“Here. A little something for my new Muggleborn friend,” he said as Ralph took it. Ralph hardly noticed. He was chewing, holding up one of the tiny, purple flowers. “I don’t know for sure,” he said, looking at it, “but I think these are made out of meringue.”
After the initial rush of excitement and worry, then the whirlwind of making new acquaintances, the rest of the train ride seemed remarkably mundane. James found himself in turns either acting as a tour guide for his two new friends or having their conversation explained to him wherever they centered on Muggle life and concepts. He found it incredible that they had apparently spent a great chunk of their lives watching television. Whenever they weren’t watching it, it seemed that they and their friends were playing games on it, pretending to drive racing cars or go on adventures or play sports. James had, of course, heard of television and video games, but having had mostly wizard friends, he’d assumed Muggle children only engaged in those activities when there was absolutely nothing better to do. When he asked Ralph why he’d spent so much time playing sports on the television instead of playing them in real life, Ralph merely rolled his eyes, made an exasperated noise, and then looked helplessly at Zane. Zane had clapped James on the back and said, “James, buddy, it’s a Muggle thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
James, in turn, had explained as best he could about Hogwarts and the magical world. He told them about the unplottable nature of the castle, which meant it couldn’t be found on any map by anyone who didn’t already know its location. He described the school houses and explained the House points system Dad and Mum had told him about. He tried, as best he could, to explain Quidditch, which seemed to leave both of them confused and frustratingly unenthusiastic. Zane had had the ridiculous idea that only witches rode brooms, apparently based on a movie called The Wizard of Oz. James tried very patiently to explain that both wizards and witches rode brooms and that it wasn’t at all ‘a girly thing’. Zane, apparently sensing the consternation this was causing, went on to insist that all witches were supposed to have green skin and warts on their noses, and the conversation quickly deteriorated.
Just as evening was beginning to turn the sky a pale purple and silhouette the trees outside the train’s windows, a tall, older boy with neatly cropped blonde hair knocked sharply on their compartment door. “Hogsmeade Station straight ahead,” he said, leaning in with an air of brisk purpose. “You fellows will want to be getting your school robes on.”
Zane frowned and raised his eyebrows at the boy. “We will, will we?” he asked. “It’s almost seven o’clock. Are you quite sure?” He pronounced the word ‘quite’ with his ridiculous English accent. The older boy’s brow darkened very slightly.
“My name is Steven Metzker. Fifth year. Prefect. And you are?”
Zane jumped up, offering the boy his hand in a parody of the gesture he’d shown James at the beginning of the trip. “Walker. Zane Walker. Happy to meet you Mr. Prefect.”
Steven glanced down at the proffered hand, and then decided, with an apparently great effort, to go ahead and shake it. He spoke to the compartment at large as he did so. “There will be a dinner in the Great Hall promptly upon your arrival on the school grounds. School robes are required. I will assume by your accent, Mr. Walker,” he said, retracting his hand and looking bracingly at Zane, “that dressing for dinner is a relatively new concept. No doubt you’ll catch on fast.” He caught James’ eye, dropped a quick wink, and then disappeared down the corridor.
“No doubt I shall,” Zane said cheerfully.
James helped Ralph and Zane make sense of their robes. Ralph had put his on backwards, making him look to James like the youngest cleric he’d ever seen. Zane, liking the look, had turned his around on purpose, proclaiming that if it wasn’t the style yet, it soon would be. Only when James had insisted that it would be disrespectful to the school and teachers did Zane reluctantly agree to turn it back around.
James had been told repeatedly and in great detail what would happen when they arrived. He knew about Hogsmeade Station, had even been there a few times when he was very young, although he had no memories of it. He knew about the boats which would ferry them across the lake and had seen dozens of pictures of the castle. Still, he discovered that none of that had quite prepared him for the grandness and solemnity of it. As the tiny boats glided across the lake, drawing V-shaped wakes on the glassy water, James stared with a kind of wonder that was perhaps even greater than that felt by those with him who hadn’t come believing they knew what to expect. The sheer bulk of the castle amazed him as it rambled and clumped on the great rocky hilltop. It soared upwards in turrets and ramparts, each structural detail lit on one side by the blue of the approaching night, on the other by the golden rose of the setting sun. A galaxy of windows dotted the castle, glowing a warm yellow on the shaded sides, glittering like sunfire on the lit. The massiveness and weight of the sight seemed to press down on James with a pleasant awe, going straight through him and down, down, into its own reflection deep in the mirror of the lake.
