A/N: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters associated with him. But you knew that.

Harry Potter and The Chance Meeting

Chapter Six: A day in the life

Harry stirred in the dark, his left hand searching for Tracey… and found nothing.

That was odd; his not quite awake mind told him. His beautiful wife had been there when they had gone to bed; she rarely rose before he did. Harry didn't like odd. There was still enough Dark Wizard Hunter in his instincts to equate 'odd' with dangerous.

Dangerous was bad. He usually had to kill things that were dangerous. He cracked open an eye and saw that the clock at the side of his bed read 4:23.

The bed shifted as someone laid down behind him. Harry relaxed. She must have needed the toilet or something. He rolled onto his side and took the woman into his arms, his face nuzzling into her neck, finding a mass of hair.

Not Tracey then.

Dimly remembering that Tracey had mentioned something about Daphne returning from shooting her latest movie, Harry sighed. They did this to him on occasion, swapping out in the middle of the night. He had never figured out just how they scheduled these things, the two of them just did it. She rolled to face him and cuddled into his chest.

Life, Harry mused as sleep reclaimed him, was turning out to be pretty damned good.


Harry's alarm clock sounded its wake up call spot on 7 am. Unfortunately for his schedule, Daphne decided to assist in waking him up in the nicest way possible, a light kiss, a murmured "I've missed you," and then a sly smile as her head disappeared beneath the sheets.

This of course led to Harry returning the favor. One thing led to another and Harry didn't get to his shower until 8:20. By the time he had returned to the bedroom, he found Daphne cocooned in the blankets blissfully asleep.

He shook his head with a smile and dressed as quietly as he could.


Tracey was waiting for Harry when he got to the kitchen.

"Finally," she said with a grin. "My breakfast isn't going to make itself you know."

"Witch," Harry said, stating the obvious, as he retrieved his favorite omelet pan from its cupboard. "You could have had breakfast waiting for me you know."

"And spoil the main reason I keep you around?" his wife laughed.

"It's good to be needed," Harry said cracking an egg into a bowl. "One or two eggs?"

"Two and toast please, I'm famished. Did Daphne tire you out?"

"I'm fine, you'll still have your slave labor around your gallery today," Harry smiled as he poured his egg mixture into the omelet pan, allowing the egg to start to set before he added the cheese and mushroom buttons Tracey liked so much.

"Excellent, free labor all day and a free lunch."

"Of course," Harry sighed in a long suffering manner, "I get to do your scut work for free and buy you lunch, I'm such a lucky guy."

"That's 'buy you an expensive lunch.'" Tracey corrected with a smile.

"Yes dear,"


The Davis Gallery opened its doors exactly at 10 am, so Tracey was there by 9:30 at the latest. She presented Harry with a list of things that she needed done in the large space she rented from one of Harry's holding companies at what was frankly a ludicrously low rate for the neighborhood.

That fact had cause Harry a bit of tax trouble when an IRS agent had suggested that he might be subsidizing his wife's 'hobby' rather than investing in a business. Then Tracey turned over a half million dollars in the next quarter, and all suggestions that she might not know what she was doing went away.

Harry busied himself with his list, fixing a jammed window here, making a note to ask Tracey what colour she might like that room to be since it was past due to be repainted, changing the filter in the furnace, and just generally making himself useful in small tasks that he could have easily paid someone else to do, but for the fact that the act of doing them made him feel as if he was sharing in his wife's passion.

Even though he didn't. Harry had consoled himself that he just didn't understand art a long time ago.

Harry finished up with his list at 1:30 and went in search for Tracey. Lunch time, and he knew just the little Italian restaurant a couple of blocks over that Tracey would love, mostly because none of her trendy art friends would be caught dead in a place more concerned with how the food tasted rather than what it looked like, or perhaps more importantly who saw you noticing what it looked like.

He found his wife in her main gallery surrounded by people he didn't recognize and staring up at a canvas.

"Isn't it wonderful?" an odd fat man said from his position to Tracey's left. The man's question was immediately answered with a chorus of agreements. Harry smiled to himself as he reflected that this weirdo must be someone important... or at least important enough to rate groupies and sycophants.

Occasionally Harry found himself channelling Vernon Dursley. This man would most definitely earn Vernon's worst condemnation, 'Weirdo'. An odd hair cut, shaved on the left side and back of his head, long and shaggy on the right side and hanging down into his eyes, the man wore some of the oddest glasses Harry had ever seen, neon green frames that clashed with the man's shiny orange suit.

