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

by G. Norman Lippert

  The broom seemed to move as if it had a mind of its own. It roared through the tunnel beyond the shed and the air of the confined space pressed hard against James’ eardrums. When it reached the opening behind the pedestal of St. Lokimagus, it turned so hard, threading into the corridor, that it nearly threw James off.

  The sense of speed was staggering as the broomstick careened through the halls. Fortunately, the majority of the school’s population was out at the Quidditch pitch for the tournament match, leaving the corridors mostly empty. The broomstick banked and dipped into the chasm of the stairwells. It swooped under and over the staircases as they swung and pivoted, barely missing them, forcing James to duck and hug the broomstick as closely as he could. Peeves was near the bottom of the staircases, apparently drawing mustaches on some of the statuary. James saw him out of the corner of his eye, then, amazingly, Peeves was sitting on the broomstick in front of James, facing him.

  “Naughty trickery this is, Potter boy!” Peeves shouted gleefully as the broom shot into a narrow hall of classrooms. “Is we trying to create some friendly competition with dear ol’ Peeves? Hee hee!” Peeves grabbed a passing chandelier and swung around it, leaving James and the broom to plunge on after him. James tried to steer, but it was no use. The broomstick was following its own definite, if maniacal, course. It banked and dove down a flight of stone stairs into the elf kitchens. Unlike the rest of the school, the kitchens were crowded and bustling, filled with elves cleaning up after the evening meal. The broom darted between gigantic pots, forcing the elves to scramble like tenpins. There was a cacophony of crashing dishes and silverware, the noise of which fell away with horrible speed. The washrooms were next, stifling hot and noisy. The broom rocketed wildly through the machinery of the washers, diving through gigantic cogwheels and under the arms of enormous, chugging pistons. James was horrified to see that the broom, apparently having reached a dead end, was barreling straight toward the stone wall at the end of the room. He was about to throw himself off the broom, hoping to land in one of the copper vats of suds and water, when the broom ticked slightly to the left and angled up. There was a door set into the well, and James recognized that it was a laundry chute. He gritted his teeth and hugged the broomstick again. The broom shot into the chute, angling upwards so hard that James could barely keep his legs tucked in, and then there was only rushing darkness and pressure.

  A pile of laundry met him halfway up the chute and James spluttered as the mass of cloth smothered him. He struggled to shake the clothes free, but couldn’t risk letting go of the broomstick. The broom ducked again, and James could tell by the change in pressure and the coolness of the air that it had somehow taken him back outside again. All he could see through the mass of cloth was a faint pattern of flickering light as the broomstick banked and dove. James risked letting go with one hand. He flailed at the clothing wrapped around him, finally grabbing a handful and yanking it as hard as he could. The cloth came free, stunning him with a blurring tableau of light and wind. He had time only to recognize that somehow, incredibly, the broom was taking him back to the Quidditch pitch. The grandstands loomed ahead of him. At the base of the nearest one was a throng of people, many turning toward him, pointing and yelling. Then, with instant finality, the broomstick simply stopped moving. James shot off the end of the broom, and for what seemed like far too long a time, he simply hurtled through the air unsupported. Finally, the ground claimed him with a long, rolling thud. Something in James’ left arm popped unpleasantly and when he finally came to a stop, he found himself staring up into a dozen random faces.

  “Looks like he’ll be all right,” one of them said, looking from him to someone standing nearby.

  “More than he deserves,” another person said angrily, frowning down at him. “Trying to ruin the match by stealing the team captain’s broomstick. I never would have thought it.” “It’s quite all right, really,” another voice said from further off. James moaned and pushed himself up on his left elbow. His right arm was throbbing horribly. Tabitha Corsica stood twenty feet away, surrounded by a crowd of awed spectators. Her broom hung motionless next to her, exactly where it had stopped. She had one hand on it, gripping it easily. “We can surely forgive this kind of first-year enthusiasm, although I myself am rather amazed at the lengths some will go to in the name of Quidditch. Really, James. It’s just a game.” She smiled at him, showing him all her teeth.

