Greetings from the Netherlands! It's been a busy couple of years since I last published, but I'm slowly getting settled here, and I'm still determined to finish writing this beast of a fanfic.

I've stockpiled a decent number of chapters but I don't want to risk running out again, so I'm not planning to publish on a regular schedule (sorry!). And I know it'll be hard for some readers to dive back in after such a long break, but I've tried to include context clues about past events, original characters, etc. Years ago I posted a guide to OCs on my FFN author page, which I hastily updated just now. (Please note that I consider the AO3 version the "definitive" Loose Cannon, since it has more edits than the FFN version.)

Thank you so much for your patience and kind words these last few years, and I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

"Good evening, and welcome to another thrilling episode of Weasley's Wizard Wireless! I'm Lee Jordan–"

"And I'm George Weasley–"

"And frankly, you might as well switch off your radio, since tonight's guest has been all over the air lately, blithering about Quidditch."

"That's my job!" cried Harry, playing along. "I'll admit I shirked a bit last season, since I was still new, but this year I'm trying to give more interviews."

"Yes, but now we're not special," said Lee, sniffling. "We used to be the only on-air source for Harry Potter-Black, but now you're baring your soul to anyone who'll listen."

"Baring my soul? I've done exactly three interviews, and all I talked about was Quidditch."

"Not true," said George. "You told Reg Stormholt you visited the ruins of your grandparents' house."

"That was because we were talking about scaled-down Quidditch pitches, and how they affect gameplay!"

"I know," admitted George. "Lee and I are just a little emotional seeing you all grown up now. You were so small and helpless when we first met."

"Mate, he'd already vanquished a Dark Lord," said Lee. "He might have been small, but he definitely wasn't helpless."

"I suppose not," said George. "But Harry, let's have a look at you! It's been more than two months since your last visit to our humble broadcasting booth. You'd just come back from America, which we discussed at length."

"Yes, you gave me a right bollocking about the new Quidditch rules," said Harry. "I remember it well."

"Of course, that's our job," said Lee. "But it turns out you did a lot more in America than even we knew about." He flipped open a magazine and held it up for the audience. "Please, raise your hand if you've seen a certain 'advertising supplement' that recently hit the stands."

"Not in Britain," said Harry, as a number of hands went up. "I made sure that was in my contract."

"Yes, but France is so nearby, and so is Holland. In fact, our assistant Karenna is circulating a dozen copies of a Dutch women's mag called 'Toverjuffrouwen', so our in-store audience can see just what Harry got up to overseas."

People clustered around the magazines, studying the multiple-page layout. "Was it really a good idea to pose for wizarding photographs?" asked George. "Admittedly, I haven't seen your picture misbehave yet, but you're surrounded by half-naked women, so it's only a matter of time."

"I'm sure our friends from Mothers Against Harry Potter are monitoring the situation as we speak," said Lee. "Which reminds me, our guest hasn't sent his Patronus out yet. Harry, do you reckon Prongs could visit the dread Mothers instead?"

Harry paused to consider it. "I'm not opposed in principle," he began. "If nothing else, seeing Prongs might cheer them up. But they're still anonymous, so I doubt he'll be able to find them."

"Good point—Azkaban it is. We'll just have to cheer up the Mothers some other way."

"By saying something completely inappropriate on the air?" suggested Harry.

"Exactly!" said George. "Now whip out that eleven-inch wand of yours and show us why you're so famous!"

Harry laughed and cast his Patronus, which he sent to Azkaban. "I'm sure the Mothers are in a lather already," he said afterwards, "but what else do you have in mind?"

"It's about those new adverts," said Lee, placing the open magazine in front of him. "Would you care to describe for our listeners what's happening in this particular scene?"

Harry already knew which photo Lee meant, since his teammates had ribbed him about it as well. "Well, we're in a private carriage on a wizarding train, and it's a lot bigger than the usual carriage," he said, stalling. "More like a proper room. And you can see mountains through the window."

"Yes, you seem to be looking at them, despite all the commotion behind you. And what are you wearing?"

"Er, just a towel."

"A tribute to house-elves, no doubt," said George. "And what are the witches wearing?"

"Well, it varies," said Harry, unsure where to start.

"That's true—you've got quite a little crowd there. Anyway, the witch on the left is wearing a towel, just like yours, and I'm pretty sure that only charms are holding it up. And look, there's Sophie Tavernier in a silky little number, pulling up her stockings—it looks like she just took a shower as well."

"Same with Marina Lind," said Lee. "She's wearing a bra and knickers—very becoming, I might add—and I think she's casting a charm to dry her hair."

"Hang on, is that two more witches?" said George, pointing at the advert. "Just how big was that shower? Or was it a bath?"

"What about Kreacher?" asked Lee. "Was he there too? I know he helps you shave."

"It's just a photograph!" said Harry. "The whole thing was staged."

"And yet you have a history with at least two of the participants," said George. "Not counting Kreacher, of course."

Before Harry could protest, Lee said, "Which brings us to our question: this looks suspiciously like a harem."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "That's not a question."

"You're right, it isn't," said George. "But we hear it all the time from our listeners: 'Do you think Harry will assemble a harem?' Now's the time, after all, while you're still young and, shall we say, spry."

"Oh dear, Harry's running a hand through his hair," said Lee with concern. "That's usually the first sign we're pushing him too far. But let's set aside the harem thing and return to our original question, about whether your picture is likely to misbehave. So far, all I've seen him do is occasionally turn around and make that revolting half-smile you're known for. But he hasn't ditched his towel or done anything else I'd expect from a nineteen-year-old Light wizard."

"And then there's the one where you're glowing," said George, turning the page. "Last time we saw you glowing in a photo with witches, you performed all sorts of deviant acts. But here you're just writing a letter, possibly to my parents. Which they appreciated, by the way."

"Cheers," said Harry. "Although I'll neither confirm nor deny who I was writing to. Nor will I reveal why my photo won't misbehave. But trust me, it won't."

"This is terrible news for Mothers Against Harry Potter," said Lee dolefully. "Are you sure you won't assemble a harem, just to make it up to them?"

"They'd probably be the first to sign up," said George. "Oops, did I say that out loud?"

Harry laughed and said, "Your funeral, mate. But really, just leave them alone. I know I'm a genuine thorn in their side, and I don't want to add insult to injury."

