After their late night of easy conversation closing down the Middle Inn, Harry didn’t rise for breakfast until late morning.

Snape was having coffee and reading the post at the table. He gave Harry an odd look as Harry pulled out the opposite chair.

“What is it?” Harry asked, unable to think what might be wrong.

Snape’s lips crooked into a dark smile. He reached into the pile of letters and tossed over a magazine. “Candide owled this over after I informed her last night that we did not subscribe.”

Harry stared at it, chest tight for a breath. It was him on the cover, nearly full size. The picture must have been taken during the press session at the Ministry, as he was wearing his Auror’s workout outfit. Fortunately, with his face so big in the picture, only the collar and shoulder were visible. He swallowed hard and pulled it closer. Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor the headline proclaimed below.

“So I assume you did not know about that,” Snape intoned. Plates appeared before them and he took up a butter knife as he added, “If you are looking that grim about the picture, I do not suggest you read the article.”

“Who wrote it?”

“Who else?”

Harry, with an angry motion, flipped the magazine open and located the correct page. Across from an advertisement for Danzer’s Dazzling Hair Cream, Makes your locks sparkle, was Skeeter’s article. Hunch-shouldered and frowning, Harry began reading.

Harry Potter continues to amaze the wizarding world with his ongoing accomplishments but the one accomplishment he apparently cannot manage is locating a suitable witch to settle down with.

“I could have told her it didn’t have to be a witch, a Muggle would be fine,” Harry complained.

“I do not think their readership would like to hear that, frankly,” Snape pointed out as he refilled both their coffees.

“And what is this ‘settle down’ nonsense?” Harry continued to grouse.

So what is Mr. Potter looking for in a potential mate, one may ask? When interviewed, his former school chums were eager to tell us.

“Oh, Merlin, whom did she talk to?” Harry muttered aloud.

“Would you like something stronger added to your coffee?”

Harry shook his head, distracted by continuing to read.

Ms. Pansy Parkinson assures us that Mr. Potter is only looking for the same thing as any young man.

Harry put his head in his hand and hoped the average Witch Weekly reader didn’t read too much into things.

“He’s always been attracted to the odd sort. Girls that do their own thing rather than follow the crowd. At school, it was always the smart, thinking, boring kind that he went for. I assume he hasn’t got any more interesting since then.” Mr. Potter’s fellow schoolmate Portny Wereporridge says Harry always liked girls who are good at Quidditch or ones that speak a foreign language.

Oddly, parts of that weren’t untrue, Harry considered. He cringed though, through the last part.

So ladies, are you of this sort? This reporter would like to hear from those readers who think they are the perfect match for Most Eligible Bachelor and Hero of the Year, let’s call him still, since this year’s hasn’t been announced. Send me an essay and the best will be printed in this very spot! Perhaps a lucky one here can capture the most elusive of wizard hearts.

“What potion would make someone write this way?” Harry asked in an exasperated tone. “Flowery Befuddlement Draught or Swineherder’s Seductive Swill?” he suggested, growing more annoyed rather than less. He watched Snape suppress a grin, dropped the magazine aside, and went back to his cold breakfast. Something teased at him though and he looked over at the post stacked high beside Snape. “So that pile… it isn’t extra large because…?”

“Would you like me to lie?” Snape asked.

Harry’s shoulders fell. The pile was not that big, really. “Could be worse, I suppose. Although it will be weeks before it dies down.”

“It is worse,” Snape said casually. “There is a box by the window.” He gestured over his shoulder. When Harry pounded his head lightly with his fist, Snape said, “I do apologize.”

“For not blocking the owls?”

“For ever believing you could bask in this.”

Harry shook his head disbelievingly, then cast his mind back a long, long way. “’Ah, Mr. Potter, our new celebrity.’ ” Harry quoted, imitating just enough. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Harry said, “First thing you ever said to me.”

“I do remember that,” Snape said, quietly regretful.

“’Course, I was sure you were dark, you made my scar burn the first time you looked at me. But it wasn’t you, it was Quirrell. You just happened to be next to him.”

“I did not just happen… I was keeping an eye on him.” Snape’s brow furrowed and his gaze went far away. “True, we did not start out well, but you also aggravated me by not paying attention in class the first day.”

“What do you mean?” Harry retorted. “I was copying down every word you said.”

Snape looked undone. “You were?”

“Want me to fetch my notes?”

“No. I believe you,” he said grimly. “And I do apologize. But…you should probably open your post.”

Harry pushed his plate aside, appetite reduced after reading the article, or maybe it was last night’s five-course dinner.

“Yes, Professor Lockhart,” Harry said and stood to fetch the box.

Harry was sorting letters on and off between reading his assigned texts and practicing spells on the fireplace irons when the door knocker sounded. He went to the door and found Elizabeth there, fringe wet from the hard rain. When she stepped inside, he took her yellow slicker and hung it up with the cloaks.

“Come on in,” he said easily.

“I hope this is an acceptable time for a visit?” she asked.

“I’m just studying,” Harry assured her as he led the way to the dining room. “Oh, and sorting letters,” he added darkly. She stopped at the site of the piles on the table. “Have a seat,” Harry urged her. “I’m sure Winky will bring tea in a minute.”

She sat down before the pile of colorful, scented letters, adjusted the top one to read the address, looked like she wanted to open it, but let it go and sat back with a sigh. The sound of it caught Harry’s attention. Tea arrived as expected. He waited for Winky to depart before returning to figuring out that signal. Elizabeth was casually turning a few of the stray photographs her way.

“She’s pretty,” she opined about a woman with quite a head of Auburn hair who winked and waved from a pastoral scene of trees and grass.

Harry shrugged. He didn’t disagree, but he also didn’t know the woman at all, so it was just an empty image. Maybe Elizabeth saw more in it than he did. She certainly sighed again as she pushed it back into the folds of the letter it had fallen out of.

After straightening and sipping her tea, she asked politely, “How is your training going?”

“Good. How are your music lessons?”

“Good. I am practicing for a concert in two weeks. The piece needs a lot of work,” she added, sounding a bit tired at the notion.

“I’ve never heard you play.”

“You don’t have a piano.”

“True.”

They talked idly until lunch, when Elizabeth realized that she was late for an appointment.

At the door as she put on her slicker, she said, “Come over tomorrow and I’ll play what I’m working on.”

“Okay,” Harry said.

“At three then,” she confirmed. She flipped up her hood and gave a wave behind her as she stepped into the garden and the rain.

Back inside the hall, Harry stopped by the drawing room. “Do you think I’m ready for the Apparition License Examination?”

Without looking up, Snape replied, “Probably.”

