James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing [1]

by G. Norman Lippert

  “In other words,” Harry said, sighing, “things are more or less the way they always are. Little breakouts here and there, small conspiracies and squabbles. Politics and paperwork.”

  “What you mean,” Neville said, smiling crookedly, “is that peace can be a pretty boring thing for an Auror.” Harry grinned. “I guess you’re right. I should be thankful my job isn’t any more interesting, shouldn’t I? At least I get to spend most nights at home with Ginny, Lil, and Albus.” He glanced down at James. “And take on an ambassador’s assignment that just happens to afford me the chance to see my boy during his first week at Hogwarts.”

  “I understand he’s only been to McGonagall’s office once so far,” Neville commented mildly.

  “Oh?” Harry said, still eyeing James. “And what for?”

  Neville raised his eyebrows at James as if to say you have the floor.

  “I, er, broke a window.”

  Harry’s smile hardened a bit around the edges. “I look forward to the story of how that happened,” he said thoughtfully. James felt his dad’s stare like it was a set of tiny weights.

  They reached a double doorway with both doors thrown wide open. Delicious smells wafted down the hall. “Here we are,” Neville said, standing aside to allow Harry and James to enter first. “The Americans’ quarters during their stay. We’ve given them most of the southwest turret. Had it temporarily refitted with a recreational area, common room, kitchen, and staff to suit their needs.”

  “Sounds nice,” Harry said, examining the space. The common room was, in fact, rather small, with circular walls, high, rough-beamed ceilings, a cramped stone fireplace, and only two very tall, narrow windows. The Americans had, however, been very busy. There were bearskin rugs on the floors and tall, vibrantly colored tapestries hung on the walls, positioned over the stone staircase that spiraled the room. A three-story bookcase was crammed with gigantic volumes, most accessible only via a very rickety-looking wheeled ladder. The most amazing detail, however, was a mind-bogglingly complex armature of brass gears, joints, and mirrored lenses that hung from the ceiling, filling the upper chamber of the room and moving very slowly. James stared up into it, delighted and amazed. It made a very faint squeaking and clicking as it moved.

  “You’ve discovered my Daylight Savings Device, my boy,” Ben Franklyn said, coming from a large arched doorway beneath the spiral staircase. “One of my absolute necessities whenever I travel for long periods, despite the fact that it’s a veritable bear to pack, and the calibrations when I set it up again are simply dreadful.”

  “It’s wonderful,” Neville said, also staring up into the slowly ratcheting network of mirrors and wheels. “What does it do?” “Let me demonstrate,” Franklyn said eagerly. “It works best in full daylight, of course, but even the stars and moon of a bright night can provide adequate light. An evening such as this should prove most satisfactory. Let me see…”

  He moved to a battered high-backed leather chair, settled himself into it carefully, and then consulted a chart on the wall. “Third of September, yes. Moon is in the fourth house, it is, let me see… approximately a quarter past seven. Jupiter is approaching the final leg of… mm-hmm…”

  As Franklyn muttered, he produced his wand and began pointing it at bits of the Device. Gears began to spin as parts of the Device whirred to life. Bits of the armature unfolded as other bits pivoted, making room. Mirrors began to slide, positioning behind cycling groups of lenses, which magnified them. Ratchets clicked and shuttled. The entire device seemed to dance slowly within itself as Franklyn directed it with his wand, apparently making calculations in his head as he went. And as it moved, something began to form within it. Ghostly beams of rose-colored light began to appear between the mirrors, pencil thin, turning motes of dust into tiny specks of fire. There were dozens of the beams, brightening, swiveling into place, and eventually forming a complicated geometric tracery. And then, in the center of the tracery, shapes shimmered into place. James turned on the spot, watching raptly as tiny planets coalesced, formed out of colored light. They spun and orbited, tracing faint arcs behind them. Two larger shapes condensed in the very center, and James recognized them as the sun and the moon. The sun was a ball of rose light, its corona spreading several feet around it. The moon, smaller but more solid, was like a silver Quaffle, equally divided between its light and dark sides, turning slowly. The entire constellation weaved and turned majestically, dramatically lighting the brass Device and spilling delightful patterns of light over the entire room.