  James flopped back into the grass, clutching his right arm next to him. The crowd began to break apart as Ridcully appeared, pushing his way through. The Headmistress and Professors Franklyn and Jackson were right behind him. James heard Tabitha Corsica talking loudly to her teammates as she headed back toward the pitch. “People think that because it’s Muggle-made, it must be a lesser broom, you see. But the magic of this is stronger than anything you’d find in a standard Thunderstreak, even one with the ExtraGestural Enhancement option. This broom knows who its mistress is. All I had to do was summon it. Mr. Potter could hardly have known that, though. In a way, I feel sorry for him. He was just doing what he knew to do.”

  McGonagall squatted down next to James, her face grave and full of consternation. “Really, Potter. I just don’t know quite what to say.” “Broken ulna, Madam,” Franklyn said, peering at James’ arm through a strange device comprised of different sized lenses and brass rings. He folded it neatly and slipped it into his inner robe pocket. “I’d suggest the hospital wing for now and questions later. We have much more to attend to at the moment.”

  “Quite right,” the Headmistress agreed, not taking her gaze from James. “Especially since I expect that Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant will be here within the next few hours. I must say, Potter, I am extremely surprised at you. To attempt something so puerile at such a time.” She stood, brushing herself off. “Very well, then. Mr. Jackson, would you escort Mr. Potter to the hospital wing, please? And if you would be so kind as to instruct Madam Curio that Mr. Potter is to be kept there overnight,” she fixed James with a steely stare as Jackson pulled him to his feet, “I want to know exactly where to find him when I wish to question him. And no visitors.”

  “Rest assured, Madam Headmistress,” Jackson answered, leading James back toward the castle.

  They walked the first five minutes in silence, then, when they entered the courtyard and the noise of the pitch died away, Jackson said, “I haven’t quite pegged you yet, Potter.”

  The pain in James’ arm had receded to a dull throb, though it was still rather distracting. “Excuse me, sir?” “I mean that I haven’t figured you out, yet,” Jackson said in a conversational voice. “You obviously know far more than a boy your age should, and somehow, I don’t think that is merely because you are the son of the Ministry’s Head Auror. First, you attempt to steal my case, and then tonight, you orchestrate this preposterous charade to steal Miss Corsica’s broom. And despite what everyone else might think, Potter,” he glanced aside at James as they entered the main hall, his dark brows lowering, “I know that you did not steal it in order to give the Ravenclaws a better chance in the tournament.”

  James cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jackson wasn’t paying him any attention. “It doesn’t matter, Potter. Whatever you think you know, whatever it is you are up to, after tonight, it won’t matter one iota.”

  James’ heart skipped a beat, and then began to pound hard in his chest. “Why?” he asked, his lips strangely numb. “What’s tonight?” Jackson ignored him. He opened one of the leaded glass doors into the hospital wing and held it for James. The room was long and high, lined with crisply made beds. Madam Curio, who for rather obvious reasons, was not a Quidditch fan, was seated at her desk in the rear corner listening to classical music on her wireless.

  “Madam Curio, you probably know Mr. Potter, here,” Jackson said, pressing James toward her. “He has somehow managed to break his arm at the Quidditch match despite the fact that he himself is not actually on eithe
r of the teams.”

  Madam Curio stood and approached James, shaking her head. “Hooligans. I’ll never understand what it is about that sport that turns otherwise proper individuals into Neanderthals. What do we have here, then?” She lifted James’ arm gingerly, feeling for the break. He hissed through his teeth when she found it. She clucked her tongue. “Nasty fracture, sure enough. Could have been worse, though, I’m sure. We’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

  “Also,” Jackson said, “I’ve been instructed by the Headmistress to ask you to keep Mr. Potter here for the evening, Madam.” Curio didn’t look up from her inspection of James’ arm. “The Skele-Gro will take at least until tomorrow morning to complete its work, anyway. Still, this is minor enough. I might have sent him to his rooms with a splint.”

  “The Headmistress wishes to question Mr. Potter, Madam. She desires that he be kept under supervision until then. It seems, I am afraid, that Mr. Potter is suspected to be involved in a very serious plot that could put this school at risk. I shouldn’t say more, but if you chose to post some sentries at the doors to keep visitors out and Mr. Potter in, at least until tomorrow morning, I wouldn’t think that was overdoing it.”