"You have to be joking!" cried George. "From day one they've accused you of lying, but you don't want to insult them? I realise you're a Light wizard, but come on!"

"Now George," said Lee, "there's no need to berate our most popular guest—that's Walburga's job. But you've brought up an important point." He turned to Harry and said, "You're awfully quick to forgive people, even when they haven't apologised. If I had a Sickle for every time someone asks whether you've forgiven everyone who collaborated during the war … well, I wouldn't have anywhere near a Galleon. But that's only because some lunatic decided to make a Galleon worth seventeen Sickles instead of, say, ten."

Lee looked at his hands, extending his fingers. "Of course, now I'm wondering if ancient wizards had seventeen fingers," he continued, "but that still doesn't explain why there's twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle." Lee paused, then said, "Sorry, back to your reckless acts of forgiveness … would you care to comment?"

"I would," said Harry, "since nearly all my friends have made the same complaint. Not about Sickles and Knuts—although they really should—but that I forgive people too easily. And honestly, I see their point."

"Oh really?" said George. "Go on."

"You're right—it probably is a Light magic thing. Or maybe I'm just burying the past, since it's easier this way. But I really don't care if people apologise, as long as they stop doing whatever shitty thing they did in the first place. For Merlin's sake, just stop being a dick and we're good!"

Lee's hand was poised over the delay rune, but he didn't press it. "Language, Potter! But I'll let it pass, since you were being philosophical."

"To summarise," said George, "Harry Potter says, 'Don't be a dick.' Although I doubt all parties would agree on what constitutes dickishness."

"I'm sure they wouldn't," said Harry. "And maybe my rampant acts of forgiveness count as dickishness to someone else."

"That's true," said George. "After all, nearly everything you do seems to count as dickishness to Mothers Against Harry Potter."

"Ahem, can we stop saying 'dickishness' on the air?" said Lee.

"What about 'cockitude'?" asked George.

"Change of subject!" announced Lee. "Harry, would you care to address the rumour that you now have a portrait?"

They'd discussed this in advance, since heaps of people had seen Jamie, but oddly no one had mentioned him to the press. Which Harry considered a minor miracle, unlikely to last much longer.

"It's true," he admitted. "I've had one since January. And yes, I realise it's a bit much, particularly at my age—"

"No, it makes perfect sense," said Lee. "Even your detractors would admit you're important enough for a portrait." He held up the Dutch magazine again. "And thanks to the worldwide demand for your underwear, you can easily afford one."

"You weren't painted in your underwear, were you?" asked George. "Because that might affect where they hang it."

"No, the portrait is fully clothed," said Harry. "And the plan is to age him up as I grow older. At least to a certain point."

"Until you go bald, right?" said Lee. "Although you pulled it off pretty well that time we shaved your head on the show."

"It's the eyebrows," said George. "Eyebrows can make or break a bald man. Mark my words, you'll launch a new trend when your hair starts to go. And of course your portrait will have to match, since it'll be weird for a bald icon to have a portrait with hair."

"Er, can we not talk about my hair?"

"Actually, your hair is highly relevant," said Lee, "since it had an unprecedented effect on your portrait's behaviour."

Prompted by Lee, Harry explained how the paintbrushes made from his hair led to Jamie's refusal to stay asleep. "And I can't just trap him in his frame for the next hundred years, or however long I'm alive, so he has the run of the house now."

"Not just that," said George. "It would appear he's also a Light wizard, if you know what I mean." To emphasise his point, George winked and made a crude gesture denoting intercourse.

The audience was roaring, and Harry felt his cheeks grow hot. "He doesn't share my thoughts," he said quickly. "And at first, all he had to go on was my reputation, which meant he definitely got around. But he's settled down quite a bit since then—I wouldn't say he's monogamous, since it turns out portraits lead a pretty wild life. But he has a steadyish girlfriend, and he's stopped chatting up my friends."

"Personally, I'd love to get him on the air," said Lee. "Can we persuade you to bring him in?"

George was nodding, and the audience clearly loved the idea. "I don't know," said Harry. "I mean yeah, Jamie would do it in a heartbeat. But he's still a bit uncensored–"

"That's what the delay is for! And just imagine the tender reunion between him and Walburga. They could even hug!"

"Oh no," said Harry, shaking his head. "You definitely can't put them in the same frame."

Lee leaned forwards. "Because he might make a move on her?"

"No, because her frame is sealed, remember?"

"Where there's a will, there's a way," said Lee dismissively.

But George's eyes shone with a manic light. "Harry, can I use some of your hair?" he said urgently. "I need a portrait." Harry and Lee both stared at him. "I know I can win her over! I'm a pure-blood, after all."

"Mate, portraits are pretty expensive," said Lee. "You might have to model underwear first."

"Nah, I don't need a deluxe portrait like Harry got. It doesn't even need to be sentient—in fact, it shouldn't be. Because if it's going to seduce Walburga Black, I don't want any part of it."

But Harry was shaking his head again. "As much as I'd love to see your portrait woo Walburga, my hair won't actually work. The artist asked her teacher in Italy about it, and he said the only other time this has happened—like, five hundred years ago—the hair only worked for the original subject. And also her husband," he added, not wanting to lie.

George shrugged. "So, I'll have to marry you. Can you put me down for your twenty-first birthday? I can wait."

"No, I'm sure he's booked solid already," said Lee. "And speaking of Harry's world-renowned love life, we have questions."

"We certainly do!" said George brightly. "It's been months since you were photographed with a witch—not counting your harem, of course. Which leaves us with two options: either you're back on the celibacy wagon, or you've finally embraced discretion."

"That's right," said Harry, deliberately vague.

"Yes, but which one?"

Harry smiled blandly, projecting innocence, while Lee and George studied him for clues. "He's doing that thing with his eyes," said Lee. "They're round as saucers, and he's fluttering his lashes."

"Is that a twinkle?" said George. "You bastard!"

"Oi!" said Harry, feigning offence but still twinkling. "You're the one asking nosy questions."

"Yes, on the radio show you voluntarily visit, ostensibly to set the record straight. But you won't answer a simple question!"

"He answered it," said Lee. "It's obviously discretion."

"But that could mean anything," said George. "For all we know, he's secretly married now. Or maybe he's shagging a new witch every week, and binding them to secrecy." George stroked his chin and said, "Then again, he might be dating a Muggle who doesn't even know he's a wizard."

