HP: A Cadmean Victory Remastered

Lyle approached Harry after their morning practice session, as they walked back to the lockers before lunch. 'Harry, thanks so much for allowing us to invite friends to the party. I'm really looking forward to it, and not only because I'm dead curious to see that house of yours.'

'I suppose it's gaining a reputation.'

'Yeah, Toujours pur,' smirked Lyle. 'But I need to ask you something. I want to bring my best mate, Connor, but he's a werewolf. Got bit during the war. He takes Wolfsbane at the full moon, and it won't be full moon anyway, but ...'

'Of course he can come. One of my dad's best friends was a werewolf, and he was like family to me.'

Lyle looked relieved. 'Thanks, Harry. Not all wizards feel that way.'

'I know, Remus had a hard time of it.'

'Remus? Really?'

'Yeah, I know.'

Harry had told the reserves they could bring three guests, except for Owen who could bring four, and everyone was excited about the party. Next he would go to Gringotts with the invitation list and portkey limits, and the invitations would be sent directly from the bank.

In some respects, throwing the party felt like a more radical decision than quitting his job at the Ministry had been. It seemed highly symbolic that he was opening a house that had once been virtually sealed under a Fidelius Charm. Furthermore, he knew Sirius would approve, and it felt like a step towards fulfilling his godfather's wish that he remake the Blacks as a Light family. Harry suspected there would be press coverage, which he dreaded, but he hoped it would call attention to the wizarding schools that had previously been ignored.

He approached Darren on the way back from lunch. 'I'd like your opinion on something,' he said. 'I'm considering inviting Alistair to the party.'

'Are you serious?'

'I am, but I honestly don't know whether it's a good idea.'

'What, in terms of safety?' asked Darren. 'He's not going to eat anyone.'

'I know, but as you've pointed out he's dangerous in other ways as well.'

'A bit too charismatic, you mean?'

'For example. Nearly everyone I'm inviting is in their late teens, and I don't want to inadvertently lead someone down a twisted path.'

Darren nodded. 'That's a valid concern. But I suspect you and he could come to an agreement based around his code of honour.'

'What do you mean exactly?' asked Harry.

'Part of why he's so powerful among vampires is that he's built a strong network of trust based on his code of conduct. When he gives his word, he keeps it very strictly. Mind you, he doesn't give his word to just anyone. I'm told he can be as savage as any other vampire under the right circumstances. But if he wants to attend your party, you and he will reach an agreement about how you expect him to behave, and then you can rest assured he'll keep to it.'

'That sounds good, but I'm not confident I can negotiate effectively with a vampire. He was rather compelling.'

'No, he'll do it by owl. His code would prevent him from influencing a negotiation that way.'

'Interesting,' said Harry. 'Now I definitely want to invite him.'

'You should require him to bring at least one thrall, or ideally two. That would create a sort of buffer, since he needs to expend a portion of his charisma to keep them in check.'

'And you think he'd agree to that?'

'For you, probably. I'm sure he'll appreciate the historic significance of the party—immortals get off on that sort of thing. Makes a good story later on, you know.'

After lunch, Harry went to the benches with his broom and was pleased to see Owen there. 'Will you be joining us, or are you getting your nails done again like yesterday?'

Owen laughed and said, 'Tuttle asked me to show you how not to be so bloody predictable.'

'I'm all ears. Do you want to sit down?'

'Yeah, could do,' said Owen, taking a seat on one of the benches, and Harry sat next to him. 'I've given your new strategy some thought, and I agree it has potential. But we'll need to find a way around the disadvantages.'

'Like the part where it's completely exhausting?'

'For example. But also the part where you fell back into your old Seeking habits.'

Harry nodded. 'Yeah, by the end I was completely unable to expand into awareness and hold an intention. I was too tired, and also too agitated from all those aggressive feints.'

'That's part of your problem,' said Owen. 'Your feints were uniformly aggressive. The fact is, more often than not, when the Snitch appears it's in the middle of nowhere and not right next to Beaters. So if you want your feints to be more convincing, you should occasionally take a straight shot towards an empty patch.'