  “She didn’t say any such thing!” James exclaimed, but he knew that his protest wouldn’t help. In fact, the louder he protested, the worse it would probably look. Curio gasped and straightened up. “Does this have anything to do with the intrusion of that horrible man on the premises yesterday? I’ve heard that he’s some sort of Muggle newsperson, and that he’s still here! It does, doesn’t it?” She covered her mouth with her hand and looked from Jackson to James.

  “Again, I really shouldn’t say any more, Madam,” Jackson replied. “Besides, Mr. Potter may end up being entirely exonerated. We shall see in time. At any rate.” Jackson looked down at James and there was the faintest suggestion of a smile on one corner of his lips. “Until tomorrow morning, then, James.”

  He turned and stalked out of the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

  17.Night of the Returning

  To her credit, Madam Curio didn’t let Professor Jackson’s accusations influence her treatment of James. She examined the fracture for several minutes, poking and pinching, and then carefully splinted it. She fell into a harsh but pedantic diatribe about the woes of Quidditch injuries, but it sounded to James like something she’d said a hundred times before. Her mind was elsewhere, and James didn’t need to guess what was preoccupying her. The invasion of Martin Prescott into the school had caused a wave of speculation and anxiety. His identity as a Muggle news reporter, and the fact that he was being kept in the Alma Aleron’s quarters had fed a load of rumors. There was a cloud of unease over the entire school, not alleviated by the Headmistress’ announcement that Ministry officials were arriving to deal with Mr. Prescott. As Madam Curio measured the Skele-Gro dosage, James caught her glancing at him suspiciously, looking him up and down. Somebody had to have let the interloper in, after all. Why not this first-year son of the Head Auror? James knew that some people--those who believed the lies of the Progressive Element--would expect him to pull just such a stunt. Earlier that day, he’d heard a voice from a cluster of students saying, “It makes sense, doesn’t it? The whole Auror line is that the Law of Secrecy is our only protection from the supposed Muggle witch-hunters. So what do they do? They allow this guy to sneak in and scare us all into thinking Muggles are hiding out in the forest, behind every bush with a torch and a pyre, ready to burn us all at the stake. It’s preposterous. I say let him do his story. That’ll show those Ministry power-mongers what for.”

  “There,” Madam Curio said, straightening. “All finished. You’ll feel some tingling and itching overnight as the bone knits. That’s perfectly normal. Don’t fiddle with the splint. The last thing you’ll want is for the bones to knit crookedly. The only fix for that would be for me to re-break the bone and start all over, and we certainly wouldn’t want that. Now,” she gestured towards the row of beds, “pick whichever you like. I’ll see that breakfast is brought to you here in the morning. You may as well make yourself comfortable.”

  James slung his backpack onto one of the bedside tables and climbed up onto the unusually high bed. It was a very comfortable bed, and for good reason, since all the mattresses in the hospital wing had been infused with Relaxation Charms. The charms, however, had no effect on James’ thoughts, which were dark with frustration and anxiety. Professor Jackson had admitted that tonight was a night of ultimate importance. It wasn’t simply speculation anymore. And now here James was, stuck for the night in the hospital wing, neatly trapped by Professor Jackson’s crafty interpretation of Headmistress McGonagall’s instructions. Alone for the first time since the attempted broomstick caper, James felt the full impact of what had happened out on the Quidditch pitch. It had seemed like a crazy plan from the beginning, but no more so than the plan to capture Professor Jackson’s briefcase, and that had worked, hadn’t it? Everything had been a success so far, until now. It was as if an invisible brick wall had suddenly blocked them, halting their progress at the last, ultimate moment. Arguably, the Merlin staff was the most powerful element of the three relics. Even now, Corsica, Jackson, and Delacroix were probably preparing to bring the relics together, unaware that they were missing the robe, but with the two most important relics in their possession.