"Not if she's been to his house," said Lee. "There's no hiding the magic there."

"Excuse me, this is Harry Potter-Black, league Seeker and international underwear model. He can easily afford a Muggle flat, even in London."

"I don't have a Muggle flat. And I have a vow against getting married, remember?"

George rubbed his hands together. "Now we're getting somewhere!"

"No, you aren't," said Harry. "And I think you're failing to grasp the meaning of discretion."

"He's right," said Lee. "And it's a sad state of affairs when we need Harry Potter-Black—a walking open book—to remind us of that."

"Very true," said George soberly. "I guess our listeners will just have to wonder who's visiting Walburga's Wonderland these days."

"Although we'd like to reassure them you're not gutted by the news from America," said Lee, pulling out a recent issue of Witch Weekly. "As I'm sure you saw, Marina Lind is now sporting an enormous diamond ring. And it doesn't match any of Walburga's jewellery, so I'm guessing it's not from the Black family vault."

"No, it isn't," said Harry. "She's engaged now, and I'm very happy for her."

Lee and George studied him again. "Listeners, he's telling the truth," said Lee. "And the article says her fiancé is a Muggle rock star—do you think he knows she's a witch?"

"Forget that—he probably thinks she's a goddess," said George. "But Harry, I'm glad you're not upset. I know we give you a hard time, but we're your biggest fans here at Weasley's Wizard Wireless, and we genuinely want you to be happy."

"Cheers," said Harry. "And while I won't provide details, I'm doing pretty well right now. Calm before the storm, I suppose."

"The new Quidditch season," said Lee. "Are you ready?"

"Honestly, no one's ready. I mean yes, we're training hard, and Tuttle has revamped our strategy, but no one really knows how the new rules will play out."

"The bookmakers have some ideas," said George. "And now there are two sets of odds on every match: one for the official score, and one for the 'real' score."

Wincing, Harry said, "Yeah, I heard about that. But look, it's only a year, and maybe the new rules will be great."

"That's the spirit!" said Lee. "And as a favour to you, we'll hex anyone we hear blaming you for them."

"And our listeners will do the same, right?" said George, gesturing towards the audience.

Fierce nods from the crowd, but Harry shook his head. "Please, no," he said. "Obviously it wasn't solely my doing—not even close—but I don't need defending. Like I said, it's only a year."

"Oh, thank Merlin," said George. "I was prepared to defend your honour, but I didn't fancy hexing people ten times a day. Because let's face it, everyone blames you."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "It's only a year," he repeated, massaging his brow.

"And what a year it'll be!" said Lee. "Chin up, Potter—the Cannons will have a great season regardless."

"You're right, we will," said Harry. "And on that note, I'll return to my secret Muggle wife now. Oops, can you hit the delay?"

"Hilarious as always," said Lee, and they thanked him for appearing on the show. George followed him out of the booth, but instead of pulling Harry aside, he invited him into his office.

"Can we talk?" he asked. "Lee's got a pre-recorded bit, so we have a few minutes." They entered the office, which was charmed soundproof, and George said, "Percy and I met with Redblade today, and he finally had some numbers."

Harry's eyes shot open—they'd been waiting weeks for the first round of condom sales figures. "Are they good?"

"They're preliminary. But yes, they're good. Nowhere near break-even, of course."

"I should hope not!" said Harry. According to Percy, growing too quickly could trigger another Ministry audit to ensure that magic wasn't involved. They were therefore aiming to break even in no less than a year, ideally two.

There was no time for details, so George proposed a meeting at Grimmauld Place with Draco and Ron. "Assuming that won't be too awkward," he added.

"They're getting on a bit better," said Harry, "but I don't think Ron will ever want to visit Malfoy Manor."

"Is that where you're headed now?" Harry nodded, and George said, "Say hi to Ginny for me."

Ever since Draco's public rejection of blood purism, he'd become closer with Ginny and Wendy—even appearing with them in wizarding settings. The Daily Prophet regularly ran photos of him with unlikely company, most recently with Gemma Rees after a match between England and Wales. "Apparently Father threw a tantrum," he told Harry a few days later. "I'm tempted to start courting her, or at least make it look like I am, but that wouldn't be fair to Mother."

Narcissa, however, was also changing. She still went to Azkaban every week—and Lucius refused to see her—but otherwise she seemed less brittle than before, and more comfortable in her new life. She no longer insisted Harry or Draco accompany her ballroom dancing, for example. "It's not as if they'll hurt me," she said. "And some of the other participants are surprisingly refined. For Muggles, that is."

She wasn't around when Harry turned up at Malfoy Manor after the show, so he headed straight to the smoking room. But before he arrived, Daphne ambushed him.

"Justin, Ginny, and Wendy are all here, so we need to behave," she said, inspecting his robes. "But my parents won't be home until ten at the earliest, so don't linger too long."

"Should you leave first, or shall I?"

"Pansy and I already said we're leaving at eight, so just make your excuses and follow us out."

He grabbed a quick kiss, then entered the smoking room. "Harry, come look," said Wendy, holding out a notepad. "Ginny and I are assembling your future harem."

"This is just the people we know," said Ginny. "But we'll also hold auditions."

"Auditions?" said Harry, sitting down without accepting the notepad.

"Wendy and I can test their lesbian skills, since you can't have a harem without some girl-on-girl action. And Blaise will evaluate them from the male perspective, since he knows what you like."

"What's that supposed to mean?" said Harry, turning towards Blaise. "Ow!" he cried, when Wendy's notepad hit him on the head.

"Nice catch," said Draco. "Fortunately, the Snitch is only worth fifty points now."

Ignoring him, Harry scanned Wendy's list, pausing at the name of the Harpies Seeker. "Allie Hobbs? Are you joking?"

"Why, because she hates you?" said Wendy. "Trust me, it's just a cover for her burning desire."

"I'm sure that's it," he said dryly, still reading. "I notice you two aren't on here."

"Been there, done that," said Ginny. "But I'll be in charge of training."

"I'm not on there either," said Pansy. "I've never been much for sharing. Justin, is sharing a Muggle thing? I feel like it is."

Harry looked at Justin Finch-Fletchley, curious how he would react. But he wasn't offended, despite being Muggleborn. Indeed, he had become shockingly comfortable with the other Slytherins since being re-sorted.

"I'm sure I had to share things more often than you or Draco did, since my parents couldn't just cast duplication charms," said Justin. "But it's not as if I had to fight over breakfast or queue for the shower."

