James Potter and the Hall of the Elders' Crossing

by G. Norman Lippert

  “But—” James began, then Filch’s hand descended heavily onto his shoulder.

  “I’ll take care of the lad, Headmistress,” he growled. “It’s not too late to save ‘em when you catch ‘em early. Is it, young lad?”

  “Potter,” McGonagall said, apparently having already moved on to other matters, “take Mr. Filch up to the Potions closet and the other broken window, won’t you? Let’s try to get things cleaned up before classes if we can. Good morning, gentlemen.”

  James stood miserably and Filch guided him to the door with the great, callused hand on his shoulder.

  “Come along, my lad. We’ve got mischief to rectify, haven’t we?”

  On the way out, James saw that one of the headmaster portraits was not sleeping. The eyes of that headmaster were black, like the lanky hair that framed the white face. Severus Snape studied James coldly, only his eyes moving to follow as Filch marched him from the room.

  Tina Curry, the Muggle Studies Professor, led the class briskly out onto the lawn. The day which had started rather brightly was now turning grey and blustery. Gusts of wind sprang up and flapped the edges of Professor Curry’s sport cloak and the nets Hagrid was trying to hang on the wooden frame he had just finished assembling.

  “Expertly done, Hagrid,” Curry called as she approached, the class trotting to keep up. “Sturdy as a barn, I daresay.”

  Hagrid looked up, losing his grasp on the netting as he did so and scrambling to catch it. “Thank yeh, Ms. Curry. Weren’t what yeh might call a challenge. Up to this part, o’ course, which is a might hairy.”

  Hagrid’s construction was a simple wooden framework, roughly rectangular. There was another one several dozen yards away, its netting strung taut and swishing in the stiffening breeze.

  “Curry’s new this year, if you haven’t guessed,” Ted commented to James as they gathered. “Has some pretty crazy ideas about how to learn about Muggles. Makes a fellow wish he hadn’t pushed off taking this class until his last year.”

  “As if these outfits weren’t bad enough,” Damien said sourly, glancing down at his shorts and socks. Every Thursday, Muggle Studies class was required to dress out in shorts, athletic shoes, and one of two colors of Hogwarts jerseys. Half the class was wearing burgundy, the other half, gold.

  “You wouldn’t look quite so, er, interesting, Damien, if you had some white socks,” Sabrina said as diplomatically as she could.

  Damien gave her a tell-me-something-I-don’t-know look. “Thanks, sweetie. Tell my mum that next time she goes shopping at Sears and bloody Roe-mart”

  Zane didn’t bother to correct Damien. He beamed with annoying good cheer, obviously far more comfortable in the outfit than the rest. “I have a good feeling about this. The breeze will air some of you vampires out. Lighten up.”

  Damien hooked a thumb toward Zane. “Why is he even in this class?”

  “He’s right, Damien,” Ted said good-naturedly. “Shake out the old batwings a bit, why don’t you?”

  “All right, class,” Curry called, clapping her hands for attention. “Let’s look orderly, shall we? Form two lines, please. Burgundy over here, gold over there. That’s very nice.”

  As the lines formed, Professor Curry produced a long basket from under her arm. She paced to the head of the burgundy line. “Wands out,” she called. Each student produced his or her wand and held them at the ready, some of the first years glancing around to see if they were holding theirs correctly. James saw Zane sneak a peek at Ted, then swap his wand from his right hand to his left.

  “Excellent,” Curry said, holding the basket out. “In here, then, please.” She began to pace along the line, watching the students reluctantly drop their wands into the basket. There was a mass groan throughout the gathered students. “You all surely can tell your wands apart, I expect. Come, come, if we are to learn anything about the Muggle world, we must learn how to think non-magically. That means, of course, no wands. Thank you, Mr. Metzker. Mr. Lupin. Ms. Hildegard. And you, Ms. McMillan. Thank you. Now. Is that everyone?”

  A very unenthusiastic noise of assent came from the students.

  “Hup, hup, students,” Curry chirped as she laid the basket of wands next to Hagrid’s framework. “Are you implying that you are so dependent upon magic that you are unable to play a simple, a very simple game? Hmm?” She glanced around at the students, her sharp nose pointed slightly upwards. “I should hope not. But before we begin, let us have a bit of discussion about why it is important for us to study the ways and means of the Muggle world. Anyone?”

  James avoided Curry’s eyes as she looked from student to student. There was silence but for the gusting wind in the nearby trees and the flap of the banners over the castle.

  “We learn about Muggles so that we will not forget the fact that, despite our myriad differences, we are all human,” Curry said crisply and emphatically. “When we forget our essential similarities, we forget how to get along, and that cannot but lead to prejudice, discrimination, and eventually, conflict.” She allowed the echo of her words to diminish, and then brightened. “Besides, the nonmagical nature of our Muggle friends has forced them to be inventive in ways that the magical world has never achieved. The result, students, are games so simple and elegant that they require no broomsticks, no enchanted Snitches, no flying Bludgers. The only things necessary are two nets,” she indicated Hagrid’s new structures with a sweep of her left arm, then held something else aloft with her right, “and one single ball.”

  “Excellent,” Zane said ironically, gazing at the ball in Curry’s upraised hand. “I came to a school of magic to learn to play soccer.”