Harry smiled. “Brilliant. Maybe I’ll try to schedule for next week one day after my training.”

“An excellent idea,” Snape responded dryly, still looking for something in a stack of parchments.

Harry left him to it.

Harry knew where the Peterson house was, but had never been there. It was just beyond the small train station, a white house fronted by two-story balconies with white railings, everything very neat around the lawn. He pressed the fancy brass button beside the door and heard a musical chime from far inside.

Mrs. Peterson answered the door after a minute, and gave him a rather glowing smile of recognition.

“Harry dear! Come in, come in,” she urged, gesturing broadly.

Harry stepped inside and immediately thought he should remove his shoes given the large expanse of white carpeting that flowed over every visible floor. Mrs. Peterson brusquely waved him off from doing so and led him into the back part of the hall, which opened wide with a curving row of bay windows, everything painted white, including the imposing piano angled to catch the window’s light on the music.

“Gerald, come say hello,” Mrs. Peterson admonished someone in a side room that resembled an office.

A tall, balding man with black-rimmed glasses stood up and came over. “Ah, the young man I hear so much about,” he said, though it did not sound as though he appreciated this, necessarily. Harry shook his hand. Mrs. Peterson disappeared up the wide curving staircase, calling for her daughter. Harry put on a neutral face as he found himself getting a rather close looking over from Mr. Peterson.

The man put on a half-smile that did not make it to his eyes. “The witches in this house tell some very strange tales about you,” he finally said. “Especially out of that funny old newspaper my wife reads sometimes.”

Uncertain how much the Muggle father of his friend knew, Harry said, “I don’t know what stories they’ve been telling, sir.”

Unless Harry could not read the man correctly, he seemed to think this response grudgingly acceptable. Upstairs, footsteps could be heard approaching, deadened as though on thick carpet.

Mr. Peterson nodded and said quickly, “If you plan to spend much time with my daughter, you and I will have to have a long talk.” He backed off then and appeared generally amiable in the next instant.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, feeling he was running into someone with Vernon Dursley’s sense of the world, although this man must be more open-minded than his uncle if he actually married a witch.

“Hi,” Elizabeth said brightly as she fairly bounded down the stairs before spying her father there.

She slowed and, with more aplomb, led Harry to the sitting area by the piano. She sat down to play and began with no preamble.

Harry sat back in a very comfortable, overstuffed chair, and listened as quiet notes were interspersed with loud pounding chords. Eventually the music shifted into a confusing, loud playing that made him think there must be two pianos being played at once. He sat up and leaned forward, but he could see nothing more than Elizabeth’s hair tossing as she played. Harry stood up and came around the side to watch her hands moving over the keys, trying to catch the melodies without much luck.

Elizabeth finally stopped and lowered her hands slowly, the piano resonating with discordance that only faded slowly. “That was the first movement,” she said, resetting the music book before her to a new page. “Want to hear the second?”

He nodded but asked, “What was that?”

“Faust battling Mephistopheles. The composer is Rachmaninov.”

Harry thought the music made more sense, knowing that. “Ah,” he said, noncommittally.

“Rachmaninov did not tell the first pianist to play it what it was about,” Elizabeth informed Harry.

“What is it called?”

“First Piano Sonata,” she replied, and let her fingers trail over the keys as though playing a sequence from the music.

“A simple name for something involving such a battle,” Harry said.

“Yes,” she replied, setting her hands back on the keys. “I think he was hiding it. This next part has more of Mephistopheles and witches, as Rachmaninov knew them.”

She started to play again and the music became even more confused to Harry’s ear, as though the piano were being played almost randomly. Between page turnings, Elizabeth was intent on what she was doing, hands moving rapidly up and down, her head jerking with each sequence. She made an error, fingers stuttering, which Harry could only confirm by her grimace, although she did not pause for it. Nor for the next.

At a slow spot, she said, “I have to work on those bars.”

The slow spots intermingled again with loud ones. “That is Gretchen,” Elizabeth commented, which didn’t clear anything up for Harry, who resisted shifting from one foot to the other for fear of distracting her playing, although the song went on a very long time to remain very still throughout.

As the piece went on, it only grew more disturbed and finally it ended on that distraught note. Elizabeth sat back, looking for an appraisal.

“Wow,” Harry said, for lack of anything more meaningful. His ears were ringing along with the wood of the piano.

She frowned. “I cannot get it all, though. It’s too hard.” She closed the lid over the keys with a padded thud. “I shouldn’t have picked such a difficult, long piece, but it is too late to change. I’ll have to simplify some of the harder parts and some people will notice at the concert, but most won’t.” She ran her hand over the lid as though to dust it. “It is better to play slowly and accurately. That will sound faster than playing faster but poorly.” She stood, her fingers still lingering on the white wood. “I have to work on it more. But it was good to have you come. It made me play all the way through.”

They looked at each other in silence until Harry said, “You are really good at playing.”

She shrugged. “I started at the age of four. One would think— Would you like tea?” she interrupted herself.

“Sure,” Harry said. She led him to the front of the house, past her father’s office. Harry was glad the man didn’t look up from his work as they walked by.

Tuesday afternoon, Harry raced to the lifts after his training session was over. He distractedly returned a smile to the two chubby wizards in the lift who were carrying a battered metal crate that thumped from the inside.

“Illegal dragon kept as pet,” one of them explained.

“In the Docklands, if you can imagine,” the other went on.

“Like we could afford another Great Fire, ya’ know,” the first said disgustedly as Harry stepped out at level six.

Walking quickly, he made it to the Apparition Test Center just two minutes late. The small room was crowded and everyone turned when he entered. The greetingwitch took his name and told him to wait in queue for Group E.

“Hey, Harry,” a familiar voice said. Harry stepped over to wait beside Colin Creevey, a little embarrassed to be taking the test with someone a year behind him at Hogwarts.

Colin had his camera. He asked, “Would you take a photograph of me when I’m taking my test?”

“I’ll do it for you, dear,” a woman sitting beside Colin said. “You should have let me bring the ordinary camera, Oh, dear me, it’s Harry Potter,” she then blurted.

“This is my mum,” Colin explained. Harry shook hands with the petite, wide-eyed woman. Colin then asked, “Do you want me to take one of you getting your test?”

“No, thanks,” Harry said, thinking of being distracted by the flash.

“You can go ahead of me, if you want,” Colin then solicitously offered.

Harry adjusted his cloak tighter around his workout piece. “No, that’s all right really.”