There was one detail he hadn’t expected, however. Halfway across the lake, just as conversation had begun to spring up again among the new students and they began to hoot excitedly and call to each other across the water, James noticed another boat on the lake. Unlike the ones he and his fellow first years rode in, it wasn’t lit by a lantern. Nor was it approaching the castle. It was pointed away from the lights of Hogwarts, a larger boat than his own, but still small enough to be nearly lost in the dim shadows at the edge of the lake. There was one person in it, lanky and thin, almost spiderlike. James thought it looked like a woman. Just as he was about to turn away and forget the decidedly unremarkable sight, the figure looked up at him suddenly, as if aware of his curiosity. In the darkening light, he was almost sure their eyes met, and a totally unexpected coldness came over him. It was indeed a woman. Her skin was dark, her face bony, hard, with high cheeks and a sharp chin. A scarf was tied down neatly over her head, hiding most of her hair. The look on her face as she watched him watch her wasn’t frightened or angry. Her face didn’t seem to have any expression at all, in fact. And then she vanished. James blinked in surprise, before realizing, a moment later, that she hadn’t actually vanished, she had simply been obscured behind a hedge of reeds and cattails as their boats grew further apart. He shook his head, smiled at himself for being a typically jumpy first year, and then returned his gaze to the journey ahead.
The gaggle of first years entered the courtyard with a chorus of appreciative chatter. James found himself straggling, threading almost unconsciously to the rear of the group as they climbed the steps into the brightly lit corridor. There was Mr. Filch, whom James recognized by his hair, scowl, and the cat, Mrs. Norris, which he held cradled in the crook of his arm. Here were the enchanted staircases, even now creaking and grinding into new positions to the mingled delight and trepidation of the new students. And here, finally, were the doors into the Great Hall, their panels gleaming mellowly in the light of the chandeliers. As the students congregated there, conversation faltered to silence. Zane, standing shoulder to shoulder with Ralph, who was nearly a head taller, turned and looked over his shoulder at James, waggling his eyebrows and grinning.
The doors creaked and swung inwards, light and sound pouring out through them as they revealed the Great Hall in all its splendor. The four long House tables were full of students, hundreds of faces grinning, laughing, chattering, and capering. James looked for Ted, but couldn’t find him in the throng.
The tall, slightly gawky teacher who’d led them to the doors turned and faced them, smiling disarmingly. “Welcome to Hogwarts, first years!” he called over the noise of the Hall. “My name is Professor Longbottom. You’ll be sorted into your houses straight off. Once that’s done, you’ll find your table and dinner will be served. Please follow me.”
He turned with a flap of his robes and proceeded briskly down the center of the Great Hall.
Nervously, the first years b
egan to follow, first in a shuffle, then in a brisk trot, trying to keep up. James saw the heads of Ralph and Zane crane back, their chins pointing higher and higher. He’d almost forgotten about the enchanted ceiling. He looked up himself, but only a little, not wanting to look like he was too impressed. The higher he looked, the more the ceiling beams and alcoves retreated into transparency, revealing a stunning representation of the outside sky. Cold, brittle-looking stars glittered like silver dust on jeweler’s velvet and off to the right, just over the Gryffindor table, the half-moon could be seen, its giant face looking both mad and jolly.
“Did he say his name was Longbottom?” Zane said to James out of the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah. Neville Longbottom.”
“Wow,” Zane breathed. “You Brits really have a thing to learn about subtlety. I don’t even know where to start with a name like that.” Ralph shushed him as the crowd began to quiet, noticing the first years lining up along the front of the hall.