Harry found himself wondering if the guy was just seeing how much he could get away with before someone called him on it.

"Oh, there you are Harry," Tracey said when she noticed him, her eyes twinkling the way she did when she was about to abuse someone. "This is my husband Harry everyone."

"Ah, Mr. Davis," the fat man said his eyes sweeping Harry up and down. "You aren't in the Arts yourself, are you?"

"My name is Potter," Harry said with an easy grin. "No, I have to admit that I can't make heads or tails of most of what Tracey tells me are important pieces. I know what I like, but beyond that..."

"Excellent, you have the view of the common man," the fat man how had never bothered to introduce himself turned back to the large canvas the small group was clustered around. "What do you think of this piece?"

A quick glance to Tracey showed the smile she used to tell him to do whatever he wanted, so Harry looked up at the large painting. It was approximately six by eight foot, the canvas painted a uniform chromium yellow, with a single brush stroke of red paint that appeared to start in the middle of the canvas and extend tho the upper left corner where it left the painting.

"Well," Harry said in considered terms. "It's crap."

"What would you say," a slim woman standing next to the fat man asked, "if you were to learn that this painting just sold for 56 thousand dollars?"

"Honestly?" Harry shrugged. "I would suggest that there is a sucker born every minute and that the hack that made this mess should get that check cashed as soon as possible, because the buyer might sober up. I know it's morally wrong to allow a moron to keep his money, but this..." he gestured to the painting, "it's just horrible. The artist should be ashamed of himself and go back to painting houses."

"I see," the woman looked Harry up and down. "And what if I were to tell you that the artist is a woman?"

"Well, that's completely different," Harry said. "In that case I would suggest that there is a sucker born every minute and that the she should get that check cashed as soon as possible, because the buyer might sober up. I might also suggest that she should be ashamed of herself for being such a fraud. I sort of expect that sort of thing from men, but..."

The woman's eyes narrowed, "and what would you say if I were to tell you that I was the artist?"

Harry's face showed his surprise and he glanced at his wife's smiling face. "You set me up, didn't you?" Returning his attention to the disgruntled artist Harry continued. "You really should get that check cashed as soon as possible. Seriously. And I retract that comment about going back to painting houses. Now that I look at the painting, the quality just isn't there. You can even see the roller marks in the yellow."

"You know nothing of art!" she declared with a sniff.

"I fully admit that, and remember, I was asked for my opinion," Harry pointed out. "I just know what I like. As a basic rule of thumb I define art as something that looks interesting and that I personally cannot do." He pointed to the painting in question, "I can do that. In fact I have done that several times when I changed my mind about the color I was using when I was painting a room. That is crap. The technique used to waste that canvas would look horrible on a wall."


"I've been waiting for years for someone to ask your opinion about the art I sell," Tracey laughed. "And did you ever come through. They'll be talking about this for years. I'll get invitations to so many parties with the hope that you'll come along."

"I'll be quiet," Harry said apologetically.

"Don't you dare!" Tracey laughed. "You just said what needed to be said. Once the word gets out a lot of people who have been thinking the same thing will have the courage to speak their minds and a fair portion of the hacks will be laughed out of the business."

"But you own several of that woman's paintings," Harry pointed out as he opened the door to the restaurant, "and a lot by other artists using basically the same style."

"I do," Tracey admitted. "Because I suspect that after the word gets out about what my dear husband had to say, and they are driven to honest work, there will be a bit of a backlash in about three years and my inventory's value will skyrocket."

Harry had to laugh at his still so very Slytherin wife's plans and plots.

"Harry!" the young woman behind the podium called.

"Afternoon Ingrid," Harry responded. "table for two please?"

"Of course," the blond woman said, gathering a pair of menus and leading the way to the back of the dining area. "Here we are, your usual table."

"Thank you Ingrid, this is my wife Tracey."

Ingrid offered Tracey her best smile, "Welcome to Ermilio's, and I hope you don't mind when I say that your husband is a wonderful man."

"That's why I keep him around," Tracey answered with her own smile.

"This is one of your investments I assume?" she asked as soon as they were left alone with a pointed look at the hostess who was now back at her station. "Should I be worried that you are here enough to have a 'usual table'?"

