You don't need to tell me the whole thing—just the part that identifies who it's talking about. And who delivered it anyway?'
'It was Professor Trelawney, of all people, before we were born. She said it to Dumbledore, but Snape overheard the first half and repeated it to Voldemort.' Harry closed his eyes and recited, 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...'
'What does that mean, thrice defied him?' asked Neville.
'It refers to surviving a confrontation with Voldemort, and according to Dumbledore it referred equally to your parents and mine. That's why my parents were in hiding after I was born. Do you know whether yours were as well?'
'I don't think they were, but our house has unusually strong wards. Apparently it has to do with how it's situated, at an intersection of ley lines.' He sighed and added, 'But still, you were born on the thirty-first and not the thirtieth. I'm certain the prophecy could only have applied to you.'
'That's not what Dumbledore said,' replied Harry. 'And consider the other evidence. We were both Sorted into Gryffindor, even though you tried not to be. And you were also instrumental in defeating Voldemort. I'm convinced that if he'd picked you instead of me, our roles would be reversed.'
Neville's face fell, and Harry knew he'd realised something terrible. 'Do you think that's why the Lestranges attacked my parents? Because of the prophecy?'
'I don't know,' said Harry. 'Honestly, I doubt it. Weren't they torturing your parents to find out where Voldemort might have gone after losing his powers?'
'You're right. They probably only attacked them because they were Aurors.' He sighed again. 'Why did Dumbledore think Voldemort chose you?'
'He could only guess, but he thought maybe Voldemort picked me because I'm a half-blood, same as him. Or maybe he started with me because I was born on the thirty-first, and he would have come for you next.'
Neville surprised Harry by smiling. 'Is it all right if I tell Hannah? She'll be glad to know she was right, at least in part.'
'Go ahead. Everyone knows there was a prophecy, and the only reason I kept it quiet was so you wouldn't find out.'
'If you don't mind my asking, what did the entire prophecy say?'
Harry took a breath and repeated Trelawney's words. 'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...'
Neville didn't say anything for a long while, and Harry could see he was deep in thought. 'But how are you still alive?' he asked.
'Voldemort stole my blood. That's why I was able to come back, because of my mother's protection.'
'But that doesn't make sense. Didn't it say "neither can live while the other survives"?'
'Yes. I don't understand either. Remember this is divination, so it's mostly bollocks.'
Neville nodded. 'I suppose you're right. But what about the power the Dark Lord knows not?'
'Apparently it's love. My mother's sacrifice, mostly.' He omitted what Dumbledore had said about Harry's extraordinary capacity for love, particularly in light of his childhood.
'I don't know,' smirked Neville. 'It sounds like you have exceptional power in that department. Two witches, after all.'
Harry chuckled and said, 'I'm certain any wizard could have done it. And I recommend it highly, if you can convince Hannah.' Neville turned red, but Harry couldn't resist adding, 'Try a Hovering Charm.'
Neville's eyes widened and they both laughed. They didn't talk about the prophecy again that night but instead covered a wide range of topics, mostly about life after Hogwarts and the war. Harry could tell from the way Neville talked about Hannah that he was deeply in love. I wonder if they'll announce their engagement soon.
When Neville was ready to leave, Harry thanked him again. 'I'm glad you could make it. I truly wish you couldn't relate to what I'm going through, but I'm grateful for your perspective. You're a real friend.'
'You are too. Don't let the Prophet or the other Seekers make you believe otherwise.'
After Neville had gone, Harry went to the sitting room and pulled out a parchment and quill. He wrote:
Dear Hermione,
Please excuse me for not replying sooner, and also for chasing you away on Saturday. I'm grateful beyond words for your assistance, and Ryan's as well. You're a wonderful couple, and I'm pleased to have played a role in bringing you together.
I know you're wondering why I never told you about the Dursleys. It's not that I didn't trust you—I simply didn't want to talk about it. There never seemed any point, particularly since Dumbledore insisted I stay there every summer. You already did everything you could have done to help, like sending me food and writing me letters. It made a tremendous difference just knowing I had friends who cared about me.
I can't say I'll want to talk about it much, so please don't expect any deep confidences from me. But I'd enjoy seeing you tomorrow night before the broadcast, if you're available. Perhaps you can come to Grimmauld Place for an early dinner, and we can also discuss the details of the goblin handover on Friday and my date with Moaning Myrtle (I can't believe I just wrote that).
Please let me know whether dinner on Tuesday will work.
Yours,
Harry
He sent the message off with Lysander, who knew to deliver it to the charmed letterbox Hermione had installed in the back garden. Harry felt his conscience ease once he'd sent it—he hadn't enjoyed feeling so distant from Hermione. Admittedly he'd brushed Ron off as well, but somehow that felt different.
I survived Monday, he thought. Ever