James Potter and the Hall of the Elders' Crossing

by G. Norman Lippert

  “Now, that’s the Slytherin spirit you told me about on the train,” Zane said. “So much for ‘I expect we’ll all be friends.’”

  “That was Trent,” Ralph said morosely, watching the boy walk away. “He’s the one who told me my GameDeck was an insult to my wizarding blood. Didn’t take him long to borrow it, though.”

  James barely heard. He was distracted by something the boy had been wearing. “What’d his badge say?”

  “Oh, they’ve all started wearing those,” Ralph said. “Tabitha Corsica was handing them out in the common room this morning. Here.” Ralph reached into his robes and produced a similar badge. “I forgot to put mine on.”

  James looked at the badge. White letters on a dark blue background read ‘Progressive Wizarding Against False History’. A large red ‘X’ repeatedly slashed itself across the words ‘False History’, and then faded out.

  “They don’t all say that,” Ralph said, taking the badge back. “Some of them say ‘Question the Victors’. Others have longer sayings on them that didn’t make any sense to me. What’s an Auror?”

  Zane piped up. “My dad got called for ‘Auror duty’ once. He got out of it because he was on a shoot in New Zealand. He says if ‘Aurors’ got paid more, we’d get better verdicts.”

  Ralph looked bewildered at Zane. James sighed. “Aurors,” he said slowly and carefully, “are witches and wizards who find and catch dark witches and wizards. They’re sort of like wizarding police, I guess. My dad’s an Auror.”

  “Head of the Auror Department, you mean,” a voice said as a group passed. Tabitha Corsica was at the head of the group, looking back at James as she swept on. “But do pardon my interruption.” The others in the group looked back at James with unreadable smiles. All of them were wearing the blue badges.

  “Yeah,” James said, loudly but rather uncertainly, “he is.”

  “Your dad’s chief of the wizard cops?” Zane asked, glancing from the departing Slytherins to James. James grimaced and nodded. He’d had a chance to read another of the badges. It read ‘Say No to Auror Fear Mongering; Say Yes to Freedom of Magical Expression’. James didn’t know what any of it meant, but he had a bad feeling about it.

  Zane suddenly turned and nudged Ralph with his elbow. “Better get that badge on, mate, or your house buddies will think you’ve gone all soft on False History and the Auror Imperialists or whatever.”

  James blinked, finally registering something Ralph had said a minute ago. “Did you say that your roommate borrowed your GameDeck thing?”

  Ralph smiled humorlessly. “Well, maybe not him. Somebody did. Not that many people knew about it, though. Unless they talked it up behind my back. All I know is it went missing from my bag right after I showed it to you guys. I suppose my housemates were just purging the room of counterfeit magic.” He sighed.

  James couldn’t shake the nasty feeling that was cooling in his belly. It was all wrapped up in the sugary niceness of some of the Slytherins, and the odd badges. And now, one of them had taken Ralph’s weird Muggle game device. Why?

  They were passing the Hogwarts trophy case when Zane, who had drifted ahead, called out. “Hey, club sign-up sheets. Let’s do something extracurricular.” He leaned in, examining one sheet in particular. “‘Read the Runes! Predict your Fate and the Fates of your Friends! Learn the Language of the Stars.’ Blah, blah. ‘Constellations Club. Meets at eleven o’clock on Tuesdays in the West Tower.’ Sounds to me like an excuse to be out late. I’m there.” He grabbed the quill which had been affixed to a shelf by a length of string, dipped it theatrically, and scribbled his name on the sheet.

  James and Ralph had caught up with him. Ralph leaned in, reading the sign-up sheets aloud. “Debate teams, Wizard Chess Club, House Quidditch teams.”

  “What? Where?” Zane said, still holding the quill as if he meant to stab something with it. He found the parchment for the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team tryouts and began to sign his name. “I just gotta get on one of those brooms. What do you think my chances are, James?”

  James took the quill from Zane, shaking his head in amusement. “Anything’s possible. My dad was the Seeker for the Gryffindor team his first year. Youngest Seeker in team history. He’s part of the reason they changed the rules. Used to be that first years couldn’t be on the team. Now it’s allowed, but really, really rare.” James signed his name to the bottom of the sheet for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Tryouts, he saw, were after classes the next day.