'But won't it be too easy for my opponent to see there's no Snitch there?'

Owen shook his head. 'You're forgetting you'll be in a stadium packed with fans wearing blinding orange. There's much more visual distraction during a league match than I'm sure you ever experienced at Hogwarts.'

'You're right, and I should have realised that, considering I played in a packed stadium three days ago.'

'No worries—you're still getting used to league play. So I'd encourage you to take an easy feint from time to time. And it'll have the added advantage of clearing your head a bit.'

'Good point,' said Harry. 'And it could help with the fatigue problem as well.'

'Exactly. And then you need to vary your intervals. I know Tuttle told you to feint like mad, but you should occasionally go ten minutes or longer without a feint. It'll help you expand back into awareness, and your opponent will be more likely to take the bait afterwards.'

'Not to mention the Snitch might turn up during those ten minutes.'

'Stranger things have happened,' said Owen.

Harry looked at Owen and asked, 'What was your experience yesterday? Tuttle wants me to scare the shit out of my opponents—her words. Did I have that effect, or did I just seem unhinged?'

'I wouldn't describe you as "unhinged" so much as "frighteningly single-minded." It crossed my mind yesterday that I was getting an up-close look at the Harry Potter who broke out of Gringotts on the back of a dragon.'

'Oh dear. Probably not my sanest moment.'

'I suspect not, but it was necessary. And I'm sure there are plenty of people who still question your sanity, but nobody doubts your dedication to a task.'

'Even so, I can't believe anyone would confuse my desire to catch the Snitch with my drive to defeat Voldemort.'

'It doesn't matter. People aren't thinking logically in a situation like that, and we aren't equipped to fully evaluate a threat when we're faced with it. Afterwards, yes. But during? No—we act on instinct.'

'Interesting. So as long as I'm exuding intensity, or whatever you want to call it, my opponents are going to react as if I'm liable to kill them? I'm not sure that's how I want to interact with people. Quidditch is supposed to be fun, after all.'

'It is fun,' said Owen. 'The uncertainty only lasts a moment, and afterwards the mind reclassifies the threat appropriately. Have you ever been on a Muggle rollercoaster?'

'No.'

'Neither have I, but I'm told they're enjoyable precisely because they're so scary, and because they trick our mind and body momentarily into thinking we're about to die.'

Harry frowned. 'I've got personal experience of this—genuinely knowing I was about to die—and there was nothing fun about it. Serene, perhaps, but not exhilarating or fun.'

'Right, but that was a prolonged experience, not a momentary one,' said Owen. 'What about in battle? Did you ever have a moment where you thought you were about to die—just a moment—but by the time you realised it you'd already survived?'

'More times than I could count.'

'What did that feel like?'

'Usually it was followed almost immediately by a similar threat, so it was more gruelling than anything. But I'm starting to grasp what you're saying. There's also an intoxicating burst of adrenaline, and a surge of ... aliveness.'

'Exactly,' said Owen. 'When you interact with an opponent that way, they're going to feel a similar surge. The fans too, for that matter.'

'But what about catching the Snitch?'

'Good point. I may have gone off topic a bit. What was your original question?'

'I think it was whether I seemed appropriately intimidating or merely mad as a hatter?'

'The former. Definitely the former.'

Harry nodded. 'That said, I'm not sure I want a reputation among the league Seekers as a ticking time-bomb.'

'No, it's just like taunting. Everyone knows it's not serious, at least not usually.'

'All right, so getting back to your instructions … You're saying I should do some boring feints every now and again, just to clear my head and throw my opponent off the scent. And take the occasional long interval between feints for the same reason. Anything else?'

'This is going to sound mental, but you should occasionally go after your own Chasers,' said Owen.

'But what if I force a turnover? I've discovered it's dead easy to throw Chasers off balance.'

'You'll need to practice that with them. Perhaps they can take precautions.'

Harry nodded. 'You're right, and that was a big oversight in yesterday's approach. Do you think I should warn them before the practice match?'