"Now you're describing my family," said Ginny. "Which suggests that sharing has less to do with magic than the size of the family vault."

"Either way, I'm safe," declared Pansy. "But don't worry, Ginny. Draco says you'll make starter in a year or so, and thanks to Harry everyone knows who you are, so I'm sure you'll get an endorsement deal." She looked plainly at Ginny's chest and said, "Harry, does London Underground sell sports bras? Maybe you can put in a good word for her."

Ginny and Wendy burst into laughter, and Blaise said, "Actually, I expect Gemma Rees will get that contract, after that photograph in Wandlore."

"Too right," said Ginny admiringly. "Harry, can you convince her to pose topless? The Wandlore picture was great, but it left too much to the imagination."

It was a good picture, Harry had to admit. It accompanied an article about the history-making selection of two Muggleborn Seekers to the English national team. She and Phil Routledge were photographed with their brooms and casting sparks from their wands, but the styling was outrageously Muggle. Phil looked like a rock star, wearing close-fitting jeans, a paisley shirt, and a leather jacket, while Gemma looked like a pinup girl. She wore expertly applied makeup, high-heeled shoes, and a dress that emphasised her hourglass figure.

"No, she's already turned down heaps of offers from porno mags," said Harry, not adding that Mrs Thwip regularly turned down similar offers on his behalf. "But I'll tell her you asked."

"Excellent," said Wendy. "At the very least, maybe she'll flash us."

Daphne and Pansy left at eight, and Harry made noises about training the next morning. "Yeah, we should go too," said Ginny, tugging Wendy's hand. They said their goodbyes, then followed him into the corridor. "So, are you ready for next week?" said Ginny.

There was no need to ask what she meant. "I'm sure I will be," he said dubiously. "What about you?"

"Honestly, I'm tempted to tell Mum I can't miss training, but she'd never buy it—national holiday and all. Will you have to make a speech?"

The previous year he'd been pressed to say a few words on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, but Kingsley and Minerva did most of the talking. This year, however, he had agreed to say more. "Yeah, Hermione is helping me write it. And Rutherford Stroop."

"The radio host?" said Wendy. "With the history programme? How do you even know him?"

He didn't want to say "Pratt's," which was supposed to stay secret. But Ginny rescued him and said, "Harry knows everyone. And Rutherford Stroop is the perfect choice, since he's a wizarding institution, same as ..." She paused, searching for a comparison. "Bertie Botts."

"No one is as important as Bertie Botts," said Wendy solemnly. "But if you ever meet him, tell him I'll never forgive him for the spoilt-milk flavoured bean."

"I once got urinal cake," said Harry. "He's a sick, sick man."

He Flooed back to Grimmauld Place, where Daphne was waiting. "You were good on the radio," she said, brushing a stray clump of ash from his hair. "And I love those robes—are they new?"

"No, they're another collaboration between Aurora and Lodie," he said. "I keep telling Jamie to stay on Aurora's good side even after he settles down with my future wife. Because her fashion advice is spot-on."

"Yes, but you have the good sense to follow it. And you clearly have good taste, judging from what your magic has done to the house."

Harry looked around the entrance hall, which somehow grew more beautiful every day. Furthermore, he had discovered that the best way to keep Pinelle happy was to let her run wild at the florist's, since she had an absolute genius for matching flowers to a room. It was costing him a fortune, due to the growing number of rooms, but he considered it money well spent, both for domestic tranquility and the effect on his Light magic.

Indeed, the combination of the decor and the rare praise from Daphne was exceptionally pleasant—which set off Harry's alarm bells. "Hang on, what's with all the compliments?" he said, narrowing his eyes.

At first she protested, but he didn't back down. "I was hoping to tell you later," she finally admitted. "I can't come to your match on Saturday."

"But it's the season opener! And it'll be three more weeks until our next match at home." They had agreed she would only watch him at Chudley Stadium, since his higher allotment of tickets would obscure their relationship.

"I know, but I've been invited to see the Wasps play the Magpies–"

"The Magpies! That's Andrew sodding Gilstrap!"

"I know," she winced. "But my grandmother's friend reserved an entire section, and she deliberately invited families from different schools. Families with children our age."

"Sons, you mean?"

"Well, yes."

"Which schools?" asked Harry, suspecting it wouldn't be the likes of North Squiffing or Tinkerton.

"Stodgings … Binglingham," she began. Then she wrinkled her brow, unable to recall the others.

"Widgington? Blockhurst?" said Harry, naming the other prestigious schools.

"Yes, those are the ones." He rolled his eyes, and she said, "Oh, come off it! I tried dating a Muggle-born, and you saw what happened."

"I thought you weren't in a hurry to meet someone new," he said pointedly.

"You're the one with the vow, not me," she countered. "And now is the perfect time to meet young wizards, since I'm not actually looking for a husband."

Harry couldn't argue her point, but he was still disappointed about the match. "Will I at least see you afterwards?" he asked.

"I don't know. There's going to be a reception afterwards—again, to encourage mingling—and if it runs late I'll be expected to go straight home. But I can come for brunch on Sunday and tell my parents I'm at Draco's."

He didn't like that she needed to lie, but that was often the price of their relationship, which in other respects was brilliant. He had a steady partner, and they had companionship without the intensity of love.

"You two are like me and Aurora," said Jamie that night, after Daphne had gone. "She knows I'll eventually marry someone else—same as you—but for now we're all in."

"Maybe," said Harry, not seeing much similarity between the two witches. "But I'm lucky if I see Daphne three times a week, whereas you've got Aurora at your beck and call."

"That's not true!" said Jamie. He turned to the left, where Harry couldn't see and said, "Aurora, tell Harry he's wrong."

"Harry, you're wrong," came a languid voice from beyond the frame.

"You're in his bed, aren't you?" said Harry accusingly.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean I'm at his beck and call, like a house-elf," said Aurora, coming into view.

When Harry saw what she was wearing—exceedingly sexy lingerie—he said, "Hang on! Isn't that from the new London Underground collection? How did you even get it?"

"Kreacher," said Jamie. "And don't worry—it was free of charge. Only they think it's for you." Harry gaped, and Jamie said, "Not for you you. For your girlfriend."

"Right," said Harry, his heart still racing. "But Aurora, how will you feel when Jamie eventually moves on? Because I'm hoping my wife will get a portrait as soon as we're married. Assuming she wants one, of course."