  “Ralph, you going to sign up for the Slytherins? Come on! All your friends are doing it!” Zane leered at the bigger boy.

  “Nah, I was never very good at sports.”

  “You?” Zane cried heartily, throwing an arm rather awkwardly over Ralph’s shoulder. “You’re a brick wall! All you have to do is park yourself in front of the goal and the defense is all shored up! All they’d need is to find a broom that’ll hold you, you big lug.”

  “Shut up!” Ralph said, twisting away from Zane’s arm, but smiling and turning red. “Actually I was thinking about signing up for the debate team. Tabitha thinks I’d be good on it.”

  James blinked. “Tabitha Corsica asked you to be on the Slytherin debate team?”

  “Actually,” Zane said, peering at the debate sign-up sheets, “debate teams aren’t divided by house. They’re just random Teams A and B. Look, people from all different houses are on each team. There’s even some of the visiting Alma Alerons on here.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and sign up, Ralph?” James asked. Ralph obviously wanted to.

  “I don’t know. I might.”

  “Oh, look, Petra’s on Team A,” Zane said. He began to sign his name again.

  James frowned. “You’re joining the debate team just because Petra Morganstern is on it?”

  “Can you think of a better reason?”

  “You know,” James said, laughing, “Petra is going out with Ted, I think.”

  “My dad says girls don’t know whether they like ice cream until they’ve tried every kind,” Zane said wisely, sticking the quill back into its holder.

  Ralph furrowed his brow. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means Zane here thinks he can give Ted a run for his money in the romance department,” James said. He both admired and worried about Zane’s lack of inhibition.

  “It means,” Zane replied, “that Petra doesn’t know what she wants in a man until she’s had a chance to get to know as many men as possible. I’m thinking only of her best interests.”

  Ralph studied Zane for a moment. “You do know you’re eleven years old, right?”

  James stopped as Zane and Ralph began to walk on. His eye had been caught by a picture in the trophy case. He leaned in, cupping his hands around his face to block the glare of the sun. The picture was black and white, moving, as all wizard pictures did. It was his dad, younger, thinner, his black hair wild and unruly over the famous, characteristic scar. He was smiling uncomfortably at the camera, his eyes moving as if he were avoiding eye contact with somebody or something outside the camera’s view. Next to the framed photo was a large trophy made of silver and a sort of blue crystal that glowed with a shifting, curling light. James read the plaque below the trophy.

  The Triwizard Cup

  Jointly Awarded to Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory,

  Hogwarts students of the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff Houses, respectively,

  for winning the Triwizard Tournament, which was held upon these grounds

  with the cooperation of representatives from the

  Durmstrang Institute and the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.

  There was more, but James didn’t read it. He knew the story. Harry Potter’s name had been drawn as a competitor fraudulently, having been placed into the running by a dark wizard named Crouch. It had led to both Harry and Diggory being sent via Portkey to Voldemort’s lair, resulting in the evil wizard’s bodily return. No wonder his dad looked so uncomfortable in the photo. He had been under the legal age
for the tournament, and had been the superfluous fourth contestant in a three wizard competition. He’d been in a room full of people who suspected him of cheating and dark magic, at best.

  James glanced at the photo on the other side of the cup, the one of Diggory. His smile looked genuine and hearty compared to his dad’s. James had never seen a photo of Diggory before, but it looked familiar nonetheless. He knew the story of Diggory, knew he had died next to his dad in the graveyard they’d been sent to, killed at the command of Voldemort. His dad rarely talked about that night, and James understood why, or at least thought he did.

  He sighed, and then ran to catch up with Zane and Ralph.

  Later that day, when James stopped in his room to swap books for his Defense Against the Dark Arts class, he found Nobby waiting for him, scratching the windowsill impatiently. James grabbed the rolled parchment off Nobby’s leg and read it.

