3

As I awoke the next morning it was fairly clear to me that Gilderoy Lockhart, the original I mean, never could have survived doing what I had done with the stored memories he'd based his books off of. For one thing, those contained personality fragments and it took a strong will to overcome those and stay sane. My predecessor did not have a strong sense of self and so would have been overcome by them.

I, on the other hand, was of a considerably stronger sort. I had already taken blows that had destroyed me and rebuilt stronger each time. My beliefs and faith in God had brought me through in spite of my trials. This was nothing by comparison to some of those things I'd already gone through. And, to be honest, it wasn't all that different to having recalled Lockhart's life in detail, which I'd already done quite recently.

Rising off my bed, I took my wand and cast a spell, a smile lighting up my face as I called that a successful test. It was weaker than it should be, but not by terribly much, and it was one not in either my arsenal or in Gilderoy's specialty - It was one gained by absorbing those memories of the man who'd done the deeds off of which Lockhart had based that book.

Oh, I had no details of his life other than those written in the book, and they were converting even as I thought about it to where it was Gilderoy standing there doing things, just as he'd written them. People misremember things all of the time, so it was no surprise that my new personal self image was overwriting the original performers in those first person memories.

But the spell knowledge remained. Thanks to the new memories I KNEW, in my heart of hearts, deep down where you took the most convincing and where doubts lingered so easily, that I knew how to do this, despite intellectually knowing otherwise, yet the wand motions and incantations came clear as a bell to me. All else should come with a touch of practice to refine it. But I could do them already!

And that meant I actually stood a chance of surviving this.

I gave myself a schedule where each day I would wake up, answer my fan mail and then go about practicing all of the spells and other magic or useful skills I could recall from having absorbed a bottle of memories the night before. The scary thing was I had more bottles than books, things stolen from others that Gilderoy hadn't converted to novel form yet, most often due to lack of significant details (because of incomplete memory captures) or his own lack of inspiration concerning the conversion of important facts over to how HE could had done those things, instead of the originals who'd actually relied on help that Gilderoy himself could not have called upon.

There was also stuff too public to claim credit for. Most of his books had to be of the 'there I was, all alone in the..." variety, as he could not have any witnesses or they'd recall that it was someone else who'd done those deeds. And if he Obliviated all of them (as he'd once tried, then realized he could not follow through on) someone was bound to get suspicious that his 'comrades in arms' were all defeated and lacking those memories.

No, that guy had actually made several attempts for each fully successful one that he'd been able to turn out in book form. I'd have to go out on a limb and say that he was not a nice fellow, destroying all of those lives like that.

Still, some of those gaps for the incomplete ones, non-viewable in a pensieve, I could recall once having put the actual memories inside my head. Others I could logic through (a skill the original Lockhart was not strong on) as there had to be a series of events, often a fairly short one, covering a period going from what I could recall before the gap to what I knew from after. And, having a much more agile mind than the original Lockhart, I could imagine up ways to convert stories that he had given up on.

It was more than slightly sickening to do, but I did send out for a few reams of parchment, garbed myself quickly, then set out for a few auto-notes quills and a bunch of bottles of fresh ink (placing an order to have several sets of muggle fountain pens granted those same enchantments, as well as a few others). Then I settled down to some serious writing, churning out additional books in the series of amazing adventures of Gilderoy Lockhart, walking around my penthouse apartment dictating those adventurous tales while I practiced my wand movements and spells.

A little editing and I'd have nearly doubled the number of Lockhart's books in a week or so. And then doubled again over the course of the summer, easily, if not more. That gave me a huge library, which I wasn't even sure I was even going to publish, but if I did would mean an even greater reputation as well as a comfortable increase in money, all of which was of only a minor concern to me, but one other point was telling. If I did publish those adventures I would be giving an even greater impression of heroism to myself. For me this meant nothing, but for others...

People believed in symbols. They were important to them. They wanted to believe in something greater than themselves, something to trust and rely on when they themselves were insufficient for a task, or to face a danger.

If they believed in me that would annoy me, but it would also be something the wizarding public could cling to and draw support from when times got rough. I would be an anchor for them, so to speak, a symbol. Something like Dumbledore, where they'd all feel safer just for having me around.

Well, it wasn't something I had to decide on right away. Gilderoy Lockhart was already a hero and a symbol in the minds of the magical public. I placed the new books on a shelf near the door and made myself get on to other tasks.

My publisher would be dropping by later on that day to deliver new parchment reams and bottles of ink, so I left out a note for him, asking that he publish all of my books as matching volumes, all the same size and with matching covers, so they would look better as a collection on someone's shelf, and to have that ready before the rush for schoolbooks later on that summer.