He watched another Hogwarts student, Prissy Pritchard, as she was instructed to stand in the corner of the room. The testwitch backed up, clipboard in hand and observed as Prissy disappeared with a pop! Prissy came in the door to Harry’s left and went back over to the witch as she noted something on her clipboard and accepted the wooden dowel Prissy handed her. Prissy disappeared again and again walked in the door with another rod, this one metal. After that, she was dismissed and another witch, middle-aged with homespun clothes, was called up and approached uncertainly.

“Group E,” the greetingwitch announced.

Harry accepted the clipboard with the written test and leaned against the wall to complete it. Colin gave him an energetic thumbs-up when Harry looked his way. It made Harry feel old for some reason. A few minutes later, Harry handed back his test sheet. The greetingwitch scored it quickly and with a patent smile, handed him a dowel and told him to wait in the next queue. Harry sighed and moved to stand against the wall beside another row of chairs.

Finally Harry’s turn came ’round. The testwitch seemed confused to see him but, after fumbling with hooking a new comment sheet onto her clipboard, told him what to do. He was to walk down the corridor to the end where the floor was painted orange, leave the dowel in the tin there and come back. Harry did so. He then easily Apparated back to fetch the dowel and walked it back to the testwitch. She then gave him a list of four locations he might know in London, of which he had only been to St. Mungo’s.

“You know the large Apparition incoming area, in the cellar?” she asked.

“Uh, I’ve been there, but I wasn’t really paying attention,” Harry admitted, remembering the lift from the alley to the cellar. He had been carried most of the way, he remembered with a twinge.

She frowned. “Never been in the top o’ the Tower, eh? Or Canary Wharf?” When Harry shook his head, she asked, “Do you think you can get to St. Mungo’s all right? Don’ want you trying if’n you can’t.”

Harry felt that he did not want to get Splinched during his test either. “How about the alley beside. I’ll fetch the dowel by walking in. That I’m sure I can do.”

“All right then, but remember you have a four-minute time limit.” She flipped over a miniature hourglass attached to the top of the clipboard.

Harry stepped back into the corner and closed his eyes on the many curious, watching faces in the room. It had been years since he was in the alley. He imagined the wall, where it was relative to the streets on either end. He had to think of the permanent things, not the empty wooden crates or the rubbish bins. Imagining his usual getting crushed into a ball of paper, he willed himself to the alley.

A car horn blared as Harry’s feet met the pavement. He quickly looked back and forth, but it had echoed in from the street. Exhaling, he stepped around to the visitor’s entrance rather than use the emergency one. After weaving his way through the waiting area and begging off that he was going to be late he rushed to the door to the cellar, grabbed up a metal dowel, and hurriedly Apparated back to the orange end of the corridor. Harry’s elbow whacked the wall as he arrived, almost disastrously. Hurriedly he suppressed his relief at the near miss and quickly stepped back to the testing room.

“Just in time,” the testwitch said.

“The St. Mungo’s reception room was crowded and I don’t get through a crowd quickly,” Harry explained.

“Oh, yes,” she said, sounding unsympathetic and then some. But she made a few notes and handed him a folded parchment to take back to the desk in the other corner.

“Thanks,” Harry said, glowing with the notion of success.

She grudgingly gave him a half smile. “I speak Portuguese, you know,” she offered coyly.

Harry turned back, requiring a moment to understand that. “Argh,” he whispered, turning back around and striding to the corner desk.

Freshly written license in hand, Harry arrived in the hearth at home. As he brushed off the usual powdering of ash, he wondered if he could get eventually get enough distance to skip the grimy Floo to come home from training.

He found Snape in the drawing room, sitting at the small marble table having little glasses of something with Candide. She gave him a friendly greeting when he barreled in. Harry composed himself completely and folded the thick parchment away into his pocket.

“Is that your license?” she asked eagerly.

“Yeah,” Harry said, shrugging. “It was no problem.”

“Can I see?” she asked, still as undaunted as ever.

Harry pulled it out and handed it over. As she oohed a little, he reminded himself that he had been taking the test with a group of recent Sixth Years. She handed it back and he took out his old knitted wallet and put it in there.

“His other license is much more interesting,” Snape said, peering over his glass at Harry with an odd sparkle in his black eyes.

Curiously, she asked, “Which one is that? Did they give you an Auror’s Apprentice one?”

“No,” Harry said, reopening the metal clasp on the wallet and pulling out his Animagus identification. “I think he means this one,” Harry explained, trying unsuccessfully to gauge his guardian’s intent.

She accepted it and jumped a bit in surprise as she studied it, making Snape smirk. The Ministry had insisted that another person be in the photograph of him for size, which did make for a startling image of man and beast, even as small as it was.

“That’s your Animagus form?” she breathed, reading it over again.

“Yep. Want to see it?” Harry offered, prepared to change right there.

“No,” Snape stated. “Out in the hall, if you must,” he quickly amended.

She stared at the photograph again, making Harry assume his wings were flapping, which they sometimes did. She handed it back and stood after downing the rest of her drink.

In the voice of someone whose poker hand has been called, she said, “Sure, I’d love to see it.”

Snape was suppressing a small smile as Harry led the way out to the hall. Harry stepped away and transformed on the spot, held it only a few seconds, then changed back. It had gotten very easy to do that.

“That’s really something, Harry,” she said, clearly amazed. “Very…red.”

“Yes,” Snape said, “And as long as he takes his broom for long flights, an actually useful form.”

Candide stayed for dinner and Harry just escaped the card playing with the excuse that he had to study. The sound of conversation punctuated by the occasional laughter of Candide kept Harry from completely taking in his assigned reading. He disliked that it still vaguely bothered him. The two of them clearly got along well, and Snape really did deserve have someone.

The next day after morning drills, Tonks came in and said to them, “Want to go watch the vote? Should we take the kids to the gallery?” she then asked Rodgers.

Rodgers scrunched his face up thoughtfully, then said. “Sure. I expect we’re getting a new boss, so we might as well be the first to know.”

Harry, who didn’t normally pay much heed to the doings of the Minister of Magic, unless the man had it in for him, was nonetheless eager to watch the proceedings.

“Bones has indicated that she is mounting a challenge,” Tonks said as they all trooped their way down the corridor to the lifts.

They got off a level early and walked to the gallery entrance, where a crowd was loosely queued and appeared to be arguing their way in.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley said as they reached the group.

Harry greeted him and recognized some others such as Skeeter close to the heavy wooden door which was propped open just an inch, or perhaps Skeeter had her foot in it.

Mr. Weasley explained, “They haven’t let anyone in yet. Still arguing over who should get in. Maybe I’ll see what’s happening.” Elbows up, he pushed his way into the crowd.

A balding man with a goatee wearing a set of fancy, though wrinkled, robes turned away from the door in frustration. “I need a smoke,” Harry heard him say to Skeeter in an American accent.