'Yes, definitely.'

There was a shout from Tuttle. 'Hey Seekers, are you planning on flying today?'

'We're considering it,' responded Owen. 'Await my owl.' She glared at them and turned away.

'What do you think, should we do some flying?' asked Harry.

'No, it'll just encourage her,' said Owen, standing from the benches and picking up his broomstick.

They spent the rest of the session chasing a practice Snitch, and Harry was able to hone his spotting skills. He found it relaxing to expand into awareness and allow the Snitch simply to appear.

By the time Tuttle blew the whistle, Harry had found the Snitch as often as Owen had. 'Well done,' said Owen. 'Now the trick is whether you can do the same during the match, when you're flying around like a Confunded pixie.'

Tuttle divided the teams for the practice match in a new way: starters versus reserves, only with Harry and Owen switched. Harry quickly approached the reserves to warn them about the new strategy. 'I'm occasionally going to feint right into you, even though we're on the same side. Owen rightly pointed out that it won't be convincing if I only attack my opponents.'

Titus grumbled and said, 'And here I thought I'd have a break from mad Seekers plowing into me.'

The balls were released, and Harry started his usual pattern. He was more deliberate about setting his intention than he'd been the day before, and he expanded into a powerful state of oneness with all three dimensions of the pitch, including the flyers within it. If the Snitch had appeared in those five minutes, he surely would have spotted it.

But it didn't, so he dove into his first feint. It was a textbook, non-aggressive feint, and Harry could sense Tuttle's disappointment. But he wasn't bothered—this was just a warm-up for the mayhem to come.

Next time, he zig-zagged erratically, first towards the ground and then up through his own Chasers towards a goalpost. He disrupted them, and they missed a shot as a result, but they didn't lose control of the Quaffle. But Harry didn't notice whether they scored after that, because he resumed his Seeking pattern with a particularly strong intention.

Owen attempted a modified version of Harry's Chaser feint, but he was more cautious than Harry would have been and didn't disrupt them. Harry stopped following him relatively quickly, knowing the Snitch wasn't there.

'That was sweet of you to say hi to the Chasers,' said Harry. 'Were you feeling lonely?'

'I was, but now that you've found me I'm mysteriously craving solitude,' said Owen.

'With your fan club, you mean?'

'No, with your parents.'

'Nice one,' said Harry. 'I never realised I'd develop an appreciation for dead parent jokes—thanks for expanding my horizons.' He flew away and resumed his Seeking pattern.

But not for long—he shot towards the rings and nearly crashed into Janet, who shouted at him. 'You're a bloody maniac, Snitchbottom!'

'I love you too,' he cried cheerfully, before resuming his search.

In the end he managed to satisfy Tuttle with a series of bloodthirsty feints, most of which Owen was forced to follow at least in part. It was tiring but not as bad as Monday had been, and he was still maintaining good spotting practices.

But it was Owen who got the Snitch. He and Harry sighted it simultaneously, but Owen was in a better position to catch it. 'Good effort,' said Owen. 'Your feints were more convincing, and it looks like you're not as knackered as yesterday.'

'Yeah, that was definitely better,' said Harry as they flew to the benches. 'I'm starting to feel more confident in this approach.'

During her post-match notes, Tuttle agreed. 'Seekers, good work. I don't know whose idea it was to have Potter attack his own side, but that was right on the money.'

'It was Owen's,' said Harry.

'Potter, I reckon you should work tomorrow with the starting Chasers—practice disrupting them and see whether they can recover. Which will give them an advantage when other Seekers start copying you and coming after them as well.'

'Merlin help us,' muttered Darren.

After their stretches, the players walked back to the building and Owen approached Harry again. 'Regarding your concern about what the other league Seekers think of you, I've been meaning to tell you we have a monthly get-together, and naturally you're invited. Next one is this coming Monday.'

'That sounds excellent,' replied Harry. 'Count me in.'

'It'll be at a pub somewhere—I'll let you know. And it's good you'll join us, because otherwise they'll just pepper me with questions the entire time.'