"What? Ingrid? Come on love, you know I don't like them tall leggy and blonde with big luscious boobies," Harry grinned while reaching across the table to take her left hand, his thumb rubbing small circles in her palm. "I like them short, cuddly and feisty with boobies just the right size."

"I'm going to hurt you," Tracey explained.

"Ok, ok." Harry laughed. "Last year when you went to that show in Atlanta I wandered into a little hole in the wall dive and ordered dinner. The place was a absolute pit, but the food... just amazing. Anyway I was sitting there being amazed by the Baccala alla Vicentina when the places' owner was following this young lad out of the kitchen screaming at the top of his lungs. Ermilio was screaming right back about the poor quality of the produce that was purchased and the lack of cleanliness of the place."

"Only you Harry," Tracey said shaking her head.

"Hey, I didn't go looking for it. The idiot owner of the place fired him then and there and Ermilio stormed out into the street. I was finished with my meal, and decided that I didn't need dessert. So I paid my bill and ran after the guy. I introduced myself and asked if everything he cooked was as good as what I had, and he apologized over the poor quality."

"You are amazing," Tracey said. "You could fall in a manure pile and come out smelling sweet."

"I just happened across a very good chef working in a very bad restaurant."

"So, you set him up?"

"Partnership," Harry explained. "Three way, I'm a third, Ermilio is a third and his wife Ingrid is the other. I provide the money, Ermilio provides the artistry, and Ingrid provides the sanity. We agreed to give it five years to turn a profit. He has good nights, but nothing consistent yet. We'll get there, or pull the plug. Either way great food in the meantime."

A waitress arrived and took their orders.


"You were right," Tracey said as they left Ermilio's, "he's great. Does he cater?"

"I don't know, I could ask."

"I think catering a few of my little shows would raise his profile with quite a few people," she smiled. "Ermilio gains a reputation and makes a little money, which goes to you and you spend it on me. A perfect plan."

"Your altruism knows no bounds," Harry laughed. "I finished your list of chores, oh great taskmistress. What would your bidding be for this afternoon?"

"I've got a few things that need done in my office," she reached out and squeezed his left butt cheek as they walked along the busy street. "Important things."

Harry's eyebrows rose. "You're going to kill me, woman."

"If you're lucky anyway."


The looks of shocked amazement on the faces of Tracey's staff as he exited his wife's office annoyed Harry a bit, but not enough to pull the smile off his face. Yes children, he thought, people in their thirties have sex. Even during the day if the mood strikes them.

"Nobody move!"

Harry's back had been to the door so he missed the entrance of the speaker, but the look of shock on the girl Tracey employed as a Gallery assistant told him the story. The Davis Gallery was being robbed. Again.

Harry slowly turned to face the thief. He was in for something of a disappointment. Everyone seemed to think that an art gallery was flush with cash, ignoring the fact that no one really dealt with that kind of money used cash.

"All I want is the money, no one needs to get hurt!" the thief declared.

Harry busied himself in trying to identify the pistol in the man's hand. Having never encountered a real gun during his time in Britain, he had become familiar with the weapons when he hunted Dark Wizards. It turned out that not all magic users shared the dismissive attitude toward Muggle weapons held by most European Wizards. The thief was carrying a weapon smaller than those popular with the Dark Wizards of a few years before, possibly a 9 millimeter.

The Gallery assistant screamed, which brought Tracey running from her office.

"Give me the money!"

It took Tracey all of half a second to figure out what was going on. "Calm down. We don't have that much money around here. Most of our business is done with credit cards. I've got about $200 in my wallet."

"Don't lie to me!" the man screamed.

Lie to him, Harry thought at Tracey as hard as he could. Lie to him and give him what he wants.A minor duplication spell would make her $200 into thousands for an hour or so.

Tracey had other ideas however. Being called a liar had actually made her angry. "I'm not lying you arse. This isn't a bodega, this is a high end gallery. We don't deal in cash!"

"Bitch!" the thief spat as he moved to strike Tracey across the face with the pistol.


Harry glanced at his watch and sighed. Four hours in this stuffy room explaining his actions to a pair of policemen who seemed to be doing a bad Good Cop/Bad Cop routine. He'd over done it with the thief, and Tracey was going to make his life a living hell for it.

"Are we boring you Mr. Potter?" the 'bad' cop asked.