The stranger pushed his way out of the crowd and fumbled in his pockets as he glanced up at Harry. His eyes did the usual fast blinking as he took Harry in. The man glanced back at Skeeter, then with a quickly narrowing expression put on a small grin and stepped closer to Harry.

He took out his notepad and said quietly, “So, Mr. Potter, are you hoping Minister Fudge survives the no-confidence vote?”

Harry considered the almost snakelike quality of the man’s eyes and said, “No comment.” Tonks glanced across at him from her whispered discussion with Rodgers but did not give Harry any indication she cared what he said.

The man laughed a bit derisively and chewed his lip, clearly not dissuaded by that. “How about a different topic, then? Most observers feel that you haven’t been adequately compensated for your rather extraordinary services to the Ministry. How would you react to that?”

“I didn’t want anything beyond eliminating Voldemort,” Harry stated.

Speaking low and quick as though he had some inside knowledge, the man said, “You aren’t real, Mr. Potter.” He made a thoughtful noise and asked, “What do you think of Amelia Bones?”

Harry shrugged and the man’s eyes narrowed as he licked his lips. “That would be an ‘I feel she would make an acceptable Minister of Magic,’ then?” He spoke as though the two of them knew each other very well and shared old secrets.

Harry felt as though he had stepped into a duel that he didn’t know the rules for, and so hesitated replying. The door to the gallery closed with a boom and Skeeter stalked over easily, the pressed bodies instinctively making a path for her.

“Harry!” Skeeter greeted him warmly, making Harry feel strangely rescued.

“Ms. Skeeter,” Harry greeted her a bit darkly, still unhappy about her most recent article.

“So, you’ve met Timothy Olsen. You have my condolences,” she quipped. “He writes for the Salem Gazette, biggest wizard paper in the States.” Skeeter put her arm around her colleague’s shoulder. “Although the Bay Howler, is catching up, I hear.” She poked the man in the ribs and released him in favor of Harry. “So. You. I get your photograph full size on the most popular magazine in Wizarding Britain and not even a note of thanks.”

Harry favored her with a scathing look.

“We should run an exclusive series on you, Harry,” she went blithely on. “My colleague here has been interrogating me nonstop about you since he arrived. His paper would pay well for an interview.”

Harry managed a mild grimace to cover his reaction to the notion of earning Galleons. “No, thanks.”

She plucked lightly at Harry’s cloak before straightening it for him. “Don’t answer so quick. If you don’t sit for an interview, he’ll have no choice but to write his article based on my notes. And my notes go way back.”

Harry frowned and ignored the eager look Olsen was trying hard to submerge. “Let me think about it,” Harry replied.

She grinned widely before her head jerked at the sound of the gallery door opening. She leaned close and quickly said enticingly, “We can even do it at your place, safe territory.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

Olsen gave Harry a slightly hungry look before he followed Skeeter inside. Tonks was gesturing for them all to follow as well. Harry ended up on the end of the front gallery bench with Vineet beside him and Tonks standing behind him. Harry tried to offer her his seat, but she explained that they had all gotten in because she had said she was on duty, and indeed her eyes took in the gallery with a practiced eye for trouble.

“Keep an eye on the American,” Harry groused. She patted him on the head from behind in response.

The Wizengamot convened in all their plum-colored glory with lots of stodgy language from a man wearing a tall black pointed hat who read from an oversized parchment. Behind him sat McGonagall, her glasses perched on her nose and her hair pinned up with something that sparkled in the globe lights. Harry found Amelia Bones two seats away to the left, looking eager and nervous, her hands rubbing together slowly on the bench before her.

Another wizened old wizard approached as the speech wound down and picked up another identical hat from the table beside the podium and donned it as he waited. This man seemed serious and nearly vibrated with restrained anger. Harry wondered who he was.

When the old wizard gained the podium, he straightened the odd hat and said, “I, as oldest member of the esteemed and exalted Wizengamot, have been given the long-overdue honor of making the motion that we hold a vote of no-confidence in the current leadership. My reasons are many, as you are all aware from my repeated assertions before this body. I will not repeat them all now beyond the single most persuading argument that the current Minister of Magic is not fit for this position.”

Harry glanced down at the floor where Fudge sat with his arms wrapped over his round middle, staring hard at the speaker and not giving away anything. Percy sat beside him, poker-straight, holding numerous folders primly in his lap.

The old man went on, “He has been involved in questionable monetary transactions which, although they were meant for a good cause on the surface, placed him in an untenable position with those of questionable background. He did nothing to hold the Ministry free of corruption and instead held it in inaction at our darkest hour. So…in the interests of the future of wizardry in England I am compelled to submit that we require more suitable leadership.”

“Seconded?” A voice rang out.

There was a pause, then McGonagall raised her hand. Fudge looked startled by this, then sent daggers her way with his eyes. Just try something, Harry dared him from his perch in the gallery. The old man placed the hat beside the other one and retook his seat.

“Dissenting arguments to the floor,” the voice said. Harry could not place it, it rang out so.

The hats sat untouched. Fudge moved as though to stand, then sat back, resignation in his pose. Harry felt disappointed. He wanted to hear him try to defend himself. “If it were this easy…” Harry whispered regretfully.

A familiar-looking goblet was removed from a trunk beside the podium. A general shuffling occurred among the assembled as they pulled out slips of paper and wrote on them before folding or rolling them tightly. The cup was passed from hand to hand, row to row, flaring each time a slip was dropped inside. It sputtered as it was carried back down to the floor and placed on a pedestal beside the podium. Within seconds a slip burst from it, to be caught easily by the bearer.

Reading aloud, the man read, “Yeahs, thirty two, Nays, twenty. The Yeahs have it.”

Harry was amazed that, although no one publicly supported Fudge, the vote was still that close. Fudge stood slowly, looking as though he wished to storm from the room. Instead he stepped down to the podium, considered the hats, but then waved them off as though disgusted by them.

Fudge raised his head and said, “I’ll keep this short, since you all clearly wish to move on to other orders of business. I have served this government my whole career and have been honored to do so. In this instance I believe I have been unduly criticized.” He pounded his hand on the podium. “I held this Ministry together at a time when competing interests were intent upon tearing it apart. The enemy was within as well as without and it wasn’t clear who was truly with us. I choose to believe the best of some who proved to be against us. I won’t apologize for that. I refused to follow the nay sayers who insisted the situation was worse than it appeared, but that was my prerogative, I believe, to lead us forward, not backward.

“If this body wishes to go backward farther, so be it.”

Fudge tried to remove a hat he hadn’t donned, waved in annoyance at this, and climbed up to an empty spot on the end of a bench and took a seat with the rest of the membership. There was no place nearby for Percy to sit, so he stood against the wall at the top of the steps.