My education from absorbing these events was sketchy and incomplete. Most wizards, it turned out, used a surprisingly limited selection of spells in their daily lives. Most stuck to a useful few for most circumstances. So, while I knew a great deal more about combat than I had before, a bit about healing and a few other things, I was in no way in possession of a comprehensive education by any stretch of the imagination. Although I had to admit to being something of an expert now on both Magical Creatures and household charms, although my potions skills were spotty at best, very unreliable.

Even so, I found myself gaining things I had not expected, a habit of twirling daggers about in amazing and somewhat frightening displays when my mind wandered, an urge to reach for a pipe (one habit that I firmly squelched), an unhealthy number of morning rituals ranging from preferred breakfasts to dressing myself up as a witch (a range of habits that also yielded under firm discipline, but took quite some sorting out), an urge to play banjo (that I did my best to cultivate when I discovered I was quite good at it) and piano and a few other instruments (and I'd always wanted to be a bagpiper), mostly of the portable variety, but whole ranges of quirks and idiosyncrocies and such that had to be sorted out and in most cases beaten down.

I also had a discerning taste in teas (of which I'd never touched a drop, and had no intention of starting as it was against my religion), fine wine (likewise) and had an encyclopedic knowledge of the various blends of coffee, when I'd much rather not ever have known about any of them, preferring to follow my faith and keep both mind and body pure.

The quality of Temperance was not very popular anymore, but I was good at it and intended to remain so.

But not all of the things were frivolous, useless, or downright harmful, there were quite a few skills and many useful reflexes. Two of the most interesting stories had been about near-squibs who'd used next to no magic at all. My predecessor had edited those stories slightly to include more spellwork, so he could appear more consistent with his other works, but the originals had been about people with so little useful magic they'd been forced to turn to other ways to defend themselves, and now I had the abilities, slightly rusty and very out of practice, of a ninety year old lifelong Shaolin monk, an eighty year old martial artist from Japan who studied several styles, and a French duelist older than Dumbledore who'd fought with live steel blades since he was a child, in and among a culture that was, back then, quite fascinated by swordplay when it was still a deadly art.

All of those skills stuck with me, and I'd found myself going through practice routines in the living room before dawn without even thinking about it.

So now I had a useful skill or two to go with my new memories. Heck, that Frenchman had been a classic musician and also a chemist later in life, with some significant fiddling around with experimental research - of course, all done in an era when plastic was quite a discovery, so it wasn't like he knew anything new, but he certainly had a good idea as to how we'd gotten to where we are today!

Lockhart had actually done quite a bit of collecting aged musicians of various sorts, as he'd liked to listen to their concerts and performances while in his pensieve. There he had perfect privacy, nor did he have to pay admission. I'd actually like to do a bit more of acquiring those skills for my own out of his collection. But the life-saving stuff first, of course.

And I guess that it should not have surprised me that Lockhart preyed upon the aged or infirm, as they had some of the most interesting stories over a longer period of time and fewer people would miss them or say anything if they suddenly lost all memory of themselves. Heck, some people took it as normal! They almost expected it when old guys lost their ability to recall! Which, did a lot to explain how he'd gotten away with so much of this, really.

I could now recall how Lockhart had gotten started on all of this, a memory he had shoved to the back of his mind for shame. There had been, in a rest home where he had been forced to volunteer by a formidable female relative (now deceased of natural causes, but his only living relative at the time, and he, still being fairly young, was under the authority of her guardianship) an old man well stricken in years, who had the most amazing stories, although none of the nurses would listen or believe him.

Gilderoy had been so struck by the amazing events that now old geezer had described had, upon leaving the assignment, gone and looked up one or two of the events referenced and found that they were true. He'd then returned of his own volition to hear more.

So amazing were those stories that he'd thought to share them with his friends, and youthful pride had made him want to claim them for his own. But as they pressed for further details he found himself adrift and unable to make reply, so they mocked him and called him a liar.

It was not so much a decision as a desire not to appear a fool before his friends that made him go back once more to hear the details, but the old man, now sensing the proud young man was trying to set himself up to be the author of his tales, refused to tell him more.

Already an Obliviator of some skill, yet unrecognized, eager for the attention and admiration he craved and angry at his friends and this old man he'd cast his best spell out of spite before he'd thought to check his fury, taking the memories of that old man by force so he could tell his story. Like a drunk who kills a man, unintending, he realized almost at once the enormity of what he'd done and gathered up those fallen memories as much to erase the evidence as anything. But once he had them, and viewed them, he gradually found he'd been able to tell those tales so fully fleshed in detail that no one could fail to believe him, and that admiration he received became a drug and he the addict, filled by a desire to fill his ever growing pride.