"Oh, she'll want one," said Aurora. "There's no way she'll want to see Jamie running around with other witches." Aurora struck an elegant pose, then said, "As for how I'll feel, I don't know. This is unprecedented territory in my life as a portrait. Although in real life, when I was jilted by Caligula Malfoy, I poisoned his bride."

Jamie and Harry were united in shock. "But ... I thought you only poisoned your sisters," stammered Jamie.

"No, I only murdered my sisters. But I poisoned loads of people, mostly for practice. Honestly, my sisters shouldn't have been surprised." She was still in an graceful pose, admiring herself in Harry's wardrobe mirror. "But I won't poison your wife, or even you. As head of House Black, Harry has the power to compel me."

"Brilliant, problem solved," said Harry weakly. He wasn't afraid Daphne would poison anyone, but he definitely didn't want to hurt her feelings—or break her heart.

"If I were Daphne," continued Aurora, "I would announce your affair to the world and step boldly into the spotlight. She has nothing to lose, after all—she'll still have a manor and be head of a noble house."

"Yes, but House Greengrass is neutral," said Harry. "If she announces we're sleeping together and have no plans to marry, she'll torpedo all that."

Aurora sniffed. "I have no idea what 'torpedo' means, but House Greengrass hasn't always been neutral."

"Oh?"

"No, every century or so they find a way to shake society to its very core." Harry pressed her for details, and she said, "In the 1850s, Lord Sidney Greengrass publicly announced he was a werewolf. What's more, he refused to give up his place in society, and he used his influence to push all sorts of legislation protecting werewolves. It was later repealed, of course, but for a while, lycanthropy was all the rage.

"And a century earlier," she continued, "Lord Gareth Greengrass became Lady Gwendolyn Greengrass, which established their tradition of allowing daughters to inherit. Unfortunately, House Black didn't emulate them." With an annoyed pout, she said, "If witches could inherit, I'd have only needed to poison my elder sister. And our brother, of course."

Harry shot a glance at Jamie, who only shrugged. "Er, thanks for the perspective," said Harry, then he excused himself to bed. At least I needn't worry she'll murder my future wife's portrait, he thought with a grimace.

No, his more pressing concern was Quidditch, and the start of the season. The new rules had taken effect at the beginning of April, which meant that no one in Britain had experienced them first-hand. Even Ryan had nothing to report, since international play had ended in March, and all eyes were on a handful of foreign leagues.

"São Paulo beat Fortaleza 210-190," said Bruce the next morning, when the players gathered to run.

"Who caught the Snitch?" asked Ian.

"They both did," said Bruce, reading from a charmed parchment. "But São Paulo caught the closing Snitch—the first one was caught after 72 minutes, so they had to keep going."

"How did they play it?" asked Harry. "Did the Seekers stick together?"

Bruce studied the parchment. "Not initially. For the first hour they mostly disrupted the Chasers, then they switched to the usual paired arrangement."

"They probably needed a break from Bludgers," said Titus dryly.

"Or the Chasers needed a break from the bloody Seekers," grumbled Darren. "I can't believe I thought Harry was a menace last year, when he only came after us every ten minutes or so. But now we have two Seekers gunning for us the entire time."

"Sorry, mate—it's more fun that way," said Ian.

Harry agreed wholeheartedly—the new style of play was exhausting but utterly exhilarating. And in addition to following the foreign matches, he and Ian were studying Muggle sports. As promised, Ian had exposed Harry to rugby, hurling, and roller derby, which inspired them to dizzying heights.

Literally, in the case of a manoeuvre Ian invented. "A Wronski feint into the Chasers?" exclaimed a horror-struck Owen, when Ian described it. "You're joking, right?"

"Nope. I'd have sprung it on you during a match, but I still haven't recovered from last week's tongue-lashing."

"That's because you grabbed Gary's bat and aimed a Bludger at Harry!"

"Pfft, I dodged it," said Harry with a shrug.

"I still don't know how you did that," said Owen. "I swear, I saw my life pass before my eyes, and I was safe on the ground."

Ian had improved at spotting the Snitch, thanks to Owen's instructions, but he was no match for Harry in that regard. His flying, however, was completely insane, to the point where Tuttle ordered Harry not to keep up with him. "We need you in one piece, Potter," she said sternly.

"What about me?" said Ian. "You never tell me to slow down."

"Because you wouldn't listen, on account of having a screw loose—or maybe twelve."

"That's why you hired me," said Ian, mugging proudly.

"Potter insisted," she scowled, but they knew she was pleased. Ian would never make starter—he still committed too many fouls—but he was the perfect sparring partner for Harry.

Ron in particular was excited about the new style of play. "Promise me you'll do something completely mental this afternoon," he said during breakfast on Saturday. "Unless you and Janet are just having me on."

"We aren't," said Harry. "And I'm sorry you couldn't watch us training, but maybe next week." All the teams had tightened security before the start of the season—an unprecedented move, since concealing a large open area filled with dozens of people was expensive and magically taxing. The Cannons had briefly done it the previous year, when Harry began feinting erratically. But now everyone was hiding their strategy, which meant that no one knew what to expect.

"This weekend will go down in history," said Ron, his eyes gleaming. "It's the biggest rules change since they outlawed airborne hexes, and that was six hundred years ago. According to Malfoy, that season was absolute mayhem—at least fifty new fouls were invented, since the players had to work out a whole new style of play."

Harry knew better than to tease Ron for quoting Draco, since the two still weren't actually friends. Ron continued to grumble about him, although with less venom than before, and he quoted Draco's articles more and more often. They had even discussed them in person that week, during their meeting about the condom scheme.

"I can't stop thinking about those numbers," said Ron. "I keep doing the maths in my head, to calculate how much I'll make if it really takes off. Obviously I didn't put in as much as the rest of you, but I could still earn more in five years than my dad's probably made his whole life. A low bar, I realise," he added with a grimace. "But it's still fun to imagine what I'd do with it."

Ron went on to describe the kind of house he'd like to live in someday. "It won't be like this place, obviously—we'd have to sell about a trillion condoms for that to happen. But something with high ceilings and plenty of room, and no need for silencing charms just to get a bit of privacy."

"Do you mean you and Janet don't fancy listening to your kids wanking?" joked Harry.