James looked along the table on the dais, trying to pick out all the teachers he knew about. There was Professor Slughorn, looking just as fat and ridiculously baroque as his parents had described. Slughorn, James recalled, had come on as a temporary teacher during his parents’ time, apparently reluctantly, and then simply never left. Next to him was the ghostly Professor Binns, then Professor Trelawney, blinking owlishly behind her gigantic spectacles. Further down the table, recognizable by his size (James could see he sat on a stack of three enormous books) was Professor Flitwick. Several other faces James didn’t recognize were scattered about: teachers who’d come since his parents’ time and were therefore relatively unfamiliar. No sign of Hagrid, but James had learned that he was off among the giants again with Grawp, and wouldn’t return until the following day. Finally, at the center of the table, just then standing and raising her arms, was Minerva McGonagall, the Headmistress.
“Welcome returning students, and welcome new students,” she said in her piercing, rather tremulous voice, “to this first banquet of this new year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” A cheer of happy acknowledgement went up from the seated students behind James. He glanced back over his shoulder, scanning the crowd. He saw Ted seated, hooting through his cupped hands, surrounded by group of somehow impossibly handsome and beautiful older boys and girls at the Gryffindor table. James tried to smile at him, but Ted didn’t notice.
As the cheers diminished, Professor McGonagall continued. “I’m glad to see you are all as excited to be here as are your teachers and school staff. Let us hope that this spirit of mutual understanding and unity of purpose accompanies us throughout the school year.” She eyed the crowd, picking out certain individuals. James heard scattered scuffling and the marked silences of conspicuous guilty grins.
“And now,” the Headmistress went on, turning to watch as a chair was carried onto the stage by two older students. James noticed that one of them was Steven Metzker, the prefect they’d encountered on the train. “As is our proud tradition on the occasion of our first gathering, let us witness the Sorting of our newest students into their respective houses. First years, will you please approach the platform? I will be calling your names individually. You will approach the platform and have a seat���”
James tuned out the rest. He knew this ceremony well, having quizzed his parents endlessly about it. He had been, in the previous days, more excited about the Sorting ceremony than he had been about anything else. In truth, he recognized now that his excitement had actually masked a numbing, terrible fear. The Sorting Hat was the first test he’d have to pass in order to prove he was the man his parents expected him to be, the man the wizarding world had already begun to assume he was. It hadn’t quite hit him until he’d seen the article in the Daily Prophet several weeks earlier. It had been a fluffy, happy, little article of the ‘whatever happened to so-and-so’ variety, and yet it had filled James with a sort of cold, creeping dread. The article summarized the ongoing biography of Harry Potter, now married to his school sweetheart, Ginny Weasley, and announced that James, the first-born son of Harry and Ginny Potter, was to be attending his first year at Hogwarts. James had been particularly haunted by the line that ended the article. He could recall it word for word: We at the Daily Prophet, along with the rest of the magical world, wish young Mr. Potter all the best as he moves on to fulfill, and perhaps even surpass, the expectations any of us could hope to have of the son of such a beloved and legendary figure.
What would the Daily Prophet, or the rest of the wizarding world, think of the son of the beloved and legendary figure if he sat on that chair and the Sorting Hat proclaimed him something other than a Gryffindor? Back on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, James had confided this very fear to his dad.
“There isn’t any more magic in being a Gryffindor than there is in being a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin, James,” Harry Potter had said, squatting down and putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. James had pressed his lips together, knowing his dad would say something like that.
“Would that have comforted you back when you were getting ready to sit on the chair and put that hat on your head?” he’d asked in a low, serious voice.
His dad didn’t answer, only pressed his lips together, smiled ruefully and shook his head. “But I was a worried, superficial, little git back then, James, my boy. Try not to be like me in that regard, OK? We know great witches and wizards from all the houses. I’ll be proud and honored to have my son in any of them.”