McGonagall stood and came down to the podium. “Since the floor is open for nominations for Minister, I nominate Amelia Susan Bones.” This was immediately seconded. There was another nomination for an Alfred Arbuthnot that was also seconded. A third nomination was not seconded. A back and forth debate ensued with various members arguing the merits of each candidate, although it seemed as though the speakers didn’t entirely believe what they were saying or that their statements were too rehearsed. Harry stifled a yawn as this went on for rather a long time.

Tonks leaned over him and whispered, “They have to make it look like they’re taking it seriously.”

“Ah,” Harry muttered.

Eventually, another vote was called and the Goblet of Fire was again pressed into service. This time it was overwhelming, with only one vote for Arbuthnot, which Harry suspected was Fudge’s, which meant that Arbuthnot hadn’t even voted for himself.

Amelia Bones was sworn in with her hand on the largest crystal ball Harry had ever seen, the event was duly noted, a bit lengthily, by several speakers, the scribe’s notes were given some special honor involving a thick wax seal and storage in a golden casket, after which, the meeting adjourned.

As they waited for the gallery to empty, Harry watched the members of the Wizengamot chatting on the floor. McGonagall looked to be congratulating Madam Bones. Others stood around them, waiting to do the same. Harry felt a keen satisfaction in watching Fudge’s back as he left the room. Percy hung back, watching the proceedings from beside the door. He looked as though he wished to be more deeply involved, but did not move in closer to the cluster around the new Minister.

With the gallery nearly empty, it had quieted enough to hear what was being said. McGonagall urged Bones toward the door with the words, “There is quite a lot of Press waiting for a word, I believe.”

“Ah, you arranged that, I assume?” Madam Bones said coyly.

McGonagall looked around the floor, gave someone a smile, then glanced up at the gallery and seemed surprised to find Harry there. Harry gave her a little wave, which she returned. Bones turned at McGonagall’s motion and glanced up as well. Her lips appeared to say, “Mr. Potter.” She then leaned over to a man beside her with a notepad and spoke something to him before she swept from the room.

Back in their training area, Harry and the other apprentices started in on a short review of their readings before breaking for lunch.

After lunch, Tonks pulled Harry aside and gave him a small scroll bound with red ribbon. “You’ve been summoned,” she said.

“I’ve been what?” Harry asked as he untied the message. Inside was a request that he be at Minister Bones’ office the next day at ten in the morning. “Oh,” Harry said. “What is this about, do you suppose?”

“I can’t guess, Harry. Could be about any manner of things.”

“Come on, Tonks,” Harry cajoled, “I need some help here.”

She laughed. “Harry, you don’t need any help, honestly. Just be yourself. That’s always my motto.”

Harry held back on mentioning that, during the course of their short conversation, Tonks’ hair had turned three different colors.

“Easy for you to say,” Harry said to her departing back.

Harry combed his hair a little more carefully the next morning and put on a nicer robe, after deciding that he did not want to spend the day in his dress robes. He could not show up to meet the Minister in his workout suit, so he might have to change back and forth. It would depend on how they made up their training that day.

At breakfast, Harry was fidgeting a bit.

“What is the matter?” Snape asked when Harry dropped his teaspoon loudly after stirring honey into his tea.

Harry shook himself and converted his uncertainty into impatience. “What do you think the Minister would want with me?”

Snape stared at him with a lowered brow, then sighed. “I should have learned by this point to expect anything from you, but apparently I have not.” He put down the Prophet and said, “You have a meeting with the Minister of Magic, I presume.” Harry fished the small scroll from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. Snape fingered it open and glanced at it. “Her second day in office, no less. That is a bit startling.”

“Thanks,” Harry groused.

“Perhaps she just wishes to say ‘hello’ and to inform you that your fees are waived.”

Harry relaxed at that notion. “Maybe.” He quickly finished the rest of his breakfast and, even though it was early, gathered his things together to leave.

As Harry stood before the hearth, ready to go, Snape said, “Harry” in a vaguely gentle voice, then waited for Harry to look up before continuing. “You have nothing to worry about. The Ministry owes you dearly. Very dearly.” Harry scooped up a handful of powder and Snape added, “Just remember to congratulate Madam Bones at some point.” Harry nodded, made a mental note of that, and tossed down the powder.

Harry was distracted through morning drills but, by the time he had changed back into his robes and headed to the Minister’s office, he felt calm, as though he had simply run out of nervousness. And besides, Snape was right.

Harry had expected the Minister’s offices to be in flux, but all was calm and everything was in place in the reception room. The door was open, so he stepped inside the dark wood-paneled area and looked around the floor-to-ceiling shelves full of heavy books. Two assistants sat debating over a parchment at the low table in the center. One of them finally looked up. “Ah, Mr. Potter,” she said. “Please have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

“No thank you,” replied Harry automatically. Upon taking a seat on the very soft couch which threatened to swallow him, he amended, “Uh, yes, I would actually.”

She smiled as she nodded and turned to the service beside the door to pour out a cup. She handed it over and returned to the discussion about a magical expansion of Diagon Alley. Harry resisted leaning over to look at the maps spread out on the table, although he was sorely tempted to peek.

No obvious signal occurred, but minutes later the assistant stood up and said, “The Minister will see you now.”

Harry set his tea on the table and stood to follow. As he stepped into the plush office where Madame Bones sat at the large, carved mahogany desk, he wasn’t feeling much of anything, which was an improvement.

Bones’ warm greeting relaxed him immediately. “Mr. Potter,” she said with feeling. She came around the desk, put her monocle against her eye, and shook his hand before looking him up and down as though confused. “You have grown a bit, young man,” she asserted.

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry replied, then wondered if that was the proper form of address.

She didn’t seem to note anything amiss as she smiled and returned to her desk, waving him to the plush, high-backed chair nearby. She let her monocle swing down on the gold chain around her neck. The assistant sat in a chair against the side wall, notepad out.

“So, Harry,” Madam Bones began as she clasped her hands before her on her desk. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

Unprepared for that particular question, Harry hesitated before replying, “Uh, no, Minister, there isn’t.”

“Really? Nothing?” She waved her hand in the air. “In part I want to make certain you had everything you needed for your training.”

“I do,” he assured her.

“I was thinking we should be certain not to bill you for your training, since you are doing us the favor, as I see it, of pursuing this occupation.” Before Harry could reply to that, she went on with a sparkle in her eye, “Barring that, I was considering naming a day in your honor.”