  “Nothing so healthy as natural light,” Franklyn said. “Captured here, through the windows, and then condensed within a carefully calibrated network of mirrors and lenses, as you can see. The light is filtered with my own optical spellwork for clarity. The final result is, well, what you see here. Excellent for the eyesight, the blood, and one’s health overall, obviously.”

  “This is the secret to your longevity?” Harry asked, rather breathlessly.

  “Oh, certainly this is a small part of it,” Franklyn said dismissively. “Mostly, I just prefer it to read by at night. Certainly, it’s more fun than a torch.” He caught James eye and winked. Professor Jackson appeared in the archway. James saw him glance from Franklyn to the light display overhead, a look of tired disdain on his face. “Dinner, I am told, is served. Shall we adjourn to the dining room or shall I have it brought in here?”

  Along with Harry, James, Neville, and the representatives from the Ministry, most of the Hogwarts teaching staff was present, including Professor Curry. To James’ consternation, Curry told Harry all about James’ skills on the football field, assuring him that she would work to see that said skills were developed to their fullest extent.

  Contrary to his dad’s suspicion, the meal was remarkably diverse and enjoyable. Madame Delacroix’s gumbo was the first course. She carried it to the table herself, somehow not spilling a drop despite her blindness. Even more curiously, she directed the ladle with her wand, a gnarled and evil-looking length of graperoot, dishing a portion into each bowl at the table while she stared at the ceiling and hummed rather disconcertingly. The gumbo was indeed spicy, thick with chunks of shrimp and sausage, but James liked it. Next came fresh rolls and several varieties of butter, including a brown and sticky goo that Jackson identified as apple butter. James tasted it carefully on a hunk of bread, and then spread a gigantic dollop on the remainder of his roll.

  The main course was rack of lamb with mint jelly. James didn’t consider this typical American food, and commented as much.

  “There’s no such thing as American food, James,” Jackson said. “Our cuisine, like our people, is simply the sum total of the various world cultures we come from.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Franklyn interjected. “I am pretty sure we can lay undisputed claim to the spicy buffalo wing.”

  “Will we be having those tonight?” James asked hopefully.

  “My apologies,” Franklyn said. “It is rather difficult to collect the ingredients for such things unless you possess Madame Delacroix’s unique voodoo capabilities.”

  “Is that so?” Neville inquired, helping himself to more mint jelly. “And what abilities are those, Madame?” Madame Delacroix composed herself, having given Professor Franklyn a wilting, albeit blind glare. “De old man, he don’t know what he speaks of. I just know about de sources he not as familiar with, bein’ more int’rested in his machines and gizmos.”

  Franklyn’s smile, for the first time, seemed icy. “Madame Delacroix is being modest. She is, you may already know, one of our country’s foremost experts on Remote Physio-Apparition. Do you know what that is, James?”

  James didn’t have the slightest idea, and yet something about the milky gaze of Madame Delacroix made him reluctant to say so. Franklyn was watching him earnestly, expecting a response. Finally, James shook his head. Before Franklyn could explain, however, Harry spoke up.

  “It just means that the Madame has, let’s say, different mean
s of getting around.” “‘Different means’ is one way to put it,” Franklyn chuckled. James felt uneasy, hearing that chuckle. There was something nasty in it. He noticed that Franklyn was emptying what was likely his third glass of wine. “Think about it, James. Remote Physio-Apparition. Can you factor it out? It means that poor old blind Madame Delacroix can project herself, send a version of herself out into the wide world, collect things, and even bring them back. And the beauty of it is, the version of herself she can project isn’t poor or old or blind. Isn’t that right, Madame?”

  Delacroix stared blindly at a spot just over Franklyn’s shoulder, her face a grim mask of anger. Then she smiled, and as James had seen on the day of the Americans’ arrival, the smile transformed her face. “Oh, deah Professah Franklyn, you do tell such tales,” she said, and her strange bayou accent seemed even thicker than usual. “My skills were never as grand as ye speak of, and they’re far less now that I’m de old woman ye see before ye. If I could project such a sight, I hardly think I’d ever let anyone see me as I really am.”