He'd been preying on the elderly ever since.

A despicable man, but the harm was already done and I saw no way to remedy that. Although I did see how I might honor those who'd fallen to his wand by making sure their legacies were not wasted on simple stories.

But now was not the time to go learning more, as I had appointments to keep.

The newspapers that week had been full of the fallout of the various events that I had put into motion. Pettigrew had gotten a trial, after which he'd been Dementor kissed. I'd used some of my fame to sneak in between the trial and execution of sentence to go into his cell privately and perform Lockhart's patented 'steal your memories' schtick on him, feeling that his memories of those Marauding days could be so enormously useful, if used properly.

If nothing else, they ought to be useful in befriending both Black and Lupin, and those would be good allies to have. Also, the Death Eater perspective should show a few things on that side, more effective than most any spy.

I wasn't planning to stick anything of Pettigrew's inside of my head, at least not yet, not until I'd reviewed them certainly, and carefully chosen harmless parts, if I'd end up taking anything at all, which still remained doubtful. But simply seen through a pensieve they ought to be informative, and I could use any advantage I could get; Not just to survive, but to thrive and defeat our enemies.

Enemies which seemed only to defeat themselves every so often when Moldy periodically shot himself in the face after bouncing a killing curse off of Harry.

No, that seemed a little thin as far as hopes to rely on, as each time it happened Voldy had already won anything resembling a civil war or pureblood rebellion and nearly taken over the magical world.

Barty Crouch Jr. had also been given a (second for him) trial and sentenced to the kiss, but I was unable to get close enough, or the necessary privacy to grab his thoughts. Pity, as it should have contained a different perspective and therefore extra data for analysis.

In plain English, more ways to hit Voldy's forces and make it hurt.

But then, I didn't want to spend too much time wallowing in Death Eater memories, as those were usually pretty sick and twisted. So I was probably better off not having too much exposure to that, in any form.

Sirius Black had been released from Azkaban, had a trial in which he was proven innocent at last and exonerated of all guilt. The Ministry had paid him a hefty amount of reparations, but they hadn't let him go yet, sticking him in a private ward of St. Mungos for rehabilitation, as you just didn't get out of Azkaban without some serious mental damage. The early prognosis was they'd be letting him out some time before Christmas next year.

I wasn't sure I could count on it. Every time Sirius got out of Azkaban somehow or other he ended up under effectual house arrest. It was fishy, and I suspected Dumbledore's involvement.

Still, no time to worry about that now. I headed to the door of my penthouse, knowing that I only had so much time to make my appointments for the shopping trip I'd planned, when I heard a knock on the door.

Foolishly thinking it was my publisher, I opened it and found myself staring at Albus Dumbledore.

I quickly averted my eyes.

Somewhat apologetically, the old man extended a hand, offering three books. I took them and looked them over in my hands, finding them to be on the mind arts, particularly Occlumency.

Finding it, to my surprise, enormously difficult to stick to the Lockhart persona and not offer him a formal bow in the oriental style, or heave a brick at the 'crazy English', I scrambled for a moment trying to recall which one among dozens of languages I had at native fluency English was. But then, to my surprise, my fan mail came to the rescue there, as I'd been doing that all week and it had quite unexpectedly assisted me to keep a hold on 'Lockhart' and not lose him among those others I was both suppressing and integrating.

I resolved right then not to do so much of this at a stretch again, or to put myself in isolation while doing it, lest I lose more than I knew.

"Thank you, Albus," I gave him a nod, but he seemed grave so I knew this was far from the end of this conversation, so I invited him inside. Leading him to a plush, overstuffed sofa in lilac (my new favorite color - blame Lockhart) he sat down, and after accepting my offer of sweets, got right to the point.

"Gilderoy," he began, in heavy tones that said whatever it was he felt it was quite serious. What? Was he firing me? Was the curse on this job working so fast? But he went on to a different topic, "I have some grave concerns. You have surely heard that Harry Potter is going to be one of your students for the coming year?"

"Yes," I admitted flamboyantly. "That was, in perfect honesty, one of my most pressing reasons for applying for the post, as I feel he, at least, needs the best education we can offer on Defense Against the Dark Arts, as surely all future Dark Lords will feel he is a target they must take down."

Albus sighed. "Regrettably, I feel this must be so. Still, we cannot deny him a proper childhood." I found myself glad that I was able to avoid wincing at that - but he went on still, "And there are some rather special circumstances that prevail for the boy."