  Dear James,

  Your father and I are thrilled to hear you are settling in well, as we knew you would. Your Uncle Ron says congratulations on becoming a Gryffindor, and we all concur. Can’t wait to hear how your first day’s classes go. Also, I hope you hear about this from us first: your father has been asked to go to Hogwarts for a meeting with the American wizards about international security and other matters of ‘mutual interest’. I’ll be staying home with Albus and Lil, but your father looks forward to seeing you next week. Make sure you are eating more than pastries and meat pies and be sure to get your robes and yourself washed at least once a week. (That was a joke. Actually, no, it wasn’t.)

  Love and kisses,

  Mum

  James folded the note into the book he was carrying as he ran down the steps. The knowledge that he’d be seeing his dad next week had left him with mixed feelings. Of course, he was excited to see him and to introduce him to his new friends. Still, he feared that the visit would also make the shadow of his famous father that much harder to escape. He was fleetingly thankful that Zane and Ralph were both Muggleborn, and therefore, relatively ignorant of the exploits of his legendary dad.

  As he joined the crowd of students filing into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, James saw another of the badges on a Slytherin’s robe. ‘Progressive Wizards Against Magical Discrimination’, it read. He felt a sort of aimless, sinking feeling, and then he noticed the newspaper clipping tacked to the wall near the door. ‘Harry Potter to Join International Wizarding Summit’, ran the headline. Below it, smaller type read ‘Head Auror to Meet United States Representatives During Hogwarts Ceremony. Security Questions Prevail.’ Pinned to the newspaper clipping so that it obscured the photo of a smiling adult Harry Potter was another of the blue badges. ‘Question the Victors’, it flashed.

  “Come on,” Ralph urged, joining James. “We’ll be late.”

  As they navigated the crowded room and found two seats near the front, Ralph leaned toward James. “Was that your dad on that newspaper story?”

  James had assumed Ralph hadn’t noticed it. He glanced at Ralph as they sat down. “Yeah. Mum just wrote me about it. He’ll be here beginning of next week. Big meeting with the Americans, I guess.”

  Ralph said nothing, but looked uncomfortable.

  “You already knew about it, didn’t you?” James whispered as the class quieted down.

  “No,” Ralph muttered, “at least, not specifically. My housemates have been talking about some sort of protest all day, though. Looks like it’s about your dad, I guess.”

  James stared at Ralph, his mouth open slightly. So that’s what Tabitha Corsica and her Slytherins were up to, behind all the friendly smiles and speeches. The Slytherin tactics had changed, but not their purpose. James pressed his lips into a grim line and turned to the front of the room as Professor Franklyn approached the main desk. Professor Jackson was walking next to him, carrying his black leather case and talking in a low tone.

  “Greetings, students,” Franklyn said crisply. “I suspect many of you have already met Professor Jackson. Please forgive the short delay.” Jackson eyed the seated students from over his shoulder, his face like granite. Zane’s nickname for the man did seem to be rather appropriate, James thought. Franklyn turned back to Jackson and spoke in a hushed voice. Jackson seemed discontent with what Franklyn was saying. He set his case down on the floor next to him, freeing his hand to gesture minutely.

  James looked down at the case. It was only a foot or two from where he sat in the front row. Jackson was never seen without the case, which was unremarkable in nearly every way apart from the fact that he guarded it so closely. James tried not to listen in on the conversation between the two professors, which was obviously meant to be secret. Of course, that made it all the more intriguing. He heard the words ‘grotto’ and ‘Merlin’. Then a third voice pierced the room.

  “Professor Jackson,” the voice said, and while it wasn’t a loud voice, it rang with an air of understated power. James turned around to see who was speaking. Madame Delacroix was standing just inside the doorway to the room, her blind gaze hovering somewhere over everyone’s heads. “I thought you might like to know dat your class is awaiting you. You are always such a���,” she seemed to search the air for the right word, “stickler for punctuality.” Her voice had a slow drawl that was somehow both French and Southern American. She smiled vaguely, then turned, her cane clicking the floor, and disappeared down the hall.

