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

by G. Norman Lippert

  Her mouth still open, Sacarhina turned to follow McGonagall’s pointing hand. At the opening of the courtyard, another vehicle was entering. It was ancient, its engine choppy and puttering a pall of blue smoke. Finney frowned a little as it chugged slowly across the courtyard. Sacarhina and Recreant stared at the vehicle with twin expressions of pure bewilderment and disgust. The crowd of students gathered near the steps moved back as the vehicle squeaked to a stop in front of the first Landrover, pointing at it. The engine coughed, sputtered, and then died, slowly.

  “That’s a Ford Anglia, isn’t it?” Finney said. “I haven’t seen one of those in decades! I’m amazed it still runs.”

  “Oh, our Mr. Hubert is very good with engines, Randolph,” McGonagall said crisply. “Why, he’s almost a wizard, really.” The driver’s door squeaked open and a figure clambered up out of it. He was very large, so that the car rose perceptibly on its springs as he arose from it. The man squinted at the stairs, smiling a little vacantly. He had long, silvery blonde hair and a matching beard, both of which were offset by a gigantic pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses. The man’s hair was pulled back in a natty, almost prim ponytail.

  “Mr. Terrence Hubert,” McGonagall said, introducing the man. “Chancellor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Welcome, sir. Do come and meet our guests.”

  Mr. Hubert smiled and then glanced aside as the passenger’s door of the Anglia screeched open. “I hope you don’t mind, everybody,” Mr. Hubert said, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve brought my wife along with me. Say hello to the folks, dear.”

  James gasped as Madame Delacroix climbed awkwardly out of the car. She smiled very slowly and deliberately. “Hello,” she said in a strangely monotone voice.

  Hubert grinned mistily at her. “She’s a dearie, isn’t she? Well, shall we begin, then?”

  Sacarhina coughed, her eyes widening rather alarmingly as she watched Delacroix join Mr. Hubert in front of the Anglia. She nudged Recreant with her elbow, but he was as mute as she was.

  “Chancellor?” Prescott said, looking back and forth between Hubert and McGonagall. “There’s no chancellor! Since when is there a chancellor?” “I do apologize, sir,” Hubert said, climbing the steps with Delacroix by his side. She grinned a bit wildly. “I’ve been away for the past week. Business in Montreal, Canada, of all places. Wonderful little distribution warehouse there. You know, we only use the highest quality magical supplies here, of course. I inspect all our materials by hand before ordering anything. Oh, but I shouldn’t say any more, of course. Heh, heh!” Hubert tapped the side of his nose with an index finger, grinning conspiratorially at Prescott.

  Prescott’s face was tight with suspicion. He stared at Hubert, then at Madame Delacroix. Finally, he held up his hands and closed his eyes. “All right, who cares? Mr. Hubert, if you are our guide, then guide away.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at the camera crew, gesturing wildly with his eyebrows, and then followed Hubert into the gigantic open doors. “Chancellor Hubert, can you tell us and our audience what you do here at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?”

  “Why, of course,” Hubert said, turning as he reached the center of the Entrance Hall. “We teach magic! We are, in fact, Europe’s premiere school of the magical arts.” Hubert seemed to notice the camera for the first time. He grinned a little nervously into it. “Students, er, come from the farthest reaches of the continent, and even beyond, to learn the ancient arts of the mystical masters of the craft. To acquire, to absorb, to, er, steep, as it were, in the secret arts of divination, illumination, prestidigitation, and, er, etcetera, etcetera.”

  Prescott was staring very hard at Hubert, his cheeks reddening. “I see. Yes, so you admit that you teach actual magic within these walls?”

  “Why, certainly, young man. Why ever would I deny it?” “Then you do not deny,” Prescott said in a pouncing sort of voice, “that these paintings, which line this very room, are magical, moving paintings?” He gestured grandly toward the walls. The cameraman spun and walked as quickly and smoothly as he could toward a group of paintings by the doorway. The boom microphone operator lowered his apparatus, so as to be sure to capture Hubert’s response.

  “M-moving paintings?” Hubert said in a distracted voice. “Oh. O-ho yes. Well, I suspect they could be said to move. Why, that painting there, no matter where you are in the room, the eyes in the painting are always upon you.” Hubert raised his hands mysteriously, warming to the subject. “They seem, in fact, to follow you everywhere you go!”