"No, not at all," Harry lied to the police detective. "I was just thinking of the hell I'm going to catch from the wife over today."

"So, once again, tell me what happened." The 'good cop' asked. Actually he wasn't all that much of a 'good cop' he was the 'slightly less offensive cop'.

"I was spending the day helping out around my wife's art gallery. I did a little maintenance in the morning, took Tracey to lunch, we fooled around in her office for a while, and then that idiot tried to rob the Gallery."

The Bad Cop seemed to take on a Snape like sneer. A very neat trick. Harry idly wondered if the detective could make his rain coat billow behind him. "From what I've been able to find out about you, you're stinking rich, why were you doing maintenance at an art gallery?"

"I own the building and am fairly handy, so I see no real reason to pay for something that I am fully capable of doing as long as I've got the time."

"And McFarland? How did he figure into your free time?" the Slightly Less Offensive Cop asked.

"The thief? He tried to hit my wife."

"You broke his jaw, his left arm, and fractured his skull when you shoved his head through a wall. He's got a concussion and hasn't woken up yet," Bad Cop pointed out. "The paramedic said that he might die."

"He tried to hit my wife," Harry repeated, slowly as if he were explaining things to a child. "His arm probably broke when I hyper extended his elbow joint to get him to drop his weapon. He kept fighting after he lost the gun, so I had to get nasty about it." Harry shrugged.

"The employees at the gallery all said that they'd never seen someone move as fast as you did when you were fighting McFarland," Bad Cop said.

"I find it interesting that McFarland is a head taller and out weighs you by a good hundred pounds, yet you managed to fuck him up so badly," Slightly Less Offensive Cop said.

"I thought I fucked him up rather effectively," Harry said. "He's a big man. Big men rarely learn how to fight. They almost never need to."

"Where did you learn to fight?" Bad Cop asked for perhaps the fiftieth time.

"Private school in Scotland," Harry answered. "You'd probably never heard of it before today. It's called Hogwarts and the School Board believed that the ability to defend yourself was a cornerstone of a good education. I was good at it and took private tuition after I left school. I could give you the names of the Dojo's I studied at if you'd like, but it's been years and none of them are in the US, so I've no idea if they're still open."

"You're evidently pretty good at it, why didn't you just put him into a sleeper hold or something?" Bad Cop asked, pushing his point.

"Why are Police Officers trained to shoot for the center of body mass?"

"That's hardly the same thing," Slightly Less Offensive Cop said.

"I disagree, it's exactly the same thing. Step one of the encounter is to disarm your opponent. After I did that, he kept fighting. He is, as you pointed out bigger and stronger than I am. I wasn't going to play nice with someone who just tried to hit a woman in the face with a pistol. I took him down hard because he made me take him down hard."

Slightly Less Offensive Cop asked. "What would you have done if he had actually hit your wife?"

"If he had managed to hit my wife, I'd have killed him. Slowly." Harry explained.

That answer seemed to surprise Slightly Less Offensive Cop while Bad Cop slammed his fist down on the metal table that separated the two policemen and Harry. "I hate vigilantes."

"A vigilante would be someone out looking for trouble," Harry pointed out as he rose to his feet. He had had enough of this. "I was minding my own business spending the day with my wife and the thief you're so concerned about came to me. And he tried to hit my wife. I suppose it is possible that I overreacted, but he was armed and I was not. I did what I felt I needed to do to protect my wife and her employees. Now then, as you so politely pointed out, I am stinking rich. I'm tired of your questions, I'm getting angry at your veiled accusations, and I'm ready to leave. Unless you are charging me I think I'll be leaving."

"Sit down Mr. Potter," Slightly Less Offensive Cop said.

"I think we will be charging you." Bad Cop smirked.

"Ok, what are you charging me with? No, never mind. I want my lawyer. Hell, I want my Lawyer's whole firm," Harry laughed. "It will give them something to do to earn those retainers I pay them.

"You seem awfully confident for someone in as much trouble as you are." Bad Cop snarled.

Harry raised a finger. "Ah ah ah. I've seen enough television cop shows to know that as soon as I ask for my lawyers, the interview is over. You don't want to blow your case against me by giving me the technicalities I need to walk away do you?" Harry paused and waved at the mirror on the wall of the interrogation room. "To repeat, I want my lawyer."

The door opened and a man in a suit entered the room, followed by a uniformed Police Captain. "This interview is over, Mr. Potter is free to go," the suit said.