Harry worked hard not to visibly react to what could be construed as a threat. “I, uh, could probably accept having my fees waived…though it isn’t necessary,” Harry quickly asserted, thinking that if Snape could not cover them, then Freelander probably could. Laughing uneasily, he said, “I don’t need a day named after me, though.” Thoughts of the torment the Weasleys would subject him to over that made him cringe inwardly.

“Harry,” she said forcefully, parting her hands placatingly. “What else can we do? We owe all of it to you.”

“Um…” Harry began, then stalled.

When he didn’t manage a reply, she stood and came around the desk to lean on the front edge of it near his chair. “We have most of a year to decide—it is only the second week of July—but I insist on marking it somehow. ‘Harry Potter Day’ does not hold any appeal?”

Harry nearly choked. In an almost steady, though slightly high-pitched voice, he replied, “No, not really.”

“That was the first choice of everyone here,” she went on in an oddly affectionate tone. “Well, we’ll come up with an equitable name.”

Harry resisted rubbing his suddenly prickling arms. She was considering him in detail through her monocle again while he tried to think of a reply to that. He remembered that he was supposed to congratulate her, but right then did not seem like the best moment.

“Forgive me,” she finally said. “I’m still amazed by how much you’ve changed.”

Shrugging was all Harry could think to do.

“Well, it is good to see you grown up so. You look like prime Auror material to me now. And I must say, I’m glad we didn’t manage to completely alienate you from the Ministry.” She removed her monocle again and sighed. “Well, Harry, as much as I’d like to have a long chat, I simply do not have the time.”

Harry stood and they shook hands again, although Madam Bones didn’t release his hand as she said over her shoulder, “Make a note, Rachel, that we are waiving Mr. Potter’s fees for the duration. And the issue of what to name his day is still open.”

“Thank you, Minister,” Harry managed to say evenly. “And congratulations on your new position. It was good to see you get it.”

Her eyes sparkled at that and Harry thought he could see inside her thoughts for an instant, because he found himself feeling acutely pleased to have himself on his side. He blinked and dropped his gaze as he stepped back to escape the queer mirror sense. Her emotion felt more strategic than personal, but at least he felt some real affection in it.

After lunch, the apprentices were introduced to some of the inner workings of the Auror’s office. “We can show you this,” Tonks was saying, “because we finally got it back. During the Dark Times, Fudge had it appropriated to his offices.”

Harry looked over the tall piece of furniture. It resembled a large, worn hutch with multiple crystal balls mounted into the upper cabinets on the shelves, some of those carefully balanced things that Dumbledore used to have so many of.

Tonks continued, “This is the Underage Magic Detector.” She waved at a combination notepad, dome with something like dice in it, and oddly balanced arm resembling a giant compass.

“And here is the Knight Bus Scheduler.” The indicated instrument appeared to be a spherical jigsaw puzzle that kept absorbing its pieces. New pieces appeared near a dial needle and the sphere rotated to fit them in place.

“This is the Dark Magic Detector, but it is widely understood to be easy to fool. A simple Obfuscation Charm will confuse it most of the time, frankly.” That item was in a covered box, which she didn’t bother to open.

Harry gazed in fascination at the Underage Magic Detector since he knew it had given him away on multiple occasions. He hoped it would detect something while they were standing there, but it remained still.

Tonks wandered to a long, long row of cabinets. “This is the file room. All our recent and open case files are stored here.” She patted the worn wooden cabinet beside her like an old friend. A drawer popped open and she pulled out a file. “For example, take one Rufus Ruffian, common thief, uses your basic Fetching spell to lift wallets out of purses. Files should always have a perpetrator summary, or as we call it: the perp sheet, on the top, followed by every other official and sometimes unofficial…” Here she pulled from the center of the file a take-away serviette with notes on it. “…document regarding the perpetrator: incarceration forms, judgments, etc.” She handed the thick file around. “Take a look at a few to familiarize yourselves with them. Please put them back EXACTLY where you found them. The cabinets have been known to get vicious with sloppy filers.”

Harry wandered down one row and back, running his fingers over the half-tarnished brass handles. He paused when he saw Bertram-Black on one of the drawers. He glanced up at Tonks, who was still chatting with Aaron, and pulled the long, long drawer all the way out. Sure enough, behind Narcissa was Sirius. Harry pulled out the file and flipped through it quickly.

“That was fast,” Tonks commented from right beside him.

Harry ignored her as he paged through long reports regarding the incident where Sirius was reputed to have killed Pettigrew and numerous Muggles, followed by one detailing his escape, and then page after page investigating alleged sightings, and finally a report about his capture at Hogwarts and subsequent re-escape. Harry flipped back to the perp sheet and blinked at the capitalized, red ink letters reading OPEN for the case status.

“What does that mean?” Harry demanded.

“His status is hard to determine. Without a body to identify, that is the policy now.”

Harry flipped again through the thick stack of parchments. “But… I don’t understand. He isn’t still wanted…is he?”

Tonks took the file from him and went back to the top page then studied the notes on the back of it. “Someone noted here,” she pointed to the bottom of one of the report sheets, “that it is unlikely he killed Pettigrew. But what happened that day has never been officially established, so technically, I guess so. Yes.”

“Tonks, that’s nuts. He was innocent.”

“Harry, there have been many more important things to worry about than whether his name’s been cleared.”

“Not to me.”

Tonks sighed and put the file back in its spot and leaned on the drawer, which groaned in a way wood normally would not. “I realize that. But it would take a lot of time and effort as well as getting a hearing with the Wizengamot.”

“What do I have to do?” Harry really wished he had known about this two hours ago when the Minister of Magic had asked if there was anything he needed.

“Let me think about the best approach, all right? Things will be a little more chaotic around here for a while.”

“All right,” Harry reluctantly replied, trusting in her help.

Harry arrived home that evening and plunked himself down in the library.

Snape sat writing a letter at the small desk. “How did your meeting go?” he asked without looking up.

“She’s waiving my fees,” Harry informed him, realizing that it was much easier to accept it from Minister Bones rather than Fudge.

“So that was the purpose of the meeting?”

“Um, that and to threaten me with declaring May 10th ‘Harry Potter Day’.”

Snape’s head nearly hit the small desk before him as it fell forward. He rubbed his eyes before lifting them, long moments later. “And the resolution of that?” he asked in a fearful way.

“It wasn’t resolved,” Harry painfully admitted. Snape mouthed the words slowly, then shook his head. “Basically my response,” Harry said.

Snape folded up the letter he had been working on as he said, “Ah, imagine, Harry Potter: The Bank Holiday. If the weather were nice, families could have picnics in your honor.” He sealed the letter in an envelope and began addressing it while continuing, “Children would run about towing balloons and kites with lightening bolts on them.” Harry’s noise of despair did not slow him. “The shops would sell official commemorative joke wands that sputter in green and of course the parade, let’s not forget that.”