  The cameraman took his eye away from the viewfinder and frowned back at Prescott. Prescott’s face darkened. “That’s not what I mean. Make them move! You know they can! You!” He spun on his heels and pointed at McGonagall. “You had a conversation with a portrait in your office just yesterday! I watched you! I heard the painting talk!”

  McGonagall made a face that was so comically surprised that James, who was standing just inside the doorway with the rest of the assembled students, had to suppress a giggle. “I can’t imagine what you mean, sir,” the Headmistress replied.

  “Here, now, you leave the lady out of this, why don’t you?” Finney said archly, taking half a step in front of the Headmistress, who was a full head taller than him. “Just you conduct your almighty investigation, Prescott, and let’s get this over with.”

  Prescott boggled for a few seconds, and then composed himself. “Ooookay. Forget the moving paintings. Silly me.” He turned back to Hubert. “I presume class is currently in session, Mr. Hubert?”

  “Hm?” Hubert said, as if startled. “In session? Well, I… I guess so. I wouldn’t expect--”

  “You wouldn’t expect we’d like to see, would you?” Prescott interrupted. “Well, we would. Our viewers have a right to know exactly what is going on here, right… under… our… noses.”

  “Viewers?” Hubert repeated, glancing back to the camera. “This is, er, live? Is it?” Prescott dropped his head forward and slumped a bit. “No, Mr. Hubert. It isn’t. Didn’t any of you tell him how this works? We record it, we edit it, we broadcast it. Miss Sacarhina, you understood all of this, am I correct?” He glanced aside at Sacarhina, who smiled and spread her arms. She mouthed a few words, and then gestured vaguely at her throat. Recreant cinched his grin a notch higher. His forehead was beaded with sweat. “Great,” Prescott muttered. “I see. Marvelous. Continuing.” He straightened and glared at Hubert again. “Yes, our viewers would very much like to see what happens in these so-called ‘classrooms’, Mr. Chancellor. Please lead the way.”

  Hubert turned to Delacroix. “What do you think, dear? Divination or Levitation?”

  “Dey are both equally impressive. Honey,” Delacroix said, forming the words rather awkwardly. She seemed to want to say more, but despite the workings of her jaw, her lips clamped tightly shut.

  “My wife is foreign, as you can see,” Hubert said apologetically. “But she does her best.” “The classrooms, please, Mr. Hubert,” Prescott insisted. “You can’t keep the press out, sir.” “No, no, of course not. We appreciate the publicity, in fact,” Hubert said, turning to lead the crew down a hall. “Prestigious as we are, sometimes, it’s hard to keep our heads above water. Magic is a, er, specialized study, to say the least. Only a certain kind of individual has the patience and grace to learn it. Ah, here we are then. Divination.”

  Prescott walked briskly into the open doorway of the classroom, followed by his camera crew and boom microphone operator, scrambling to keep up with him. Finney remained near the back of the group, staying as close to Headmistress McGonagall as he could. Harry and James, at the head of the crowd of curious students, leaned in through the door to watch.

  “Here, our students learn the ancient art of predicting the future,” Hubert said grandly. A dozen students were scattered around the room, staring grimly down at the objects on the desks in front of them. At the head of the class, as if on cue, Professor Trelawney raised her arms, producing a musical jingling from the asso
rtment of bangles on her wrists.

  “Seek, students!” she cried in her mistiest voice. “Stare deep, deep into the face of the all-knowing cosmos, represented in the swirling patterns and designs of the infinite! Find your destinies!”

  “Tea leaves!” Finney said happily. “My own mam used to read fortunes in tea leaves for the tourists! Got us through some hard times, back in the day. How perfectly picturesque, keeping such traditions alive.” “‘Traditions’, pah!” Trelawney said, arising from her seat and swirling her gauzy robes dramatically. “We find the embedded nature of perfect truth in the leaves, sir. Past, present, future, all bound together for those who bear the eyes to see!”

  “That’s just what my mam used to say, too!” chuckled Finney.

  “This is how you tell the future?” Prescott said, staring disgustedly into one of the students’ cups. “This is ridiculous. Where’re the crystal balls? Where’s the swirling smoke and the ghostly visions?”