When they reached the building, Lara got Harry's attention. 'Do you have a moment, or are you knackered again? I can get you another Energy Draught if you need one.'

'No, I'm doing much better today. What's up?'

'We're starting to receive a lot of post on your behalf,' she said, 'and I'm wondering what you'd like us to do with it.'

'Do you have a standard procedure?'

'It depends on the player's preference. Some players want to read everything short of the Howlers. Others don't want to see a single letter, so we just send form replies to the friendly ones. Most players fall somewhere in between, allowing us to screen everything and pass along anything that looks significant. But it looks like you're going to have a rather high volume, and it seems to be more ... polarised than what most players receive.'

Harry sighed. 'Yeah, I'm not shocked.'

'What have you done about it in the past?' asked Lara.

'Not as much as you might think. Apparently Albus Dumbledore intercepted my post for years, until he died, and naturally I didn't receive anything while I was in hiding. After the war I would normally have engaged Gringotts to take care of it, but that wasn't an option, so the Ministry offered to handle it. I suspect they just Vanish the lot of it, to be honest.'

'Right, that's one approach. But it's against team policy to ignore fan mail completely. It's the fans who pay our salaries, after all.'

'Good point. I suppose I should have you screen it, and then send form replies to most of them but let the more interesting letters through. Unless that creates an undue burden, of course.'

'We may have to hire another staff person, but that's not a problem. Ticket sales are up, and they're expecting merchandise sales to skyrocket, so it's only fair there'd be some added expense.' She added, 'We'll have them sort it by category: letters from kids, hate mail, marriage proposals, and so forth. And then you can decide which ones you're interested in.'

'I'd just as soon skip the hate mail, thanks.'

'You never know ... Some players make a drinking game out of it. But I suppose you already have Sirius Black's mother insulting you on a daily basis.'

'Not much longer, fingers crossed,' said Harry. 'I'm meeting with the portrait painter tonight to see if we can't eject her for good.'

'Then don't let me keep you—good luck!'

Harry showered and returned to Grimmauld Place with only ten minutes to spare before Louisa Gesso was to arrive with the new painting. He was expecting Hermione as well, and he hoped she'd arrive early, since he was getting nervous.

She obliged him by arriving through the kitchen fireplace and finding him in the sitting room. 'I hope it's all right I came unannounced. I didn't think you'd be "entertaining" right now, but perhaps I should have sent my otter just in case.'

'Very funny, Granger. But no, I'm perfectly respectable at present.'

'That's good. How are you doing?'

'I'm pretty anxious, to be honest. I tried not to get my hopes up about the painting, but I'm seeing now how thoroughly I've failed. As much as we joke about Walburga, I'm really desperate to have her out of the house.'

Hermione nodded. 'I don't blame you. It can't be fun having to tiptoe through your own home. And she's very inconveniently placed.'

'You make it sound like it was an accident, but you know it wasn't. She was a vindictive old cow, and she made Sirius's childhood a living hell.'

'I know,' she said sympathetically.

'Sirius charged me with bringing House Black into the Light, and I feel like getting rid of Walburga is a piece of that.'

'I agree, but you can't blame yourself if it doesn't work. And hopefully it will work.'

'Right,' he said dully. 'We should go wait for Louisa at the fireplace.'

They went upstairs and walked past Walburga for what they hoped would be the last time. She was sleeping, thank Merlin, and they waited in the formal reception room.

The fireplace flared green and Louisa stepped out, carrying a large framed canvas wrapped in cloth. 'I didn't want to shrink it,' she said. 'It'll be safe to do so later, but for now we want the painting in its purest form.'

Harry took it from her. 'Please, come in. And I'd like to introduce my friend Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is Louisa Gesso.'

'It's nice to meet you,' said Hermione. 'And I'm fascinated to observe the process.'

Harry looked impatiently at the wrapped canvas. 'May I have a look?'

'Of course,' said Louisa. 'Let's unwrap it in here, and I'll explain the procedure.' She directed Harry to set the canvas upright atop a chair. 'Please, do the honours,' she said.