"Janet would probably scar them for life by recording them somehow, then playing it back over breakfast," said Ron. Then he paled. "Oh crap. I just took that in stride, didn't I?"

"I suppose I did too," said Harry, realising he'd casually implied that Ron and Janet would marry. "But that's good, isn't it?"

"Fucked if I know," said Ron, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's too soon to think about marriage, right?"

"You're a pure-blood wizard—I'm surprised you aren't married already," said Harry dryly. "Although I can't see Janet giving up her career to start sprogging anytime soon."

"No, and I wouldn't want her to. She really loves Quidditch, same as me." Ron quirked a smile. "I still can't believe I'm dating one of the Cannons. And that we're in love."

Harry was pleased to note his own lack of envy. "I'm glad for you," he said. "Meanwhile, I'm shagging Daphne Greengrass, and we aren't in love. Which feels like an accomplishment somehow."

"That's because it is. For you, anyway." After a pause, Ron said, "Do you know if Fiona will be at the match?"

A heavy sigh from Harry. "Yeah. Rob too, and his parents. And Matthew, of course."

"Are you ready? This'll be your first time seeing them, right?"

Harry nodded. "I'm sure it'll be fine. Well, mostly fine," he said, not wishing to lie. Indeed, part of why he'd wanted Daphne at the match was to distract him from Fiona and Rob. But he would have to manage without her. Which was the goal of the whole "friends with benefits" thing, he reminded himself for the hundredth time.

In hindsight, he could see how he had rushed into intimacy with Fiona, and how quickly he'd come to depend on her. They thought they were being cautious—delaying sex until she felt ready, and not staying at her house until Matthew felt safe. But in less than a month they progressed from mere flirting to a fully committed relationship. Until Rob Dunning came back, thought Harry with another sigh.

Ron snapped his fingers, jarring Harry from his thoughts. "Harry, you can't let them distract you! I know the other Seekers promised not to taunt you about Fiona, but that was before you were photographed with Marina Lind."

"I know. And really, I'll be fine," said Harry, meaning it this time. "Ian hammered me this week, just to be safe."

"About Fiona?"

"Yeah, but mostly about Rob. Because he's the one I'm more upset about. Which feels, I dunno, territorial."

But Ron was nodding. "I get it. I feel the same way about Ryan, like I'm a caveman or something. And it's not like I even want Hermione back—I'm much happier with Janet. But I still don't like thinking about the two of them."

"I know—that's what Ian's been taunting me about. Only with Fiona and Rob."

That was exactly how Ian greeted him that morning, when Harry arrived for training. "It's a bit chilly out," he said. "Do you reckon the Dunnings will share a blanket? Because if it were me and my wife, I'd finger her under it."

"Your wife would probably consider that an upgrade," retorted Harry. "But I'm sure they'll behave, with her son there too."

"Their son," corrected Ian. "Who probably has a new sibling on the way. It's probably too soon for them to announce it, but you can tell from her tits."

"Noted. But I doubt Sheppard will be able to throw me off," said Harry, referring to the Ballycastle Seeker. "If anything, taunting me about Rob will just fire me up."

"What do you think I'm doing, mate? If I could hold a banner this afternoon, it'd say, 'Picture them fucking'."

Harry laughed in spite of himself. "That would definitely work. I'll keep it in mind if the Bats pull ahead."

"And you'll taunt, right?" At Seekers' night out on Monday, the other Seekers had demanded that Harry resume taunting, since he was "dull as a flobberworm up there," as Carl Wainwright had put it.

"Yes, I'll taunt. But nothing egotistical."

"Nah, there's heaps of other ways to be a prick. And when you get down to it, taunting is just good manners. Shows you care."

All the Cannons were full of energy, playfully banging into one another as they gathered before the match. "Today's the day," said Darren. "The day every Chaser has prayed for, for the last thousand years." When the other Chasers heartily agreed, he said, "And look, Ryan didn't even point out that there have only been Chasers for eight hundred years, and that we used to be called 'Catchers'."

"Clearly I don't need to," said Ryan. "And I'm really fucking excited about the new rules."

Ryan gave them a pep talk, a more frequent occurrence since he'd become captain of the English national team. And even though Gary was the official Cannons captain, he seemed happy to step aside. "It's only a matter of time," he confided to Harry. "For now, Tuttle wants to keep things as they are—I think she likes having a Beater captain, having been one herself. But Ryan could be one of the greats, and I don't want to get in the way of that."

"You are such a Hufflepuff," said Harry fondly. Which he recalled again before the match, watching Gary's proud expression as Ryan rallied the team.

But Tuttle had the final word. "Cannons, listen up," she began. "You're about to embark on what might be the most batshit Quidditch season in living memory. And it would never have happened if you lot"—she indicated the Chasers—"hadn't bitched and moaned to Lord Silvercock over there about the unfair scoring."

When Harry bristled, she said, "It's not a criticism—you were just trying to help. And I'm proud that you questioned the status quo. Because every one of you save Harkness joined the most losing team in Quidditch history. If you'd accepted the status quo, that's still what we'd be, but instead we're the favourite for this year's Cup."

Everyone cheered, but Tuttle waved them silent. "Which isn't a guarantee," she continued. "No, this time we're the ones to beat, which'll bring out a whole new side of our opponents. And you lot know better than anyone that a so-called 'losing team' can turn around in a heartbeat with the right motivation," she said. "Potter, you'll have more eyes on you than ever. But you're used to that, thanks to your world-renowned Y-fronts, so use it. While you're diving, weaving, and probably bursting into flames—or whatever idiocy you picked up from Harkness—the Chasers will be racking up goals."

She praised all of the players individually, including the reserves. "Now get out there and reinvent Quidditch!" she barked, and the players roared their approval.

"It might still be a disaster," said Janet over the din. "But it'll be our disaster!"

After a thorough inspection by the referees, the starters flew out one by one, and Harry was grateful they were playing at home, since a lot of people still blamed him for the new rules. But he was confident the Chudley crowd would be more accepting.

Nevertheless, the first banner he saw was hostile. It read "The Boy Who Ruined Quidditch," and its neighbour read "150 Points Forever" in flashing red letters. Well, that's inauspicious, thought Harry, but friendlier banners surrounded them. "Harry Potter-Black: Master of the Impossible" proclaimed a banner, and another thanked him on behalf of the Ryan Bellamy Fan Club, which prompted Harry to wonder about Hermione's reaction.