  “Well, er, we have those things, too, Mr. Prescott,” Hubert said. “Don’t we, dear?”

  “Advanced Divination. Second semester. Two hundred-pound lab fee,” Delacroix replied mechanically. “Covers the crystal balls,” Hubert said behind his raised hand. “Those things aren’t cheap. We have them special made in China. Real crystal and everything. Of course, the students get to take them home at the end of the school year. They’re kind of a memento.”

  “I believe you mentioned levitation!” Prescott said, marching out of the room. His entourage followed swiftly, clanking and unrolling more electrical cord.

  “Certainly, yes. A staple of the magical arts,” Hubert replied, following Prescott across the hall and into another classroom. “We combine that class with Basic Prestidigitation. Yes, right in here.” Zane stood in the center of the classroom with a wand in his hand. A few dozen other students sat along the wall, watching in amazement as the bust of Godric Gryffindor floated and bobbed around the room, apparently at the behest of Zane’s waving wand. There was a gasp and sigh of amazement from Prescott’s crew. The cameraman squatted slowly, zooming in on the action.

  “Aha!” Prescott said excitedly. “Real magic! Being performed by children!”

  “Just as promised,” Hubert said proudly. “Mr. Walker here is among the best in his class. Mr. Walker, what year are you, by the way?”

  “First year, sir,” Zane said, grinning happily.

  “Excellent form, my boy,” Hubert replied. “Try a loop, why don’t you?”

  The students applauded politely as the bust raised and spun slowly in the air. Then, suddenly, it dropped, falling onto a mattress which had been placed in the center of the floor.

  “Oh, too bad, Mr. Walker. So close,” Hubert chided.

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Zane yelled. “It was my backstage! Ted, you dolt, you yanked when you were supposed to swoop! How many times do I have to explain that!” “Hey!” Ted objected, bursting noisily out of a closet at the rear of the room. He held a handful of wires in his hand, all of which snaked up to a series of pulleys attached to the ceiling of the closet. “You want to try coming back here and working these controls in the dark? Huh? Besides, Noah is the one to blame. He was slow with the cross pulley.”

  A voice from the depths of the closet yelled angrily, “What? That’s it! I want to be on stage next time. I’ve had it with this ‘assistant’ role. I want to wear the hat!”

  “Nobody’s wearing the hat, Noah,” Zane said, rolling his eyes.

  “Well, somebody needs to wear the hat!” Noah cried, his face appearing around the doorway of the closet. “How does anybody know who’s the magician and who’s the assistant?” “Boys, boys,” Hubert placated, raising his hands. “We only have one hat per classroom, and Miss Morganstern is using it to practice the rabbit trick. Mr. Prescott, Mr. Finney, would you like to see the rabbit trick?”

  “Why, yes,” Finney said brightly.

  “No!” Prescott yelled.

  Tabitha Corsica had pushed herself to the front of the students crowding the doorway. Her face was red with anger. “Mr. Prescott,” she began, “you--”

  Hubert turned slowly to face Tabitha. “This is hardly the time for autographs, Miss Corsica.” “I’m not here to get his autograph, Chancellor…,” Tabitha spat, raising her arm to point at Hubert. There was a small notebook and a pen clutched in her hand. She stopped in mid-sentence, staring at the two items. The cover of the notebook was pink and had the word ‘autographs’ printed on it in white script.

  “There will be plenty of time later for such things, Miss Corsica. But I’m sure Mr. Prescott is flattered by your, er, interest.” “Chancellor Hubert?” Petra interjected, peering into a black top hat which was sitting atop a ridiculously glittery table. “I think something might be wrong with Mr. Wiffles. Do rabbits usually lie on their backs like that?”

  “Not now, Miss Morganstern,” Hubert said, flapping his hand dismissively. “Mr. Prescott, I believe you wanted to see our sawing-in-half room?” But Prescott was gone, stalking past the suddenly silent Tabitha Corsica and heading down the corridor behind her. The crew scrambled to chase him as he poked his head into each room. At the end of the hall, he gave a muffled shout of triumph and waved for his crew to join him in the furthest classroom.

  “Here!” Prescott yelled, gesturing wildly with his right arm. The crowd poured into the room, followed by the watching students, who were beginning to grin. “Right before your eyes! A ghost professor! Make sure you get plenty of footage of this, Vince! Proof of the afterlife!”