Harry leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his head, half covering his ears. “Stop, stop,” he moaned, but he was also beginning to laugh.

But Snape was warmed up now, apparently, and he sounded more amused than disgusted as he went on: “The largest float just before the end, would be a towering castle with a tall gold chair—”

“No…” Harry murmured, visualizing without will.

“…and you, waving and throwing sweets to the screaming children lining the streets. Everyone would have the day off, so they could all be there. The Ministry could revive the annual dueling competition on that day and the winner would receive a—”

“Now that’s an idea,” Harry interrupted, forgetting the agony of seconds before. “Hm,” he muttered thoughtfully as he tapped his finger on the arm of his chair. “A dueling competition,” Harry said, trying on the sound of it.

Snidely, Snape pointed out, “If you are assigned to hand out the trophy, you are not allowed to compete.”

“Do I get to judge?”

“Almost certainly.”

Harry sat with a crooked grin. “I could live with that.” When Snape sighed again, Harry asked, “Sorry you mentioned it?”

“I would take it over the parade,” he replied.

“What, no picnics?”

Saturday morning, Harry sat on his bed, arranging the books on the bedside shelf to be better able to review them before going to sleep. He stacked the books on the bed and put back the ones that were relevant to the next month of training, flipping amazedly through some of the early ones he had already forgotten about.

At the bottom of the stack he found his photo album. The sight of it still made him pause. He had added a few photographs to the empty back pages, of himself with his friends from school, mostly shots Colin had given him, photographs that at the time had annoyed him but now he was grateful for. One page contained just Quidditch pictures, spellotaped in overlapping cutouts, which made him smile to himself.

Harry flipped to the front of the album and peered at the smiling picture of his parents holding an infant him who was paying no attention to the camera. He wished he could tell them how he was doing, that he’d started the Auror’s Program and that he felt he’d found his place. He wished he could tell them a lot of things.

Just as his father was bouncing baby him a second time, Harry shut the album and put it away. Moving with increasing purpose he tapped the crystal egg by the window to make the vines shrink back inside, leaving colorful petals fluttering to the sill. He pocketed it and, as well, opened his trunk to pull out Sirius’ mirror, which he put in the opposite pocket.

Downstairs, he went to the library and pulled out the atlas. After a moment’s hesitation and assuming that he could repair it later with a spell, he tore free the page he needed and folded it into his pocket. Still moving rapidly, he collected his broom, made sure he had a working compass on it, and stepped back in to stand at the door to the drawing room.

Snape looked up in question, glancing at the broom without a change in expression. Harry began, “I, uh, have to do something. I’ll be back later.”

One brow went up, but Snape just asked, “What time?”

“Dinner, I’ll be back.”

Speaking slowly and dryly, Snape said, “And I sense you do not want to tell me where, so what would you suggest I do at that time when you have not returned. I am not certain I can repeat that spell, as it was a bit accidental. Perhaps you should find a companion.”

Harry thought fiercely, impatient to leave. “I’ll tell Elizabeth. If I’m not back, you can ask her. Or I can leave you a note.”

“Better to use Ms. Peterson. If you must explain to another and you need talking out of the plan, there is a chance you will be talked out of it.”

“I don’t need talking out of this. But okay.” Harry was Occluding his mind, so even though Snape looked doubtful, he accepted this with an annoyed tilt of the head.

Harry turned and went out the front to walk beyond the station to the Peterson house. Mrs. Peterson answered almost immediately when Harry pressed the bell.

“Harry!” she said, clearly pleased to see him. “We weren’t expecting you, were we?” she said kindly, as though concerned that things might not be as she wished them for a visitor.

Harry propped his broom by the door and she led him into the hall. “No, sorry to just call unannounced, but I need to speak to Elizabeth.”

“Oh, of course, she’s practicing. Go on up,” she said sweetly, indicating the curving staircase with its thick white carpeting.

Harry followed where she indicated and walked down the quiet carpeted hallway, but he didn’t hear any piano playing. A knock on the only closed bedroom door didn’t get a response. Harry carefully turned the handle and peeked in. Elizabeth sat at a long black keyboard on a spindly stand with headphones on, playing rather vigorously but making only deadened thumping noises with the keys. She noticed the door open, however, and looked over, her face brightening instantly.

“Harry!” she said loudly in greeting before pulling her headphones off and standing up. “Didn’t know you were calling,” she said in a normal volume. “Come in.”

“I just have a moment. I need you to do something for me.” She stopped uncovering the nearby chair which had about six decorative pillows crammed onto it, and stood to listen. Harry said, “This is a bit awkward. I’m going off to Godric’s Hollow and I don’t feel like explaining that to Severus, so I’m telling you so if I don’t get back by dinner he can ask you where I’ve gone.”

Her brow furrowed, amazing him with how fast she could put on a disapproving face. “Okay,” she said, though she clearly didn’t follow.

“Look, it is too complicated to go into right now,” he said, but that felt defensive, so he added, “But the short version is that I want to go visit my parents’ grave, which I’ve never been to before.” She instantly looked more sympathetic, so Harry went on, “My dad and Severus hated each other when my dad was alive and even after—well Severus did anyway. So I just didn’t feel like getting caught up in explaining, since this is something I really need to do.”

“All right, I understand,” she said, sounding honestly understanding.

“Thanks,” he said and turned to go.

Her voice pulled him back. “Want company?”

“No. But thanks. Thanks for asking.”

Outside in the Peterson’s back garden, Harry fastened his cloak and unfolded the map. He studied the immediate roads and lakes before refolding it. After a quick Disillusionment Charm, he was airborne, up through the old trees, and following along the hills, heading south by the compass.

As he flew, he discovered that the markings on the atlas seemed a little approximate and hard to locate below him. Often he would have to fly much farther on faith before finding confirmation of where he was. He turned a little west and flew faster when he was absolutely certain of his location.

It took hours to get where he was going, making Harry very glad he had left so early in the day. It was barely noon, though, when he reapplied the Disillusionment Charm and circled lower around the village of Godric’s Hollow. It was small enough to take in on one wide turn around its quaint houses and cottages, arranged along only a few narrow streets. A woman was digging in a boxed flowerbed before one small house and a car was going by on the main road at a sedate pace. On a side road at the crest of a hillside leading away was a small graveyard. Harry was assuming they were buried here without really knowing for certain.

Hopeful, Harry landed on the gravel drive that led in an arc through the neatly lined up stones and propped his broom against a large willow that stood at the edge of the hill looking over neat square fields that fell away and rose up the next higher hill.