He lifted the cloth away to reveal a large portrait of Padfoot. Upon seeing Harry and Hermione, Padfoot bounded eagerly and started barking, before settling into a doggy grin with his tongue hanging out.

'Oh, that's lovely!' exclaimed Hermione. 'It's just like him.'

Harry was overcome with emotion and unable to speak. He tentatively reached his hand towards the surface of portrait, as if to pet it.

'I know, Harry, I had the same impulse,' said Hermione. 'That's the only hard part, not being able to play with him.'

Harry nodded, his eyes shining. 'You've done a beautiful job, Louisa, regardless of whether it works. Thank you.'

'It was my pleasure, Harry.'

'What's that in the background?' asked Hermione.

Louisa looked a little sheepish. 'I confess, I got a bit fanciful. Harry said that if we were successful in ousting Mrs. Black, he wanted to give the portrait to one of his mates. So I thought I'd give her a suitable backdrop.'

There was a marked contrast between Padfoot and his setting. He was in a room that looked like a cross between the drawing room as they'd originally found it and a grisly laboratory. The shelves were coated in cobwebs and contained any number of spooky artefacts.

'I think I recognise some of those from Borgin and Burkes,' said Harry. 'Is that a Hand of Glory?'

'Yes,' replied Louisa. 'An ordinary candle seemed so pedestrian.'

'But you've a candelabra as well,' said Hermione. 'Decorated with ... scorpions?'

'Yes, and snakes.'

'What's that in the cage?' asked Harry.

'It's a breeding pair of naked mole rats,' said Louisa.

'A breeding pair? Will there be more?' asked Hermione, alarmed.

'No, but two of the same gender would tear each other apart. And a single one struck me as a bit too forlorn, even if it isn't sentient.'

'So what's the next step?' asked Harry.

'We'll carry the painting into the entrance hall and I'll perform a charm that grants Padfoot access to Mrs Black's portrait. And then we wait.'

'How long before we know whether it works? Are we talking hours, or days?'

'Minutes. He'll either do it or not—there won't be any mystery.'

Harry took a deep breath. 'All right, here we go.' He lifted the new painting and carried it to the next room.

There was a large console beneath Walburga's portrait. Hermione stepped ahead and removed the tray of burnt scones, and Harry placed the new painting there.

Louisa performed a wand movement and said 'Irrumpo picturum,' and in an instant Padfoot leapt from his frame into Walburga's.

She awoke. 'What filthy beast breeches my sanctum?'

Padfoot snarled at her and began to tug violently at the cuff of her sleeve.

She narrowed her eyes at him. 'I know you. You were always a wretched cur, from the day they first placed you on my breast. I should have crushed you with my bare hands.'

Padfoot had let go of her sleeve and was baring his dripping fangs at her. He looked ready to pounce.

Walburga looked nervous and started creeping backwards. 'Begone, hound! I already cast you from this family, disappointment as you are, were, and ever shall be.'

Louisa nudged Harry. 'Egg him on.'

'Padfoot, get her!' cried Harry. 'Go for the jugular!'

Padfoot leapt at Walburga's throat and she shrieked in terror. 'Get down! Down! Kreacher!'

The house-elf did not appear. 'It's over, Walburga,' said Harry. 'Save yourself and leave the frame at once.'

Panicked, she dodged Padfoot's snapping jaw and fled from the portrait into the neighbouring frame. Louisa immediately aimed her wand and cried, 'Attrapo!'

'Most vile blood-traitor!' shrieked Walburga at Louisa. 'You have brought shame upon your lineage by abetting the loathsome, half-blood lothario!'

Louisa cast an amused glance at Harry before tapping Walburga with her wand, rendering her silent. 'You're sure you don't want to Incendio her? I won't mind.'

Elated, he said, 'No, she's got a brilliant future at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.' He turned to Louisa and said, 'You've done it! I can't believe it. How can I possibly thank you? Besides paying you, of course.'

She smiled. 'This is what I do. It's my pleasure, Harry.'