  There was no gasp of surprise this time. Vince moved in close, focusing carefully with one hand.

  “Ah, yes. Professor Binns,” Hubert said happily. “Say hello to the nice folks.”

  Professor Binns blinked owlishly and passed his gaze over the crowd. “Greetings,” he said in his thin, distant voice.

  “It’s just a projection on smoke,” Vince, the cameraman, announced.

  “Well,” Hubert said, a bit defensively, “he’s not meant to be seen quite so close to like that. The students are usually well back from him. Creates a nice sense of mystery and the supernatural, really.”

  Ralph was among the students seated in the classroom. He addressed the cameraman with a note of annoyance. “You’re ruining the effect, you know. You don’t have to go and spoil it for everybody.”

  “Greetings,” Binns said again, passing his gaze over the crowd.

  “Impossible!” Prescott shouted angrily, striding toward the front of the room. “It’s a ghost! I know it is!” “It’s a projection, Martin,” Vince said, lowering the camera. “I’ve seen these before. It’s not even a very good one. You can hear the projector running. It’s right there, under the desk. And see here? Dry ice machine. Makes the smoke.”

  Finney cleared his throat near the door. “This is getting rather embarrassing, Mr. Prescott.”

  “Greetings,” said Professor Binns.

  Prescott turned wildly. He was obviously coming rather unraveled. “No!” he shouted. “This is all a setup! It’s his fault! He’s trying to trick all of you!” He pointed at Hubert.

  “Well, that is what we do here,” Hubert said, smiling politely. “We’re in the business of tricks. Although we prefer the term ‘illusion’, if you don’t mind.”

  “It’s maaaaa-gic,” Delacroix suddenly said, a bit inanely. She gave a ghastly grin. “I see what you’re all trying to do here,” Prescott said, still pointing at Hubert, and then McGonagall and even Sacarhina and Recreant, who shook their heads vigorously. “You’re trying to make me look like a madman! Well, my public knows me better than that, and so do my associates. You can’t hide everything! What about the moving staircases? Or the giants? Hmm? Or…” Prescott stopped, his finger still in midpoint. His eyes went unfocussed for a moment, and then he grinned maliciously. “I know just the thing. Just the thing indeed. Vince, Eddie, the rest of you, come with me.”

  Hubert followed as the crew clanked and jostled through the crowd of st
udents. “Where are you going, Mr. Prescott? I’m your guide, if you recall. I’ll show you whatever you wish.” “Yes?” Prescott said, spinning back toward Hubert. The curious students had parted for him and his crew, so that Prescott glared back between them, glancing from side to side. “Will you show me…,” he paused dramatically and tilted his head up, “the Garage?”

  “The…,” Hubert began. He blinked, and then looked aside at Professor McGonagall. James suddenly felt Harry’s hand tighten on his shoulder. Something was wrong. “The… Garage?” Hubert repeated, as if he was unfamiliar with the word.

  Prescott’s grin grew predatory. “Aha! Weren’t prepared for that, were you? Yes, I had myself a good long look around the grounds while you were all busy this morning. Peeked here and there and got quite an eyeful! There is a garage,” he said, turning to face the camera, “that penetrates the very fabric of space and time, creating a magical portal between this place and another place thousands of kilometers away! America, if I may be so bold as to guess! I have seen it myself. I have been inside the structure, and smelled the air of that far-off place. I have seen the sunrise of that land, while the sun here was high above the horizon. It was no trick, no illusion. These people would have us believe that they are mere tricksters, while I maintain, as I have witnessed with my own eyes, that they are dabblers in a form of magic that is purely and simply supernatural. Now I will prove it!” With a flourish, Prescott turned and marched away, heading back to the Entrance Hall. Harry fell in line next to Hubert, but couldn’t get his attention.

  “Mr. Prescott!” Hubert yelled over the sound of the now agitated crowd. “I really must insist that you allow me… Mr. Prescott! This is highly irregular!” Prescott led his crew out of the main entrance and across the courtyard. The crowd of students had grown considerably, and the noise of their passage had become quite loud. Everyone had seen the exterior of the Alma Aleron’s Garage, but very few had been inside or seen what it housed. The babble of worry and curiosity was a dull roar.