"Oh?" I lofted an eyebrow and concentrated on serving him tea, which I noted out of the corner of my eye caused him surprise at my spellwork.

Fair enough. He'd used Legilimency during our first interview. He had to know that 'I' was a perfect fraud, or at least I WAS.

Now I was actually quite grateful that the original Lockhart had used his own special way to track down an aged or dying witch or two to translate their own experience in housekeeping magic into a book or three for his image.

Dang useful stuff, that.

But he overcame his astonishment and continued on, "Yes." I could perceive that the man was uncomfortable that I was not playing into his hands, giving him a better opening to draw off of. But he got serious, his face clouding as he bent forward, lacing his hands together over the untouched teacup. "You see, when his mother died, she sacrificed herself for him. I believe it was this sacrifice of his mother's love which enabled Harry to resist the killing curse and fling it back upon his attacker."

I begrudged him a nod. "That is possible, but we may never know for sure."

No, actually Rowling had done her best to make it flaming obvious, always harping on it like that was Harry's one saving grace. Annoying. But it was fun to fling the old man's words to McGonagall, giving on the Dursleys porch as they were about to leave Harry there in that abusive situation, back in his face. Especially as he couldn't know that I was quoting him.

He actually seemed more surprised at that comment than before, yet he composed himself and continued speaking. "It is vital that Harry have a chance to dwell in a home where his mother's blood lives on in order to recharge this irreplaceable protection."

"And yet, according to the papers, the family he was dwelling with were not only unsuitable as parents, they committed mutual suicide rather than take him back." I mentioned conversationally as I took a sip of orange juice.

"Yes," the old man nodded gravely, or so I could see from his beard bobbing about anyway, as I was keeping my eyes no higher than his chest. "I have spent much of my time, since hearing the sad news, on a search for other relatives, anyone who has even the slightest relation to Harry's mother, so that I could see that he could gain a place with them and perhaps restore his protection. I cannot begin to stress how important this is."

I nodded again, wishing he would get to the point. Then I decided to tell him that. "I'm sorry, but how does this involve me? Are you hoping that I would make an appeal to whatever parents you've found? If so, leave me a note with their names and address, and I'll consider it. But I really have to be going or soon I'll be late for an appointment. I have to be by my bootmakers..."

With that Albus cut me off by the surprising measure of reaching out and plucking off the invisibility cloak that young Harry was wearing, revealing the boy standing there in his Dursley castoffs and toting his owl cage and trunk in his hands as luggage.

I may have accidentally sprayed my latest sip of orange juice over Albus, but I was quick to offer up napkins.

Albus Dumbledore was now offering up a genial smile, feeling he had me over a proverbial barrel. "No, nothing like that. You see, I have found that no one on this planet has a greater proportion of Lily's blood than you do, almost as much as Harry himself in fact. So I came here hoping you would take him in."

I stared at him, shocked. I remembered that infusion, only it should have expired long before now. Okay, then I recalled that sharp pain in my arm after having killed off the Dursleys. I'd been meaning to get a doctor to look at it, but had never taken the time, and gradually forgotten as it ceased to be a problem.

Now I could recall it, and some part of me wondered right then if some magic or other (I was still no expert, so had no clue) hadn't decided that as the one on site, bearing some of Lily's blood at the time, I was the next one in line so I'd somehow been altered so I could be the heir to her protective legacy.

Given how persistent Rowling's Deus Ex Machina was, it was probable actually.

Looking at Harry, me heart melted. The kid looked so hopeful. I set down my glass. "Okay, Albus. I see where you are going with this. But first, a few things before I take him in. This apartment," I shrugged my hands to indicate it, "Is a bachelor's pad. It's hardly an appropriate place for children. I'll be willing to give it up and settle down IF you can arrange a place for us to live. It has to be large enough for parties and all that I do here, with a private study where I can write my books in peace, and another one for Harry's use, as he should have homework and things that it helps to be able to spread out. I've been meaning to set up a Potions lab anyway, and a greenhouse, some space to practice spells would also be ideal, as I've been meaning to continue my education. Also, we require sufficient bedrooms not only for Harry and myself, but guests so that he can have friends over. We will also require a yard, a several acre lot that can be, or ideally already is, fenced for privacy. As we are both public figures, some place of our own away from the prying noise of crowds is a requirement if we are to relax and be ourselves. And no one can afford to be 'on stage' all of the time. I also prefer to own rather than rent, as the security is far more certain that way."

Albus was smiling broadly now, and Harry's grin could almost split his chin.