  Jackson’s face was even harder than normal as he stared at the now empty doorway. He glanced pointedly at Franklyn, and then dropped his gaze, reaching for his case. He froze in mid-reach, and James couldn’t help glancing down toward the professor’s feet. The black leather case had apparently come slightly open when he’d set it down. Its brass catches glinted. No one else seemed to have noticed except for James and Professor Jackson. Jackson resumed reaching for his case, slowly, clicking it closed with one large, knobby-knuckled hand. James had only a narrow glimpse into the case. It appeared to be stuffed with folds of some rich, dark cloth. Jackson straightened, picking the case back up, and as he did so, he glanced at James, his stony face grim. James tried to glance away, but it was too late. Jackson knew he’d seen, even if he didn’t know what it was.

  Without a word, Jackson strode back up the aisle, moving with that purposeful, sweeping gait that looked so much like an old battleship under full sail, and then turned into the hall without looking back.

  “Thank you for your patience,” Franklyn said to the class, adjusting his glasses. “Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts. By now, most of you know my name, and many of you, I assume, know something of my history. Just to get some of the obvious questions out of the way: Yes, I am that Benjamin Franklin. No, I didn’t actually invent electricity for the Muggles, but I did give them a small push in the right direction. Yes, I was a part of the American Continental Congress, although for obvious reasons, I was not one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. At that time, I used two different spellings of my name, only one of which was known to the Muggle world, which made it easier for me to know which correspondences to open first. Yes, I realize my face graces the American one hundred dollar bill. No, contrary to popular myth, I do not carry sheets of uncut hundreds around to snip out and sign for admirers. Yes, I am indeed quite old, and yes, this is accomplished through means of magic, although I assure you that those means are a lot more mundane and prosaic than many have assumed. Emphatically no, I am not immortal. I am a very, very old man who has aged rather well with a little help. Does that cover most of the obvious questions?” Franklyn finished with a wry smile, surveying the remarkably full classroom. There was a murmur of assent.

  “Excellent. Onward and upward then. And please,” Franklyn continued, opening a very large book on his desk, “let us avoid any ‘it’s all about the Benjamins’ jokes. They weren’t funny two hundred years ago and they are even less funny now, thank you.”

  Crossing the grounds on their way to dinner in the Great Hall, James and Ralph were passing Hagrid’s
cabin when they noticed the ribbon of smoke coming out of the chimney. James broke into a grin, called Ralph to follow, and ran up to the front door.

  “James!” Hagrid bellowed, opening the door. He threw his arms around the boy, completely engulfing him. Ralph’s eyes widened and he took a step backwards, looking Hagrid up and down. “So good to have a Potter back in school. How’s yer mum an’ dad, an’ li’l Albus an’ Lily?”

  “Everybody’s fine, Hagrid. Where’ve you been?”

  Hagrid stepped out, closing the door behind him. They followed him as he crossed the grounds toward the castle. “Up the mountains meetin’ with the giants, that’s where. Grawp and me, we go every year, don’t we? Spreadin’ goodwill an’ tryin’ to keep ‘em all honest, for whatever it’s worth. Stayed a li’l longer this year on account o’ li’l Grawpy findin’ himself a girlfriend. Who’s yer mate here, James?”

  James, momentarily distracted by the thought of Hagrid’s half-brother, who was a full giant, performing mating rituals with a mountain giantess, had completely forgotten about Ralph. “Oh! This is my friend, Ralph Deedle. He’s a first year, like me. Hagrid, are you telling us Grawp’s in love?”

  Hagrid grew vaguely misty. “Aww, it’s sweet to see the li’l fella and his lady friend together. Why, they’re both just as happy as a pair of hippogriffs in a henhouse. Giant courtships are very delicate things, yeh know.”

  Ralph was having some difficulty keeping up with the conversation. “Grawp, your brother, is a giant?”

  “Well, sure,” Hagrid boomed happily. “He’s only a li’l one. Sixteen feet or so. Yeh should see his lady friend. She’s from the Crest-Dweller’s tribe, twenty-two feet if she’s an inch. Not my type of girl, o’ course, but Grawpy’s just smitten by her. Not surprising, really, since the first step in any giant courtship is smitin’ the mate over the head with a big hunk of tree trunk. She laid the li’l fella right out cold for the best part of a day. After that, he’s been as google-eyed as a pup.”

  James was afraid to ask, and suspected he knew the answer. “Did Grawp bring his girlfriend back home with him?”