But there was ample evidence of his own fan club. "Harry's Harem" blared a sign, with the words "Where do we sign up?" written below. Several witches even dressed the part, wearing flowing harem robes to show their enthusiasm, and Harry worried that it heralded a new trend. Although Kreacher would be thrilled if I had a harem, he noted with alarm.

The balls were released, and for form's sake he flew to greet his rival. "Welcome to Chudley Stadium," said Harry cheerfully.

"Welcome to the new Quidditch," said Kieran Sheppard. "Which wouldn't have happened without you."

"You signed the same petition I did. This is on all of us."

"True, but only the kid who broke into Gringotts would be insane enough to pull it off. I'm not complaining, though, seeing as I still have my job. And they loved me in Australia, so I have a standing offer down under as well."

"Oh right, you played there all winter. How was that?"

"Brilliant. Although I lost count of how many people asked me about you. Which suggests there's an untapped market for your underwear."

"Right," said Harry, not revealing that the Australian product launch was imminent. "Anyway, it's been nice chatting, but it's time to actually play Quidditch. Are you ready?"

"Am I ever!" said Sheppard. "I'd suggest you try not to die, but you aren't very good at it, as I recall."

Harry didn't ask him for clarification, but instead zoomed towards the action. The previous year, his main tactic was to pretend he'd spotted the Snitch, make trouble for the Chasers, and lead his rival into danger. This year, however, he would assist his teammates as much as the rules permitted. Seekers weren't allowed to handle the Quaffle, so he couldn't just play Chaser for the first ninety minutes—which was fortunate, since he wasn't very good at it. But he could hinder the opposing team from passing the Quaffle, and hopefully prevent his counterpart from doing the same.

All the Quidditch analysts predicted he'd be good at it, and they were right. Harry's aggressive flying and his ability to ignore distractions were perfectly suited to the task, allowing the Cannons to pull ahead. Not by much, however, since Sheppard was also interfering—somewhat less ably than Harry, but enough to reduce the overall score. This matched what the Cannons had observed while training, but Harry had an extra advantage: he was still able to spot the Snitch.

"Potter-Black with the Snitch!" cried the announcer, less than an hour into the match. "But gameplay continues!"

The crowd roared as Harry circled the arena, which almost felt like a victory lap, only it wasn't. And several handmade signs now read 190-20—the so-called "real" score—in contrast to the actual scoreboard, which said 90-20.

A new Snitch was released, and Harry set an intention to spot it, but he remained focused on the Quaffle. Sheppard, however, changed tack and began targeting Harry. "Oi! What are you doing?" cried Harry.

"What do you think?" replied Sheppard. "I'm trying to shut down the lead scorer. Until five minutes ago it was Bellamy, but now it's you."

"Did you consider trying to spot the Snitch?" said Harry archly. It's not egotistical to insult him, right?

"Yes, that's another reason I'm tracking you. It turns out the Firebolt Ultra is a decent broom once you get the hang of it," he said, indicating his broomstick.

"So I've heard," said Harry, silently weighing his options. Fifty more points would be nice, but Sheppard could probably beat me in a chase. And it's unlikely he'll spot it first—not the way I'm flying.

He therefore decided not to go for the Snitch, even if he spotted it. Better to keep Sheppard distracted and help the Chasers if I can. And fortunately, he could. The Cannons' lead kept growing—slowly, just as before—and he gave Sheppard a workout.

"You won't lose me," taunted Sheppard. "Consider me your unshakeable stalker for the rest of the match."

"More like a strip of loo roll," retorted Harry. "All we need is some rain." Or some Bludgers, he thought gleefully. The Beaters were leaving them alone, not wanting to accidentally hit their own Seeker, but Harry was almost certainly better at dodging Bludgers than Sheppard was.

Back in February, when the Cannons first hired Ian Harkness, Owen assigned him several books about Quidditch to acquaint him with the rules. Which was how Ian discovered a risky tactic called Bludger-baiting, whereby the player deliberately flies towards a moving Bludger to draw it away from its original target. He tried it, of course, and promptly broke several ribs, but he and Harry were hooked. Owen urged Tuttle to forbid them from doing it, but instead she taught them Beater techniques for avoiding injury.

Harry couldn't do it for very long, since it was almost impossible to spot the Snitch whilst chasing Bludgers. But a short burst of Bludger-baiting was a good way to shake a dogged pursuer. The crowd roared when they realised what he was doing, which meant he couldn't hear Sheppard's reaction, except for the odd obscenity.

"You fucking maniac!" he finally heard Sheppard cry.

"Get off my arse!" shouted Harry, drawing a Bludger away from Darren, which enabled Darren to catch the Quaffle and score another goal. Sheppard, who clearly hadn't been trained by a world-class Beater, wisely stopped tracking Harry and circled alone for a while.

Harry kept his eye on the scoreboard, with its newly-installed clock. Ten more minutes and I can end this thing, he thought. The Cannons led by ninety points, so as long as Sheppard didn't catch an early Snitch, Chudley would win.

But Sheppard was lucky—the Snitch appeared near him and he easily made the catch, knocking the Cannons' lead down to forty. This seemed to motivate the Ballycastle Chasers, who chipped it down even more, and when the first ninety minutes were up, it was anyone's game.

Harry now had a choice: either help the Cannons Chasers regain a solid lead, or prevent Sheppard from catching another Snitch. Where's Observational magic when you need it? he thought sourly, since the Snitch wasn't usually this forthcoming. But perhaps the new rules had changed its behaviour, which meant the final Snitch might turn up quickly.

Meanwhile, Sheppard had started tracking him again. "Interesting match, Potter-Black. Wouldn't you agree?" Harry did agree, and Sheppard said, "So, what's your plan? More Bludger-baiting? Not even you can spot the Snitch doing that."

"No, I can't," said Harry, glancing at a fan-made scoreboard that showed the Cannons as already having won. "But I can do this," he taunted, rejoining the Chasers to help them widen the lead. And within half an hour the Cannons were ahead by fifty points.

Sheppard was still close at hand, to Harry's vast annoyance, and on a whim—or an instinct—Harry zoomed towards a Bludger. "You bastard!" cried Sheppard, but Harry ignored him, since Bludger-baiting required his full attention. Which was why he was shocked moments later by a bloodcurdling cry, gasps from the crowd, and a piercing whistle.