I pressed on, fearing that I wouldn't get another chance at this, and the more I could arrange at this moment the fewer headaches I'd get later. "He will also be needing some funds of his own. I know I heard his parents left him a trust to cover school costs, but I see by his outfit, and only one trunk, that he is going to be needing so much more. I shall take him shopping with me today and we will send you the bill for his out of school accouterments. I'd pay for it all myself but I'd already earmarked most of my current funds for other projects, including supplies that I shall be needing for school, both in and out of Hogwarts."

"Yes, of course. I'll have it all arranged." Albus was standing, smiling broad.

I stood up along with him, fearing he might escape before I made my next demand. "Also, Albus," I allowed my tone to get serious. "Something has to be done about Potions education. I was hoping you and I, and Harry as well of course, could go talk to Slughorn and ask him to return to Hogwarts."

Dumbledore's face was serious now, turning grave. "I am afraid that post is already filled," he solemnly informed me.

"Yes, I know." I nodded, still not conceding the point as I raised a finger. "However, Snape is a Death Eater. And while I know you trust him, he is not an ideal teacher. So, for the benefit of the students, I am afraid that I am going to have to insist that you find some other work for him, away from school. By the man's attitudes, he should not be allowed near students, and if you ask around I'm sure you'll discover the evidence agrees with me."

His eyes were twinkling now as he dismissed my arguments. "I am sorry, Gilderoy, but I..."

"Have welcomed into your school the Death Eater who overheard part of the prophecy that, once he'd faithfully passed it on to his master, led directly to Voldemort killing off Harry's parents." I finished for him, cocking a confident and self-assured eyebrow at the man, who now reeled in shock.

With a not terribly kind smile, I added. "I wonder what the people would feel if I were to tell the press that information? Your situation is already precarious enough, Albus. I hear Lucius is moving to replace you, and we both feel that he would be bad for the school. Let your Death Eater go. Hire someone who can actually teach the course properly and does not abuse the students. That's all I ask. I'd prefer for it to be Slughorn, but anyone but Snape would do. After all, if you are doing this to preserve his cover you have already shown Severus far too much loyalty. Don't compromise him with kindness."

The man stood there very solemnly, thinking over what I'd said.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "We can all go together to deal with convincing Slughorn to come back. I'll clear my schedule for it tomorrow. I'll even pick up some candied pineapple while we're out."

He looked at me in some astonishment, but mumbled agreement as I opened the outside door. As he allowed himself to be led out, I offered one more suggestion to his departing back. "Oh, and one more thing you ought to lend some thought to: consider hiring Molly Weasley to teach a new elective on Housekeeping Magic. I know I graduated hardly able to do a thing around the home and it's been a dreadful experience making up for that lack. Also, I hear that her youngest child is joining us next year, so it's not like she'll have the same obligations at home. And I know she can use the income."

Immediately once he was gone, I turned to regard Harry, who was staring at me with wide eyes. "Did Snape really betray my parents?" he asked.

"Snape betrays everyone who isn't Snape," I returned, hurrying quickly over to find pen and parchment before I forgot something. "And even then I feel he may slip up every once in a while and betray himself by accident, he's so accustomed to doing it to others. Did you honestly think that he'd hold a multi-generational grudge for the fun of it? He hates you because he was a bully and your father stood up to him. How fair is that?"

Somehow, in that moment, I had won tons of Harry's affections.

"Harry," I asked of him." Could you take Hedwig out of her cage? I want you to write a letter, to one Nymphadora Tonks." I spelled it out for him, then again once he had spilled out his trunk looking for writing supplies, a search that I preempted by shoving a quill of my own collection into his hands, and parchment to go with it. We shared the same ink bottle as I wrote. "And ask her to come by this apartment, this evening, to interview for a position as your tutor for the summer."

"Why would I want a tutor?" he stopped writing to ask me.

"Several reasons. One, she is only a few years older than you and has already passed most of the Hogwarts courses. She should be graduating this year, in point of fact, so she knows better than most what you'll be learning there and has it still fresh in her mind. Two, she qualified for Auror school, which is the magical police, and quite tough to get into, so she knows her stuff and can also serve as a bodyguard."

I drilled him with a friendly look. "Now, Harry, don't go telling me you don't need one. The first time you went to the Leaky Cauldron the crowds would have shaken your hand off if Hagrid hadn't been there to save you. And what if you run into Draco and his friends while out shopping? It would be well for you to have an adult along who can use magic without getting into trouble, and who can support you if you have to tell who started what. I can't be by your side all of the time, and you wouldn't grow as much if I could. But most important of all, Nymphadora Tonks, or Tonks as she prefers to be called, is a Metamorph - she can change her appearance more easily than you change shoes. That means if you have that gift, as I suspect you do, then she will be able to train you."