  In spite of his anxieties, James had begun to drift sleepily under the influence of the charmed mattress. Now he sat up, his heart beating hard in his chest. What would happen when Jackson opened his case and found Ralph’s dress robes instead of the relic robe of Merlin? The Visum-ineptio charm would break, then, wouldn’t it? Jackson would see the case for what it was. He’d recognize it, and remember that day in Technomancy class, when James, Ralph, and Zane had used the fake case to trick him. He had thought they’d failed, had even referred to it while taking James to the hospital wing. He would surely realize then that they hadn’t failed. Jackson was smart. He’d know which of the boys had the real robe. Not Zane or Ralph, but James. The boy he hadn’t ‘pegged’ yet. Would Jackson come to the hospital wing to demand the robe? No, even as James thought it, he knew Jackson wouldn’t. He’d go straight to James’ trunk in the Gryffindor boys’ quarters. He’d probably claim to be searching for clues about James’ involvement in the unnamed dangerous plot against Hogwarts. Jackson would surely get James’ trunk open, and then he’d retrieve the robe. Everything James, Ralph, and Zane, and even the Gremlins had risked would be in vain. It would indeed be over, and there was nothing James could do about it.

  James struck the bedside table with his fist in frustration. Madam Curio, seated at her desk in the corner, gasped and put a hand over her chest. She looked at James, but didn’t say anything. James pretended not to see her.

  His backpack had slipped sideways when he’d slammed his fist onto the table. Resolutely, he grabbed it and opened it. He took out his parchments and his ink and quill. He knew that, under normal conditions, Madam Curio would never allow a patient to have an open ink bottle on her clean white sheets, but as far as she was concerned, she was harboring a potentially dangerous individual. Best not to provoke him. James bent over the parchment and wrote quickly, awkwardly, with his splinted arm, not even noticing the way his hand smeared the inky wet letters.

  Dear Dad, I’m sorry I took the M. Map and the I. Cloak. I know I shouldn’t have, but I needed them, and I thought it was what you would have done, so I hope you aren’t too mad. I know I don’t stand a chance with Mum, but put in a good word, will you?

  The reason I took them is because I’ve discovered something really sneaky and scary going on here at school. Some of the American teachers are in on it, though not Franklyn. He’s cool. Also, the P.E. here is in on it. I don’t want to tell you about it in a letter, but even if I am in big trouble with you and Mum, I need you to come. Can you be here tomorrow? Miss Sacarhina says you are on an important job and not to be interrupted, so maybe you can’t, but try, OK? It’
s really important and I need your help.

  Love,

  James James folded the parchment and tied it with a bit of twine. He didn’t know how he’d send it, but he felt better just having written it. He remembered now that he’d intended to write his dad about the Merlin plot way back when they’d captured the robe, and he berated himself for not doing it then. He’d thought, at the time, that his reasons for not telling his dad were good ones, but now, trapped in the hospital wing on the ultimate night of the Merlin plot, and knowing that, despite everything, Jackson might very possibly capture the relic robe back from him, it seemed foolish and arrogant that he hadn’t written his dad about it earlier.

  An idea struck James and he dug in his backpack again. A moment later, he held his Weasley brand rubber duck in his hands. It still had Zane’s handwriting on the bottom: Laundry Room! James dipped his quill and drew a line through that, then, underneath it, he wrote: hospital wing: send Nobby to the east window. When he was finished, he gave the duck a sharp squeeze. “Manky barmpot!” it quacked.

  In the corner, Madam Curio once again startled and looked accusingly at James. Potential criminal or not, she clearly thought his behavior unaccountably rude.

  “Sorry, Madam,” James said, holding up the rubber duck. “It wasn’t me. It was my duck.”

  “I see,” she said with obvious disapproval. “Perhaps now would be a good time for me to retire for the evening. You won’t be, er, needing anything, will you?”

  James shook his head. “No, Madam. Thanks. My arm feels loads better, anyway.” “Don’t fiddle with it, like I said, and you’ll be fine by morning, I expect.” She stood and hurried past James toward the leaded-glass doors. Two figures could be seen through the milky glass, and James knew that they were Philia Goyle and Kevin Murdock, both kindly sent by Professor Jackson to watch the doors. Madam Curio unlocked the doors and went out, offering her good-evenings to the sentries. The door clicked shut behind her and James heard the bolt clack into place. He sighed in frustration, and then jumped as his rubber duck quacked a loud insult next to him. He raised it and looked at the bottom. Below his handwriting was a new line of black letters: open the window: ten minutes.