"Sheppard is down," said the announcer. "Ballycastle time out."

The Cannons stayed where they were, mid-air, but most of the Bats flew down to check on their teammate. Harry could barely think over the pounding of his heart—Oh my god, I got him Bludgered!—and he could almost hear Owen's reproach.

"Minor injury," came the announcement, to Harry's vast relief. This never would have happened under the old rules, he noted uneasily.

The reserve Seeker entered the arena but never approached him, probably for fear of getting Bludgered herself. The Cannons scored one last goal, then Harry caught the Snitch. "Cannons win, 220-110!" cried the announcer, and after a team victory lap, Harry didn't bother with another. One solo lap was plenty, he thought, relieved the match was over.

"How's Sheppard?" he asked Owen the moment they landed.

"Broken arm—he'll be fine. Good job, by the way."

"You're not angry? I know Bludger-baiting isn't your favourite tactic."

"That was Old Quidditch," said Owen dryly. "This is New Quidditch, and you just proved why it works."

Tuttle confirmed that he did the right thing. "He was riding your arse—of course you had to lose him. And a broken arm is nothing. I'm sure he'll be back in the air on Monday." After a pause, she said, "It sets a good precedent. Now your opponents will think twice before trailing you."

"I guess," said Harry uncertainly. "Anyway, I'm glad he'll be all right."

When journalists were allowed on the pitch, they flooded Harry with questions, and he learned that none of the other Seekers had engaged in Bludger-baiting that afternoon. "But I'm sure they will now," said a reporter.

"Er, it's not for everyone," said Harry, hoping he sounded cautious rather than arrogant. "And while we're still adjusting to the new rules, we can't really know whether it's worth the risk."

Ron, however, was fully in favour. "Harry, that was fantastic!" he gushed. "Janet said you and Ian were going wild in practice, but she never mentioned Bludger-baiting! By the way, you can expect a Howler from my mum."

"But we have wards–" sputtered Harry.

"No, she has Grimoire magic to get a Howler past anything. It's a Prewett thing."

Next came Hermione, expressing grave concern for his safety, but then he spotted a familiar group on the pitch. Hermione noticed his inattention and turned to see for herself. "Oh, it's Fiona and Rob," she said. "Are you ready?"

"I actually forgot about them during the match," he admitted. "But yeah, I can handle it."

Relieved the photographers had all gone, Harry approached the knot of Dunnings, which included Rob's parents. Fiona isn't wearing the scarf I imbued with Light magic, he noted. She wore a Cannons scarf instead, which made sense, but he wondered if she still wore the other scarf at all.

Rob's parents were the first to greet him. "Harry, you scared us half to death," said Charlotte Dunning.

"Don't listen to her," said her husband, Gene. "That was some of the best flying I've ever seen. I still don't know if I agree with the rules change, but it's exciting to witness history."

The next to arrive was Rob. "Do you know, that's the first Cannons victory I've seen since 1995," he said, shaking Harry's hand. "Admittedly, that's a little more recent for me than for everyone else, but it's still a long way back."

Fiona arrived last, led by Matthew. "Mummy was terrified!" said Matthew eagerly. "She kept smushing my hand, so I finally switched seats with Dad so she could smush his hand instead."

Harry didn't ask if they shared a blanket. "Did you enjoy the match, except for the all hand-smushing?" he asked Matthew, who nodded vigorously. "And what about you?" he asked Fiona.

"As the boy said, I was terrified. But I should have realised you'd pull it off." She took both Harry's hands and squeezed them—gently. "Congratulations, Harry. That was truly well done. Although there's no way I'm letting you teach Matthew to fly this summer."

When Matthew protested, Rob explained that Mummy was only joking. Meanwhile, Harry recalled Ian's advice and tried to gauge whether Fiona was pregnant, but it was hard to tell under her cloak.

"You're looking well," he said, both pleased and dismayed by how happy she looked. Because now, in its absence, he could see how heavily she'd worn her grief.

"So are you," she said, smiling. "And you sounded good on the radio." She looked down to confirm that Matthew wasn't listening, then said, "So, are you starting a harem? I saw a lot of prospective members in the stands."

Harry glanced at Rob's parents, who had always assumed the worst about him, but they only laughed. "Of course you aren't," said Charlotte warmly. "I tell everyone you're far more mature than you get credit for."

Sweet Merlin, did I Imperius them? wondered Harry. "Thanks, I can use all the help I can get."

They chatted a little longer but never went beyond the surface—which was fine, Harry supposed. And when Fiona left, he knew they'd passed an important milestone: We can see each other without feeling like a couple.

The crowd at the Cracked Spyglass was predictably raucous. "Bludger-baiting … fucking brilliant!" he heard more than once, but he gave Ian most of the credit.

"Are you sure it's not just a ploy by Harkness to get the starting job?" joked a fan.

"Nah, I have the best view in the house" said Ian. "Let Snitchbottom have the glory."

More than a few witches flirted with Harry, and there was nothing to stop him from flirting back—he and Daphne were only friends, after all. But he wasn't going to take anyone home that night, since Daphne might still turn up. And, more importantly, he didn't want to meet anyone new. He liked his life as it was: with Quidditch, Light magic, old friends and new, an extended family, and an agreeable fuckmate.

Daphne still groaned when he called her that, but she didn't stop him, and she occasionally used the term herself—that afternoon, for example, when he returned to Grimmauld Place.

"Surprise, it's your faithful fuckmate," she said, greeting him at the fireplace.

"Oh!" exclaimed Harry. "I didn't know if I'd see you tonight. You're lucky I came home alone," he said, grinning.

"I checked with Jamie first. Because no, I'm not interested in a threesome."

"So you've said. But that's fine, so long as you're up for a twosome." He loosened his necktie. "How was the Magpies match? Did you meet your future husband?"

"The Magpies won, and I don't think so, but it's too early to say." She congratulated him on the Cannons' victory—and gave him an earful about safety—then she told him about her afternoon. "I swear, it's getting harder to play the part."

"The virginal pureblood princess, you mean?"

"Exactly. Mind you, I still keep wizards at arm's length—I haven't forgotten my training entirely. But I'm definitely not as demure as I once was."

"Not right now you aren't, turning up like this," said Harry, his hand on her waist. "How late can you stay?"

She replied with a sound that wasn't demure at all, then drew him into a kiss. "Not late enough," she said petulantly. "Not late enough."