I paused on my own to look at him directly. "You don't like being famous. I don't blame you. it can be a burden, and you are right in that you never asked for it. However, one of the better ways to deal with fame is to have two or more faces. I have a way I act in public and another way I act when around my friends. Most celebrities like us have to do that, it's a coping mechanism, a way to deal with the fame while still staying who you really are inside. With you... you may be able to have more than one face in truth. That way, you could be The Boy Who Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World and all of that only when you have to, and put on some other name and appearance when you want to go out in disguise and have everyone treat you normally - just like anyone else. I actually envy you that ability."

I flashed him a smile. "Perhaps it's best to think of it all as a secret identity, sortuv like being a super hero. You have the public persona that has all of the fame and troubles with bad guys, then the private person, the real you that no one other than your close friends know."

I stood, and noticed Harry was regarded me in awe. "How do you know all that?" he asked in hushed tones.

I favored him with a confident wink. "It is a more common problem than you know. Most people want to be famous only until they get there. Most famous people wish they weren't. It's a bit like being a wizard, really. Famous people can do things that ordinary people can't, just like a wizard can use magic and most people can't. However, wizards also have to deal with dark wizards and dragons and curses as well, it's not just all of the fun and useful spells. So there is both benefit and drawback to both fame and magic."

I bent over, placing my hands on my knees to look at him in the eye on a level with his face. "Only fame can also be compared to having a lion in your basement. If you take the time to train the lion you have a useful friend. It can protect you and watch out for you, even perform tricks to amuse your buddies. However, if you try to ignore the lion or pretend that it's not there, instead of being your ally it becomes an enemy, and if it gets hungry enough it can break out and hurt you. Having fame is something that you can't get rid of easily. So keep it fed, tame it and train it and make it your friend, or one day you will regret it."

I gave him another wink, patting him on the shoulder as I stood up again and handed my now-complete letter to my owl, Oedipus (a name and animal I had inherited from the original), and told him "Take this to Dobby the House Elf, Malfoy Manor."

The letter, very simply, said, "Dear Dobby, I know of the plot to open the Chamber of Secrets this year, and the basilisk within. Harry will be under my personal protection all year, so should be perfectly safe. Please do not try to stop Harry from going to school next year or intercept his mail. Thank you, Gilderoy Lockhart. PS. Please don't let your master or his family learn of this letter or its contents, as it would upset him greatly and make him unhappy to know about it, and he would so much rather stay happy."

"Have you finished your letter then?" I asked of him, and Harry swiftly returned to writing, before he tentatively questioned again.

"How could my being famous turn against me?" He queried, still writing even as his mind was slowly puzzling for an answer.

I sighed, relaxing into a seated position on the arm of the couch and crossing my hands over my knee. "Well, Harry. That lion wants to be fed. Look at it this way: People want to know about what interests them. You interest them. You may not like it, but your story personally affected each and every one of them. The wizarding world was in a losing war. People were dying every day. Every family lived in terror as each day more people died. No one was safe. They spent a substantial portion of their lives looking around waiting for the next attack to strike. Then suddenly, one day, it was all over. Gone. The bad guys defeated and on the run. No more families were being lost, no more lives ruined. You could hear a report containing the names of your friends without weeping in agony that yet more of those you'd loved had perished. People could go out and shop without the omnipresent terror or looking over their shoulders, waiting for death, or worse, to come and claim them. People could come out of hiding again. People who'd been on the run or living in the woods could return to their homes again. Men could go to work again without a dark and living nightmare shrouding every moment of their lives anymore. They didn't have to worry about the specter of a chance, always hanging nearby before, that one day a dark wizard might pop out from behind a corner and with one spell take control of his mind, then send him back to his family to brutally rape and torture his own children. Those things HAPPENED Harry! Often! And all of a sudden it was all over. Why? That was the first question on everyone's minds. How did it happen? Who saved us? Once it was all over the only thing people wanted to know, other than if their loved ones had survived, was how that great and dreadful danger and all that fear came to an end. You were the answer, and whether you like it or not, you became important to those people for the rest of their lives. And there is NOTHING you can do to change that! You will be important to those people for as long as they live, and 'those people' includes the whole wizarding world."

He'd stopped writing again and was looking up at me in shock, searching for comprehension or a handle on the enormity of that statement, and I could so easily see that he'd never properly understood the source of his fame before.