'Would you like me to give you credit somehow? She'll be on public display—we can list your name if you like.'

Louisa shook her head quickly. 'Ye gods, no. I don't want my name anywhere near her. But feel free to recommend me personally.'

Padfoot drew their attention by whining. 'What is it, boy?' asked Harry. The dog sat up and looked out earnestly at them.

'I think he's begging,' said Hermione. 'Do you want a scone, Padfoot?' She held one up.

He began wagging his tail emphatically, and she tossed the scone at the surface of the portrait, where it bounced off his mouth. 'That's a bit disappointing,' she said.

'I can fix that,' said Louisa. She performed a series of charms and tapped the portrait in several places. 'There, try again.'

Hermione took another scone, attempting to find the one that was least burnt, and tossed it again towards Padfoot's mouth. He caught it and eagerly began chewing.

'Bloody marvellous!' exclaimed Harry. 'We'll have to keep a tray of treats for him.' He asked Louisa, 'They won't make him sick, will they?'

'No, not at all. And he won't require feeding either. He's just a painting, remember, and not sentient. But he'll give every impression of enjoying it.'

Hermione asked, 'Could you say more about portraits being sentient? I've been curious about that for a long time but haven't found an answer.'

'I'm not surprised,' said Louisa. 'It's something of a trade secret. But the short answer is that there's a continuum, and that most portraits fall somewhere in the middle. We were fortunate that Walburga was at one of the extremes, otherwise I couldn't have ethically unseated her. I suspect she didn't have all her wits when they painted her.'

Harry nodded. 'That's likely.'

'I'm not sure I've ever met a fully sentient portrait,' said Hermione. 'I tried talking with nearly all the Hogwarts portraits at one time or another, but they always struck me as rather ... two-dimensional.'

'Did you ever talk with any of the headmasters?' asked Louisa.

'Yes, Harry has a portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black here at the house. And I witnessed a brief exchange with Albus Dumbledore's portrait at Hogwarts.' She was referring to Harry's conversation with Dumbledore after the final battle.

'Yes, that portrait would be top-of-the-line, as far as sentience is concerned. Mind you, it's not the same as the original human—their emotions don't run as deep, for example—but otherwise they're a good facsimile. The portrait of Headmaster Black, however, won't be fully himself unless he's in his frame at Hogwarts, because the background magic there is so much stronger.'

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'Interesting, that's good to know.'

Louisa began walking towards the reception hall. 'I'll leave you to your evening. Thank you for the opportunity, and I'm thrilled we were able to get you sorted.'

'Thanks again,' said Harry, shaking her hand. She left through the fireplace, leaving Hermione and Harry alone in the reception hall.

'So when are you going to give George and Lee the good news?' she asked.

'I need to go to Gringotts tomorrow after practice, so I'll bring the painting over then. I think I'll surprise them,' he said, grinning.

'Congratulations, Harry. I can't think of a better resolution to the problem.'

They returned to the entrance hall and interacted with Padfoot for a while, until Kreacher Apparated with a loud crack. He was carrying a pair of boxes, including one which was much too large for him.

'Master, Kreacher has just come from Diagon Alley with Master's purchases.'

'Here, let me take those from you,' said Harry, relieving Kreacher. 'Thank you, and you may go.' Crack!

'What are those?' asked Hermione.

'It's the first of the new robes I ordered, and a matching pair of shoes.'

'Robes, really? You never struck me as the robes type. You've always preferred Muggle clothes, given the choice.'

'Ture, but I never wore well-tailored robes until I got my Cannons uniform,' replied Harry. 'It turns out I rather like them.'

'Well, don't keep me waiting; let's see what you bought.'

He opened the box and revealed the robes Althea had selected for him.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. 'White?'

'They're ivory.'

She laughed and said, 'Sorry, my mistake. Let's see the shoes, then.' He opened the box to reveal ivory and brown wingtips. 'Did you choose these yourself?'

'No, the shop assistant advised me.'

'I insist you try them on for me—the whole outfit. I'll go entertain myself with the Grimoire while you change.'