  The tension in the room broke and there was laughter. Franklyn smiled a bit tightly, but let the moment pass. After dessert, Harry, James, and the rest of the Hogwartians retired to the common room again, where Franklyn’s Daylight Savings Device had reproduced a condensed and shimmering version of the Milky Way. It lit the room with a silvery glow that James thought he could very nearly feel on his skin. Jackson offered the adults an after dinner cocktail in tiny glasses. Neville barely touched his. Both Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant sampled tiny sips and gave forced, rather strained smiles. Harry, after holding it up to the light to look through the amber liquid, downed his in one gulp. He squinted and shook his head, then looked inquiringly at Jackson, unable to speak.

  “Just a little of Tennessee’s finest, with a little wizard afterburn thrown in,” Jackson explained.

  Finally, Harry thanked the Americans and bid them goodnight. Retracing their steps through the darkened corridors, Harry walked with his hand on James’ shoulder. “Want to stay with me in the guest quarters, James?” he asked. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to see much of you after tonight. I’ll be busy all day tomorrow, meeting with the Americans, keeping our friends from the Department of Ambassadorial Relations from making ‘an international incident’ of themselves, then I’m off home again. What do you say?”

  “Sure!” James agreed instantly. “Where are your quarters?” Harry smiled. “Watch this,” he said quietly, stopping in the middle of the hall. He turned around and paced idly, looking thoughtfully up at the dim ceiling. “I need… a really cool room with a couple of beds for me and my boy to sleep in tonight.”

  James stared at his dad quizzically. Several seconds went by as Harry continued to pace back and forth. He seemed to be waiting for something. James was about to ask him what he was up to when he heard a sudden noise. A low grind and rumble came from the wall behind him. James turned around just in time to see the stonework alter and shift, reforming itself around a huge door that hadn’t been there a moment before. Harry glanced down at his son, smiled knowingly, then reached and opened the door.

  Inside was a large apartment, complete with a set of draped bunk beds, framed Gryffindor posters on the walls, a wardrobe containing Harry’s trunk and James’ school robes, and a fully equipped washroom. James stood inside the door, opening and closing his mouth, speechless.

  “The Room of Requirement,” Harry explained, plopping onto a low, overstuffed chair. “I can’t believe I never told you about it.”

  James got ready for bed, but his dad simply changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater and freshened up in the basin. “I need to go out for a little while,” he told James. “After dinner tonight, Professor Franklyn asked me to meet him privately. He wanted some time to discuss a few things outside of tomorrow’s official meetings.” There was something about the way Harry said this that told James his dad preferred a private chat over an official meeting anyway. “I shouldn’t be too long, and I’ll be just down the hall, in the Americans’ quarters. Breakfast tomorrow, you and me?”

  James nodded happily. He still hadn’t brought himself to tell his dad about his abysmal failure on the Quidditch pitch, and he was happy to put it off as long as possible. When Harry was gone, James lay in the top bunk, thinking about the events of the night. He remembered the sudden nastiness of Franklyn, which had surprised him. It was almost as great a change in character as the change that came over the voodoo queen, Madame Delacroix, when she smiled. Thinking of Madame Delacroix reminded James of the way she’d spooned the gumbo, unseeingly, operating the ladle with her creepy black wand, never spilling a drop.

  James realized he was simply too excited to sleep. He slid off the top bunk and prowled the room restlessly. His dad’s trunk sat open in the bottom of the wardrobe. James looked into it idly, then stopped and looked closer. He knew what it was when he saw it, but was surprised his dad would have brought it along. What use would he have for it here? James considered it. Finally, he reached into the trunk and withdrew his dad’s Invisibility Cloak, unfolding its smooth, heavy length as it came.

  How many times had the young Harry Potter explored the grounds of Hogwarts safely hidden away under this cloak? James had heard enough tales, from both his dad, Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione, to know that this was an opportunity not to be missed. But where to go?

  James thought for a moment, and then smiled a long, mischievous smile. He slipped the cloak over his head, just the way he used to on the rare occasions when Harry would let him play with it. James vanished. A moment later, the door of the Room of Requirement seemed to open all by itself, rocking slowly on its huge hinges. After a pause, it shut again, carefully and silently.