I took another deep breath and resettled myself into the pose. "And now for your question: How can your fame turn and bite you? It works like this. Those people to whom you are important are interested by you. They want to learn, to know more about you, probably as much as you like to learn magic. It is like a hunger that has to be fed. They want to KNOW! And if you tell them something, a few bits at a time, they will stay satisfied. It doesn't have to be much, just enough to let them feel in contact with you. You are, for lack of a better term, a security blanket that reassures a young child that it is safe and all is well. They want to make sure that you are still there every now and then. If you go missing they start to panic and look for you, desperate to feel safe again. If you stop feeding that desire, they feel betrayed, and then their interests turns negative."

I paused, looking down to regard him kindly, as I instructed further, "You know those school pictures that every child has to take every year in muggle schools? The ones that the Dursleys dressed you up in your least worn clothes for and even fussed a bit to make you look right, but they never bought any copies of? Albus Dumbledore bought them, then he turned right around and released them to Wizarding newspapers that wrote stories about how you were prospering in their care and still alright. Total lies, but it was what the public wanted to hear, and THAT! Is how your fame can bite you, Harry, because people want so much to know about you that when they hear anything, good or bad, they are likely to believe it!"

I could see now that I had his full attention, so I hit him with the most important parts. "If you are the one telling your story you control what they hear, which means the truth, but also leaving out some embarrassing parts. However, if you tell them nothing then as sure as I am sitting here someone else will tell them something, and it will probably be lies, because they didn't know any better themselves and had to make it up. There are lots of reasons for them to do so. By pretending to know more about you than their friends they get some admiration and appreciation, they feel important, and people like to feel important. So people have done all sorts of crazy things to feel that way, including tell some lies. Also, there are other people to consider, reporters and newspapers make money by printing stories about you, as more people buy the papers with those stories. And they like to have money, most everyone does, so they like to make more of it. So if you aren't telling them things that they can print every so often, there is a strong temptation to make up something, just to sell more papers. But people will believe them because you don't tell them any differently."

Okay, I could see in his eyes and face that he was following me so far. That was so great a relief I could hardly tell you. I nodded to confirm that I'd noted that he was listening. "Now, when that happens, people will look for you as you ought to be if those lies were true. But you aren't that person, because those were lies. So people who think they know about you come upon you and yet you act differently than they expect. That's bad. It's called 'not living up to your image' and what happens then is that people blame YOU for the lies! It doesn't matter who is responsible. They don't care. You are the owner of your own image, and if you don't take care to live up to that it is ALWAYS YOUR fault! Logic and reality don't make any difference. This is an emotional reaction straight from the gut. People don't think about it, and never listen to any explanations. If your image says you are one thing and yet you are another, YOU are the one they blame."

Seeing he was still with me, I moved on to wrap up this little lecture with a final few points. "It's not fair, but it is as real as you standing there. Not liking the attention doesn't make any difference, and trying to stay away from prying eyes will only make them pry harder to get a glimpse of you. There is only one proper way to handle this, Harry, and that is to treat fame like a dangerous animal that must be fed. If you don't take care of it and train it to work for you, it will go wild and could destroy you - and not just you but each and every person you love."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Sorry. That's the way it is. I didn't make it be that way, and I can't change it. I don't know anyone who can."

"But..." Harry had left his partially finished letter and was struggling for words. Looking up at me, he objected, spreading his hands. "But I don't! I'm not the boy they think I am! I already don't fit my image!"

Smiling once again, I patted him on the cheek. "No, Harry, you don't." I told him gently, standing up, I moved toward the door. "But things are still early enough for us to change that. You can tell 'The True Story' of your life so far, and people will still believe it." I gave a friendly snort, turning around to favor him with my most reassuring grin. "I'll even help you write it. And after that, an article or two every year or so should keep everyone happy."

"But I don't want all of those people to know everything about me!" He shook his head, still objecting to that part of the principle and not fully getting it.

I bent over to grin conspiratorially into his eyes from an inch away, positively radiating warmth and camaraderie, as if sharing a treasured secret. "Harry, that's why WE write it!" I patted his shoulder, still not breaking the gaze. "And we do that so we can tell them all of the stuff that you don't care about them knowing, or they may already know - how your grades in school are doing, what your favorite sport is, all of the stuff that doesn't truly matter and that people could probably find out anyway, but the public will eat up. Then we DON'T tell them about the private things - like who your best friends are, what you do when you aren't studying, what you like to eat, and all of the stuff that makes you a person instead of a picture. Get it?"

I gave him a megawatt smile.

His face had discovered awe, and he looked up at me on the dawning of a beautiful understanding, finally grasping the point I'd been trying to get across.

"but..." he stuttered, struggling still for full comprehension as he got the main part but had trouble with the details. "But won't that be lying? Won't I still fail to measure up to my image?"