James had nodded, but it hadn’t worked. He knew what his dad really wanted—and expected-despite the talk. James was to be a Gryffindor, just like Mum and Dad, just like his uncles and aunt, just like all the heroes and legends he’d been told about since he was a baby, all the way back to Godric Gryffindor himself, greatest of all the founders of Hogwarts.
And yet now, as he stood, watching the Sorting Hat being produced and held aloft by the skinny arms of Headmistress McGonagall, he found that all his fears and worries had somehow drained away. He’d had a sort of idea during the last few hours. Now it came fully to the front of his mind. He had assumed all along that he had no choice but to compete with his father and try to fill his enormous shoes. His subsequent terrible fear had been that he would be unequal to the task, that he would fail. But what if there was another option? What if he simply didn’t try?
James stared ahead, unseeing, as the first students were called to the chair, as the hat was lowered onto their heads, almost hiding their intensely curious, upturned eyes. He looked like a statue—a statue of a small boy with his father’s unruly black hair and his mother’s nose and expressive lips. What if he simply didn’t try to live up to the giant shadow cast by his dad? Not that he wouldn’t be great in his own way. It would just be a very different way. A decidedly, intentionally different way. And what if that started here? Right here, on the platform, on his first day, being proclaimed��� well, something other than a Gryffindor. That would be all that mattered. Unless���
“James Potter,” the voice of the Headmistress rang out with her distinctive rolled ‘r’ on his last name. He startled, looking up at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. She looked a hundred feet tall standing there on the platform, her arm held out ramrod straight and holding the Sorting Hat over the chair, casting a triangular shadow onto it. He was about to move forward and climb the short flight of steps to the platform when a noise broke out behind him. It shocked and worried him for a moment. He was irrationally afraid that somehow his thoughts had gotten out and betrayed him, that it was the noise of the Gryffindor table standing, booing him. But it wasn’t the sound of booing. It was the sound of applause, polite and sustained, in response to the calling of his name. James turned to the Gryffindor table, a smile of gratitude and happiness already lighting his face. But they weren’t the ones applauding. They sat there rather blankly. Most of their heads were turned toward the source of the sound. James turned, following their eyes. It was the Slytherin
table.
James felt rooted to the spot. The entire table was looking at him with pleasant smiles, every one open, happy, applauding. One of the students, a tall, very attractive girl with wavy black hair and large, sparkling eyes, was standing. She clapped lightly but confidently, smiling directly at James. Finally, the other tables began to join in, first in dribs and drabs, and then in a sustained, rather puzzled ovation.
“Yes. Yes, thank you,” Headmistress McGonagall called over the applause. “That will be enough. We are all quite, er, happy that we have young Mr. Potter here with us this year. Now, if you’ll please resume your seats���” James began his ascent of the dais while the applause died down. As he turned and sat down on the chair, he heard the Headmistress mutter, “So we can finish this and have dinner before the next equinox.” James turned to look up at her, but saw only the dark maw of the Sorting Hat coming down on top of him. He closed his eyes tightly and felt the cool softness of the hat cover his head, slipping down over his brow.
Instantly, all other sound stopped. James was in the mind of the hat, or perhaps it was the other way around. It spoke, but not to him.
“Potter, James, yes, I’ve been expecting this one. The third Potter that’s come under my brim. Always difficult, these���,” it mused to itself, as if it enjoyed the challenge. “Courage, yes, as always, but courage is cheap in the young. Still, good Gryffindor stock, just like the ones before.”
James’ heart leaped. Then he remembered the thought he’d had standing before the dais and he faltered. I don’t have to play the game, he thought to himself. I don’t have to be a Gryffindor. He thought of the applause, thought of the face of the pretty girl with the long, wavy black hair, standing beneath the green and silver banner.
“Slytherin, he thinks!” the hat spoke in his head, considering. “Yes, always that possibility as well. Like his father. He’d have made a great Slytherin, but hadn’t the will. Hmm, very unsure of himself is this one, and that is a first for a Potter. Lack of sureness is neither a Gryffindor nor a Slytherin trait. Perhaps Hufflepuff would do him some good���”
James Potter and the Hall of the Elders' Crossing Page 3