  Tiptoeing, James headed for the quarters of the representatives of Alma Aleron.

  James had only gotten halfway down the corridor when there was a flicker of motion. Mrs. Norris, Filch’s awful cat, had darted across the passage that intersected the corridor twenty feet ahead. James stopped, his breath caught in his chest. “Shouldn’t you be dead by now, you ratty old carpet sample?” he whispered to himself, cursing his luck. Then, worse, Filch’s voice came echoing down the passage.

  “That’s it, dearest,” he said in a singsong voice. “Don’t let the little buggers escape. Teach them a lesson that will have their little mousey kin shivering with fear.” Filch’s shadow leaked across the floor of the intersection, weaving as he approached.

  James knew he was invisible, but he couldn’t help feeling that he should hunker up against the wall. He sidled into a narrow space between a doorway and a suit of armor, trying to keep his breathing shallow and silent. He peered around the elbow of the suit of armor.

  Filch stepped into the intersection, his gait rather unsteady. “Find a hidey-hole, did they, precious?” he asked the unseen Mrs. Norris. He reached into his coat and produced a silver flask. He took a swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then spun the cap back on. “There they are, coming this way again, my dear. Come, come.”

  Two mice scurried into the intersection, looping and dodging as they approached Filch’s feet. Mrs. Norris pounced, batting at them, but the mice scampered away, darting along the wall toward where James was hiding. Mrs. Norris followed, growling. To James’ great chagrin, the mice scampered behind the suit of armor and wriggled under the edge of the Invisibility Cloak. Their cold little feet scurried over James’ bare toes, then they stopped between his feet, sniffing the air as if sensing a hiding place. James tried to push them out from under the cloak with his toes, but they refused to go.

  Mrs. Norris padded down the corridor intently, her whiskers twitching. She hunkered along the front of the suit of armor’s base, one paw outstretched, then pounced around it, stopping inches from the edge of the Invisibility Cloak. She looked around, her eyes flashing, sensing the mice were nearby, but not seeing them.

  “Don’t tell me those dumb animals have bested you, my dear,” Filch said, scuffling do
wn the corridor toward them. James watched Mrs. Norris. She had encountered the Invisibility Cloak before, years earlier. James knew the stories, having been told them by both Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron. Maybe she remembered the smell of it. Or maybe she was sensing James himself, his heat or scent or the beat of his heart. She raised her eyes, narrowing them, as if she knew he was there and was trying very hard to see him.

  “Don’t be a sore loser, my dear Mrs. Norris,” Filch said, coming closer still. He was almost near enough that if he reached out, he might inadvertently touch James. “If they got away, they’ll just tell their rodent friends about you. It’s a victory either way you slice it.”

  Mrs. Norris inched closer. The mice between James’ feet were getting nervous. They tried to hide under each other, scooting further back between James’ feet. Mrs. Norris raised a paw. To James’ horror, she brushed the edge of the Invisibility Cloak with it. She hissed.

  The mice, hearing the hiss, panicked. They scampered out from under the cloak, darting right between Mrs. Norris’ feet. She jumped at the sight of them, ducking to watch them scurry away into the corridor. Filch laughed raspily.

  “They put the spook on you, precious! I’d never have expected it. There they go! After them, now!”

  But Mrs. Norris half turned back toward James, her baleful orange eyes narrowed, her slit pupils flared wide. She raised her paw again. “Go, Mrs. Norris, go!” Filch said, his mood swinging to annoyance. He shoved her with his foot, scooching her away from James and toward the mice, which had disappeared further along the corridor. Filch’s foot caught the edge of the cloak, pulling it away from James’ feet. He felt cool air on his toes.

  Mrs. Norris looked back toward James and hissed again. Filch, however, was too sodden to take heed. “They went that way, you blind old thing. I’d have never guessed a pair of dumb animals would get the jump on you. Let’s go, let’s go. There’re always more near the kitchens.” He ambled on into the shadows of the corridor and eventually Mrs. Norris followed, throwing occasional rankled glances back towards James.