'All right,' said Harry. He tried to affect nonchalance, but he was in fact quite eager to try everything on.

The two friends walked upstairs, and after Hermione peeled away to the library, Harry went up to his bedroom. He placed the two boxes on his bed and pulled out the robes and trousers.

As soon as he held them, he knew they were every bit as fine as his Quidditch robes. The fabric lay beautifully across his hands, and even the scent was agreeable. He noticed there were several more items in the box, and a closer look revealed undergarments and matching socks.

When he was fully dressed, including the shoes, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and was very pleased indeed. These robes looked infinitely better on him than the store robes had, since Althea's tailoring charms had only been able to approximate a custom fit.

They were smarter even than his team robes, and not only because they weren't blindingly orange. Despite their sleekness, his Cannons robes were designed primarily for ease of movement, but these robes closely followed the shape of Harry's body. They framed his slim hips and abdomen and widened to accommodate his compactly muscled chest and shoulders.

He had never owned anything this nice before. Certainly not growing up, when he'd been forced to wear Dudley's enormous cast-offs. His classmates had always looked askance at him, and the neighbours regularly crossed the street to avoid the Dursleys' incurably criminal nephew. Harry still remembered the shame of it, and how he'd endeavoured to remain invisible even though he'd been forbidden from using his cloak.

But his current sensation was completely the opposite. He felt a strong desire to be seen—a wish that felt alien yet fundamental. Part of him wanted to Apparate directly to Penumbra and stroll languidly into the arena, where he could bask in the glow of admiring eyes.

He supposed he'd have to make do with Hermione. Harry felt a little bashful walking downstairs, but his pride and satisfaction spurred him onwards. Pushing open the library door, he stepped inside.

Hermione was predictably buried in the Grimoire and didn't look up right away. He cleared his throat to get her attention, and her eyes widened when she saw him.

She stood from her chair and looked at him from head to toe. 'Why, Harry, you're something of a dandy!'

His face fell. 'But the shopgirl assured me I wouldn't look foppish!' I'm not even wearing the floral waistcoat, he thought glumly.

'I didn't say you were a fop, I said you were a dandy. They're entirely different things.' She looked him over again and said, 'You're definitely not a fop.'

'What's the difference?'

Hermione straightened as she always did before delivering an academic lecture. 'Historically speaking they're quite distinct. Fops were an eighteenth century phenomenon, wearing wigs and powder and flouncy clothes to cover up their otherwise poor state of cleanliness. Dandies, on the other hand, came a bit later—early nineteenth century—and were infinitely more elegant. The best known dandy was George Brummell, better known as Beau Brummell. We have him to thank for popularising daily bathing and dental hygiene.'

'Dental hygiene?' chuckled Harry. 'Is that why you've heard of him? Do your parents have his picture hanging in their office?'

'I'll admit it's come up, but no. Dandies are falsely remembered for dressing outlandishly, like fops, but the essence of dandy style was to be impeccable. Partly because they were such scathing wits—they were so busy scorning people that they took pains to make their appearance irreproachable, even if their behaviour wasn't.'

'They sound like arseholes. What exactly are you trying to say about me?'

'I'm saying you look impeccable, which has the added advantage of hiding a multitude of sins. Take Lucius Malfoy,' she said. 'The man's a monster, but his robes were always perfect.'

'You really know how to flatter a bloke. Do you want to save any of this for Ryan?'

She laughed. 'I've really dug myself in deep, haven't I? My point is you look fantastic in those robes, and the shoes as well. Flawless, really, as far as dress is concerned. It'll come as a surprise to a lot of people, but I'm sure they'll be impressed.'

'I suppose it will come as a surprise, but that's no reason not to make the change. I surprised a lot of people by quitting the Ministry and joining the Cannons.'

Hermione corrected him. 'Strictly speaking, the Prophet surprised everyone by making the announcement before it had even crossed your mind.'

'That's true.' He looked down at his outfit again. 'I should probably change out of these for now.'

'Do you have plans to wear them soon?' she asked. 'In public, that is.'