It had looked small from the air, but the graveyard held a lot of stones. Harry wandered along the gaps, skipping the really mossy old section as well as the newer area by the entrance. Some of the new stones had faces engraved on them, making him feel watched. He hesitated at the grave marker of another Potter, a Harvey who had died in 1942. The gap in Harry’s knowledge felt acute as he tried to assess the likelihood of relation. It made him want to fly right then to Little Whinging and accost his aunt, preferably with a potion or two on hand to help.

Shaking off the fantasy, he walked on, past a row of Morgans and Cadogs and around to the next row and stopped, taken by surprise to find himself faced with such acute familiarity as the names of his parents. He was also surprised by how hard the finality of those engraved letters hit him. The result, he supposed, of too many years wishing they would show up to take him away from the Dursleys.

Harry knelt in the soft earth, reached into his pockets, and placed the crystal egg on the pedestal supporting the gravestone, then the mirror, with a sticking charm so it could not be moved. For good measure he added a sticking charm to the egg as well. He glanced around afterward, biting his lip, since he had forgotten to check that no one was watching before working that little bit of magic. But he was alone.

In Memory, the granite face read. Harry sat back in his heels thinking it should say something more meaningful like Died Fighting Evil, then wondered who had been in charge of erecting it. Dumbledore, he would have expected to come up with something more than this, and Sirius probably had been arrested before he could be involved. Remus seemed more likely. Harry could see that kind of straightforwardness from him. Certainly the Dursleys had nothing to do with it, or if they had it might have read Got What They Deserved.

The sun was trying to cut through the clouds, bouncing light off the crystal egg. A little sprout of vine had already begun to emerge, heartening him, because the cold stone would look much nicer with some green and flowers. And the mirror was reflecting disjointed segments of the swirling and drifting cloudy sky in its long shards.

Harry, who before had dearly needed to tell his parents things, found he had things he wanted to ask instead. He wanted to ask if he was really doing what they would want in becoming an Auror. He wanted to ask why they had trusted Pettigrew. He wanted to know a thousand little things about what it was like when they were all together, the time for which his memories were all Dementor inspired. This left him feeling adrift rather than giving him the closure he had hungered for when he’d been propelled on this journey here.

Standing finally and brushing off his knees, Harry looked around. The wind felt brisk when he stood upright, chilling with the sun behind the clouds. The urge to move on overtook him and with a last check that he was still unobserved, he collected his broom, repeated the charm, and took flight.

It was easier finding his way home than expected. Harry flew northeast to the y-shaped lake, straight north to the big river valley, followed that to the motorway, then followed that and the main road into Shrewsthorpe. He landed earlier than expected since he had been flying quite fast, at only half past four.

Inside, he found Snape at the dining room table, having tea. He looked up as Harry sat heavily in the chair opposite. Snape’s eyes narrowed at Harry’s loud sigh.

“Tea?” Snape asked.

Harry nodded, he was hungry as well as thirsty. The biscuits tasted really very good as grumbly as his stomach was. That adrift feeling came back like a wave threatening to sweep him away. He tried to lift his teacup, but set it back down rather than risk spilling it, as it was steaming hot.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Snape asked.

“I went to visit my parents’ grave,” Harry confessed.

“Oh.” Snape rubbed his chin lightly. “Surprising you did not just say as you were leaving.”

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t know how you’d react and I just wanted to go.”

Sounding befuddled, Snape said, “I certainly would not have objected. Quite a distance on broom, Godric’s Hollow.”

A chill ran over Harry’s arms hearing Snape throw the name out so casually. “I’d never been there. Wasn’t even sure they were there,” Harry said, feeling the need to talk now as desperately as he had needed to go.

Harry fiddled with his tiny teaspoon. “So many things I want to ask them,” he said, sounding sad to own his ears. Forcing control on himself he looked across the table to Snape, who had rested his chin on his knuckles.

But Harry found he could not stay silent. “Do you think they’d’ve let me train to be an Auror?”

Snape straightened and appeared to consider that. “Your father was never one to limit his risk-taking, but people can behave vastly different when it concerns their children, rather than themselves. So I do not know.”

Harry stirred his tea and put the spoon back down on the saucer. With a hint of pleading, he asked, “Do you think they’d be proud of me?”

“How could they not be?” Snape returned and then frowned. He shook his head slowly as though a little angry. Harry waited tensely for him to speak. Finally, Snape said, “Perhaps I was premature with you the other evening…perhaps you do still require praise.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” Harry said, feeling much more anxious than that.

Snape rubbed his forehead harder. “It likely did not help. I will try to keep my disgust with your despicably easy spell acquisition to myself next time you wish to show me something.”

Harry snorted, feeling oddly better. “Who put up my parents’ gravestone, do you know?”

Appearing surprised by the question, Snape shook his head. “I don’t know. Why?”

“It doesn’t say much.”

“Have it changed to something else,” Snape suggested.

“Hm,” Harry murmured, backing up to consider that from a safe emotional distance. “What should it say?”

“Perhaps,” Snape said flippantly, “Something more meaningful and recognizable, such as: Here lie Harry Potter’s parents.”

Harry fought a grin, despite himself. Relief had settled on him unexpectedly. “Do other witches and wizards live there in Godric’s Hollow?”

“You certainly are full of questions.” After a pause, Snape said, “It was long ago akin to this village, partially magical, partially Squibs and non-magical family of the magical. My understanding is that over time it grew less magical. Usually that’s due to too many Muggle births in sequential generations. But of course, more recently it became less attractive, if not notorious, for those who understood the true nature of the events that gave you that scar.

“There is a pocket Magical Atlas in the library, although it is woefully out of date. Other questions?”

“Um,” Harry said, certain there were. He scratched his head and asked, “Have you ever forgiven my father?”

“No,” was the immediate response.

“That’s all right. I probably wouldn’t have either.”

“Wouldn’t or haven’t?” Snape asked, sounding a little dangerous.

“Wouldn’t,” Harry repeated.

“That’s better. No reason for you to hold anything against him,” he tossed out casually.

Snape stood with his teacup and refilled reached to refill it, saying, “Especially after all this time.”

“What about you?” Harry asked.

“What about me?” Snape demanded, although Harry could hear that the harshness was at least partly superficial, purely a signal to tread carefully. “I’ll bear my grudges as I see fit.” He put the teapot down. At the door to the hall he turned back and in an utterly different tone, asked, “Anything else you need?”

“No,” Harry assured him. “I’m good.”

Snape hesitated as though to give Harry more time to be certain before stepping away. Harry stared into his teacup and the random array of leaf bits in the dregs, feeling strangely calm.