"Who are you?" Bad Cop rumbled.

The man in the suit offered an ID Card and a raised eyebrow.

Both of the police detectives looked at the card and then turned to look at Harry with surprise. "What kind of pull do you have with the Feds?" Slightly Less Offensive Cop asked.


"If you had used magic against the idiot," the man in the suit said as he fell into step with Harry outside the police station, "we would have been able to react faster and and would have prevented the police from bothering you Mr. Potter."

Harry glanced over at the man. "Do I know you?"

"Me personally? No. But we at the NSA Magic Directorate know about you Mr. Potter, you and your history,"

Harry wasn't really sure how to respond to that, so he motioned to call a cab. He wanted to get home, but he wasn't going to apparate in front of some stranger.

"Mr. Potter, I've been directed to offer you a ride home. If you take a cab, or use other methods, I could get into trouble..."

Harry stopped and raised an eyebrow.

"Not Voldemort level trouble granted, but my boss can be a cast iron bitch."

"Fine," Harry said surrendering to the inevitable, while wondering just who this guy was. He watched as the man raised his left hand to his mouth and spoke some nonsense phrase into his wrist. With instantly a large black sedan with windows tinted black pulled up at the curb, seemingly ignoring the traffic around it.

The man in the suit opened the door. "Get in Mr. Potter."


Harry was only moderately surprised to find that the car was significantly larger inside than the outside would indicate.

"Mr. Potter," the Gray haired black woman sitting in the back seat said looking up from a file folder, "do sit down."

A rear facing seat folded out at her gesture. Harry seated himself. "And you are?"

"My name is unimportant," she responded. "For the record, telling the police that you would have killed anyone is an exceptionally bad idea. You should remember that."

Harry regarded her for a moment. She appeared to be an older woman, not that her appearance was necessarily important. Witches could look pretty much any way they wanted, and this woman most specifically was a witch, that much was clear.

"I am far too busy to deal with unimportant people with unimportant names, I have an upset wife who is going to need to scream at me for a while before she can calm down," Harry said in a cold voice. The stress of dealing with the thief and then having to put up with a pair of detectives with major sticks up their arses was beginning to tell on his attitude. "Either tell me who you are or tell me good bye."

The woman smiled. "I had worried that your retirement might have dulled your edge Mr. Potter. Your performance at your wife's gallery and with the policemen have proven my concerns to be
pointless. My name is Marsillia Johns and I head the Magic Directorate of the National Security Agency."

Harry slid into the offered seat as the door closed and the car began its journey. "And what can I do for you Ms. Johns?"

"It's more of what we can do for you Mr. Potter. We always appreciated the fact that back when you hunted Darks you never did so within our jurisdiction."

"I never worked in a whole lot of jurisdictions," Harry noted. "Magical societies that are relatively stable aren't usually targets of internal unrest. Besides, the FBI got Ridgway the same day I picked up a contract on him, or I would have."

"Yes, I know. I counseled against offering you that contract. We could and did handle Ridgway. More recently there have been incidents that required far more resources than we could afford to lose to deal with effectively. I would like to be able to call on your services if we need you," she pressed.

"As you said, I retired from hunting Darks."

"Mr. Potter," Johns said in a manner that was disturbingly like that of Minerva McGonagall whenever she thought Harry was being particularly stupid. "I think your actions today demonstrated quite clearly that you haven't retired. You've simply taken a break. I am not really all that interested in hiring a new enforcement arm, I want the experience you earned the hard way. I want you to train my people."

The woman paused, studying Harry's face. "In the last year I've lost almost a dozen agents to stupid mistakes. I have no one at my disposal with your level of experience, and I need you as a trainer. What I am proposing is that you come on board as a consultant, coming to our facilities once or twice a year as needed and share what you've learned."

"Why should I?"

"Well, we've always known who you were and what you were doing, and we've left you alone, while monitoring for any problems concerning you.. You didn't get that kind of consideration from your birth nation."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I'm pleased to know you've been spying on me."

"Not spying on you Mr. Potter. We have no interest in your daily life. We monitor for your magic. If you were to start casting offensive spells, or for that matter large amounts of any kind of magic we would check on your situation. You are a man who has destroyed mages that threatened to overthrow entire nations. If my people didn't pay attention to you I wouldn't deserve my position would I?"