'Yes, I'm taking someone out to dinner tomorrow night.'

Hermione lit up. 'You're letting her out of the house, then? Is it the woman you had over the weekend before last?'

'Er, no,' replied Harry. 'This is someone I met on Saturday, after the match.'

'I see,' said Hermione, her eyes dancing.

Harry felt the need to twit her in response. 'And do you have any plans? How was your evening with Ryan?'

'It was lovely. I'll be seeing him again tomorrow.'

'That's wonderful. I'm awfully happy for you.'

'Actually, could you do a bit of research for me?' she asked.

'I don't think I've ever heard you ask me that. It's always the other way around.'

'You're probably right. But I'm wondering if you could dig about to make sure Ryan is ... everything he seems.'

Harry frowned. 'I wouldn't know where to start. That sounds more like a job for a private investigator.'

'No, nothing like that. I just want to make sure he doesn't have an awful reputation with women.'

'I've never heard anything to that effect,' said Harry, 'but I can ask around.'

'Thanks. I'm not expecting anything to turn up, but I should make sure before I'm in too deep.'

'Really, you're that serious about him already?'

She closed her eyes and took a breath. 'I can't believe I'm saying this, but yes. And I'm confident he feels the same way ... assuming he's on the level.'

'Of course. I'll make a few enquiries.' He felt his stomach growl and realised it was past dinner time—he'd been distracted by the new robes. 'Shall I ask Kreacher to make us something to eat?'

'Yes, please. Some curries?'

'Sounds perfect. Kreacher!'

Crack. 'Yes, Master,' he said, before his enormous eyes grew even wider and he fell to his hands and knees.

'What's the matter, Kreacher?'

'Master is dressed like a proper wizard. And proper wizards expect their house-elves to behave properly. Does Master intend to punish Kreacher?' he asked, with an indecipherable expression.

'Of course not.' Unless you want me to, thought Harry with a shudder. 'I'm merely wearing new robes. I expect I'll be wearing robes more often from now on. But please, stand up if you prefer.'

Kreacher hesitated, and Harry was seized by fear that the elf would prefer crouching submissively, but he slowly returned to his feet.

'Master is most kind, and very properly attired. Kreacher eagerly awaits the opportunity to iron Master's robes.'

Sweet Merlin, not the iron, thought Harry, remembering Dobby's preferred self-punishment. 'Er, I was hoping you could prepare dinner for us. Several curries if you please.'

'Yes, Master, with pleasure. Is there anything else, Master?''

'No, thank you.' Crack!

Hermione giggled. 'The robes really complete the look. You're going to have trouble dissuading people from calling you "Lord Black," you know.'

'I've spoken with the Cannons publicity department and they're preparing an announcement on my behalf. I might also issue a statement to the Prophet explaining in more detail why wizarding lordships are a load of rubbish.'

'That should be entertaining.'

Harry went back upstairs to change, leaving Hermione to the Grimoire. It was disappointing to remove the robes and change back into his old Muggle clothing, but he supposed a dandy wouldn't just perform freshening charms on the same outfit day after day. Not that he intended to be a dandy, of course—they sounded like tossers—but he liked the bit about dressing impeccably.

He hung his robes in the spacious walk-in wardrobe, which was largely empty, and placed his new shoes on one of the shelves. It had been a good day: the new Quidditch strategy was working, his first set of robes had arrived, and, most importantly, Walburga was no longer permanently stuck to the wall.

He smiled and walked downstairs to look at Padfoot again. The dog was chasing his tail, which was particularly amusing given his size. Harry was grateful for the first time that Walburga's canvas was so large, since it gave Padfoot plenty of room to run around.

Harry knew this wasn't Sirius, but it still warmed his heart to have an aspect of his godfather present. Padfoot seemed inclined to bark a lot, but that was a vast improvement over Walburga's tirades. Indeed, the barking made Grimmauld Place feel more than ever like a home, the kind he'd longed for as a child.

Thank you, Sirius, thought Harry, and his heart swelled with affection for the only father he could remember.