"Harry," I shook my head sadly yet gently, chiding. "No one can know all of the details about you but you, and in spite of how important you are most people will not want to try. Like that security blanket, all the child wants to know is that it is still there protecting him. He doesn't study every thread and ball of fluff all day long. He needs to know enough so he can recognize it and not to be taken in by fakes, but after that he just wants to know it is there. The people want to be satisfied that they know you, but that doesn't include every detail about everything. They do want to know probably more than you are comfortable telling them, but that is always the case. I have to put up with that. So does the Queen - and if you are objecting still to the fame that you were born to, look at her situation. She didn't get to choose her parents, either. Nobody does. And when it comes down to it, it was your parents that made you famous."

"So, how do you deal with that?" Harry turned trusting eyes on me.

I smiled again, a reassuring one. And yes, I knew that I smiled a lot. I admit it. But I had a whole arsenal of them. I could probably hold a whole conversation just using smiles. "Harry," I chided in very kind and gentle tones. "Don't you remember? I told you. We celebrities cope by having two faces, public and private. The private one is the one that can burp and scratch itself and pick its nose, or whatever. What? You think the Queen doesn't do those things? She doesn't have people do it for her, you know. And she eats, so what goes in one end must come out the other. But the 'private me' is the one that can do all of those things and be relaxed, it is the 'me' who can rest and be himself and do things that make me happy. The job of the 'public face' is to keep everyone ELSE happy! It is the one who has to be perfect and not use the wrong fork at the dining table and knows who to address in what order at social gatherings. It is that 'me' that gives speeches and dresses up in fine clothes and accepts awards, and it does all of those things so that my 'private self' can wear my pajamas all day long and hang out with my friends or oogle pretty girls or whatever during the off times. Do you get it? If I were my 'public face' and oogled a girl then the newspapers would have us all involved in a torrid affair the next morning. If my 'public face' had friends then reporters would hunt down those friends and pester them to learn all about me - including especially the parts that I don't want them to know."

I stood up, looking down on him in a fatherly way. "We divide our lives to protect them from people who want to know too much. That is how we cope."

I pointed to his still unfinished letter, and he quickly completed it, writing down a time I'd recommended and the address I gave him before tying it to Hedwig's leg and letting the bird go, whereupon she flew out an open window, off to deliver her message.

Then we went off shopping. I was indeed late for my appointment with the bootmakers, but considering that I'd brought Harry along they made every effort to assure me that wouldn't be a problem, and I got twice the service I would have gotten if that had just been me alone and on time as we, both of us, got our new boots.

I hate those stories that want to tell you every detail about what they bought, and in what order, how many pockets each article had, and all the while pretending that the only color is black. None of that interests me, and I wouldn't wear a black anything on a bet. Well, except perhaps ninja attire. But there we are speaking about practicality, not preference. And most of those who dress in black from head to toe all of the time could hardly sneak a cookie out of the kitchen without their mother noticing. The chains they also tend to wear have a habit of jangling and messing them up.

Pure amateurs.

No, I will let it suffice to say that we went shopping, and as Albus was picking up the tab we went a little rampant, buying more clothes than Harry had ever owned in his life. Probably more than Dudley ever had, certainly more than Petunia. Oh, while doing so we did make a careful nod or two to practicality. They had auto-sizing charms available that had a range of about two sizes or so. So I had them create all of Harry's clothes two sizes too large and let the charms slender them down til they fit. That way the poor boy could grow up four sizes before we had to replace all of his clothes again.

We also did the anti-stain, anti-wear packages for much the same reason, to have what we bought last longer.

The place where we really went wild was in the realm of toy, tools, and other practical stuff. I picked up my new writing set and ordered one of the same for Harry, because quills break and wear out and fountain pens don't, or not on anywhere near the same scale, really.

We bought wand holsters filled with every option imaginable (and demanded some that surprised the salesmen), got dragon hide armor and other nifty stuff. I also paid particular attention to the basic essentials necessary to good security, getting Foe Glasses and Dark Arts Detectors, a good strong Sneakoscope or five, and others Rowling had never mentioned.

We made up for a good dozen birthdays with Harry, then went on to fill up those missing Christmases, and once we were done with that we threw in an Easter and a Thanksgiving or two for good measure.

The kid had nothing and we had to remedy that.

By the end of our day our potion cupboard would have made Snape drool with envy, our tools for our future defensive setup might possibly have drawn a nod of acknowledgement from Moody, our prank supplies would have excited the Marauders, Draco would have felt I had spoiled Harry with toys, and Molly would have wanted to move into our kitchen while it would be hard to ever pry Hermione out from our book collection.

It was all for the Greater Good, of course!