Harry blinked at that. He really hadn't considered how dangerous he might appear to the world.

"Well, we've arrived at your home," Johns noted. She smiled when she noticed the surprise on the younger man's face. "Our cars employ the same charms as the 'Knights Bus' of your childhood home. It gives a bit of an advantage in dealing with city traffic." She extended her right hand and placed a business card into his hand. "Consider my request. That card has my direct number. For whatever reason you've chosen to live in the United States, I'm just asking you to assist the United States in defending itself."


As soon as he entered the apartment she was wrapped around him.

"You stupid, stupid Gryffindor," Tracey sobbed into his chest. "He had a weapon. Did you use your wand? Of course not, you took him on hand to hand. Moron! Idiot! Fool! Gryffindor!" she punctuated each of the last four words with her right fist thumping against his chest.

"He was going to hit you," Harry said quietly while pulling her tightly against his body. "I couldn't let that happen. Was everyone else alright?"

"I sent everyone home, and we may not open tomorrow. Damn it Harry, what were you thinking? I've too much time invested in you to allow you to just throw it all away!"

"He wasn't that much of a challenge Tracey," he whispered in her ear. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

"You should be. When they took you away, it was all I could do not to start hexing people," she blew her nose into his shirt. "You deserve it."

"I know," Harry said rubbing her back and wondering how quickly he could get the shirt off. "Come on, after today I need a shower."

Tracey looked up into his eyes. "Just like that? Do you really think I'm going to let you..."

"I think I'm sweaty and need a shower," he pressed his forehead against hers. "I also think that it would do you some good as well."

"I thought I was going to lose you," Tracey said in a small voice. "It was like Bolivia all over again."

"I'm not going anywhere Tracey, I promise."


The hot water ran down Harry's body as he held Tracey close.

"You're sure it's over?" she asked.

"Yes. The police were trying to make something of my reaction before the NSA showed up."

Tracey stiffened in his arms again. "The NSA?"

"Yeah," Harry responded as he nuzzled her neck. "They did the whole 'spy' thing as if it were a bad movie. They offered me a job."

"No," she looked up into his eyes. "You aren't going back to that. I'll leave you if you ever think about it."

"I'd already decided that I was turning them down," Harry said as he began soaping her up, paying special attention to her chest that for some reason he seemed to find particularly dirty and in need of scrubbing. "I'll call in a few days and let them know."

The door to the shower swung open.

"There you two are," Daphne called out with an evil grin. "I had lunch with my agent today, he's got me an audition for with a great script. It's a real chance to get exposed to a whole new audience, a real find." she paused, taking in Tracey's expression. "Did I miss something?"


"Welcome to Swinehurst."

Harry looked up from the book he was reading to find Daphne sitting in the chair she used to go over scripts. The chair was nominally a spare for the room and was used infrequently. Since it wasn't part of the room setting Daphne found it a convenient place to practice without being distracted by others in the room.

"Welcome to Swinehurst," she said again, this time trying another dialect.

"What are you working on Daphne?" Tracey asked from her desk.

"It's just that audition I mentioned. Oh, Harry it's going to be based on that Duncan Blood series you like so much, maybe you can make suggestions to help me get the character down. The author, J. K. Riley is going to be at the audition. She's insisting on an all British cast you see, and if I do well maybe I could get her to autograph one of your books."

Tracey and Harry exchanged a look and smiled. Evidently neither of them had told Daphne just who Duncan Blood was based on. "What character are you trying for?"

"The Deputy Head Mistress, Athena McAllistor."

"Ah, that will be a good role for you. Try it like Professor McGonagall did when we arrived for our sorting."

Daphne thought for a moment and then nodded. "Welcome to Swinehurst," she said in a Scots dialect matching that of Minerva McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because…" she trailed off.

"What's wrong Daph?" Tracey asked.

"This is what McGonagall said that night," Daphne said, staring at the script in her hand. "This is exactly what she said."

"Well, there is a reason for that," Harry grinned. "Swinehurst is, well, sort of based on Hogwarts."

"And Athena McAllistor is…"

"Minerva McGonagall." Tracey smiled at her friend.

"That means that Duncan Blood…"

"That would be," Harry laughed, "me, sort of."

"But who is J.?" Daphne asked.

"You know her as Hermione Weasley." Tracey answered.

"Oh bloody hell. No pressure for this audition."