  “Around here, we call it ‘football’,” Damien said sourly.

  “Madam Curry,” a pleasant female voice said. James looked for the speaker. Tabitha Corsica stood near the end of the opposite line, all but cringing in her gold jersey. She wore a black sport cloak over it, tied neatly at her throat. A group of other Slytherins stood in line near her, the distaste very clear on their faces. “Why is it necessary, exactly, for us to learn to play a Muggle, er, sport? Might it not be sufficient to read about Muggle histories and, ahem, lifestyles? After all, even if they desired to, witches and wizards are not allowed to compete in Muggle sporting competitions, according to international magical law. Am I correct?”

  “Indeed you are, Ms. Corsica,” Curry answered quickly. “And have you any idea why that might be?”

  Tabitha raised her eyebrows and smiled politely. “I’m sure I don’t, ma’am.”

  “The answer to your question lies therein, Ms. Corsica,” Curry said, turning away from Tabitha. “Anyone else?”

  A boy James recognized as a third-year Hufflepuff raised his hand. “Ma’am? I think it’s because wizards would throw off the balance of competition if they used magic.”

  Curry motioned for him to elaborate. “Go on, Mr. Terrel.”

  “Well, my mum works for the Ministry and she says there are international laws that keep wizards from using magic to win Muggle sporting events or lotteries or contests and the like. If witches and wizards got into a Muggle sport and used any magic, they’d be able to run circles around any Muggle, wouldn’t they?”

  “You are speaking of the International Department for the Prevention of Unfair Advantage, Mr. Terrel, and you are, more or less, correct.” Curry dropped the ball to the ground at her feet and kicked it lightly. It rolled a couple of yards across the grass. “To be honest, it is not accurate to say that witches and wizards are forbidden from competing in Muggle sports. There are allowances for persons of magical heritage who do wish to compete. However, they must agree to undergo certain spells that, performed upon themselves with the help of wizarding officials, temporarily nullify their magical abilities. If this were not so���”

  Professor Curry produced her own wand from an inner pocket of her cloak and pointed it at the ball. “Velocito Expendum,” she trilled. She pocketed the wand, and then strolled toward the ball. She kicked it
in a casual, offhand manner. The ball virtually exploded off her foot. It shot across the grass and hit the netting of the goal with a sharp smack, belling the netting outward as if the ball had been shot from a cannon.

  “Well, you get the point,” Curry said, turning back to the double line of students. “The WizardMuggle Sportsmanship Program is, as you might imagine, distasteful enough that virtually no wizards or witches have participated in it. That is not to say, however, that many witches and wizards do not attempt to circumvent these laws each year, upsetting the fairness of the Muggle sporting world.”

  “Madam Curry?” Tabitha said again, raising her hand. “Is it true, then, that the Ministry, and the international magical community, believe Muggles are unable to cope with the skills of the magical world, and that witches and wizards must be hobbled in order to be considered equal with them?”

  For the first time, Professor Curry seemed rather ruffled. “Miss Corsica, that is hardly a discussion for this class. If you wish to discuss the political machinations of the Ministry—”

  “I’m sorry, Madam Curry,” Tabitha said, smiling disarmingly. “I was just curious. This being a class devoted to the study of Muggles, I thought we might be planning to discuss the obvious disrespect for the Muggle world that the magical community has shown by assuming them too feeble to deal with our existence. Please forgive my interruption and carry on.”

  Curry stared at Tabitha, obviously fuming, but the damage had been done. James heard whispers all around, saw the sideways looks and nods of agreement. He noticed that the Slytherin students were still wearing their blue ‘Question the Victors’ badges, having pinned them to their gold jerseys.

  “Yes,” Curry said curtly. “Well, then. Shall we begin?”

  For the next forty minutes, she led them through drills and ball-handling techniques. James had been unenthusiastic at first, but began to warm to the simplistic nature of the sport. Besides disallowing wands, football apparently demanded that players not even use their hands. The pure silliness of it amused and intrigued James. Few of the students were any good at the sport, which allowed them to approach it without being afraid of getting it wrong. Zane had, of course, played football before, although he claimed very little skill at it. Sure enough, James noticed that Zane didn’t seem to be much better at running down the field with the ball than anyone else. As James watched, Zane tangled his feet around the ball and fell over it. The ball squirted out from under him and Zane simply lay there, staring up at the marching clouds with a look of thoughtful grimness on his face.

  Tabitha Corsica and her Slytherins stood in a disdainful huddle in a corner of the makeshift field, one of the footballs lying forlornly in the grass between them. They made no attempt to practice the drills, and Curry seemed to have dismissed them, spending her time near the goal, where students were taking place kicks into the net.

  James found that he was enjoying himself. He dug his heels into the grass, eyed the ball lying twenty feet ahead of him, and then charged it. He timed his steps carefully, planted his left foot next to the ball and kicked it solidly with his right. The thump of it leaving his foot was surprisingly satisfying. The ball sailed through a smooth arc and through the reaching arms of Professor Curry, who was acting as goalie. There was a thump and swish as the ball struck the net.

  “Very nice, Mr. Potter,” Curry called, breathing hard. Her hair had come askew and hung in loose curls around her thin face. She pushed up her sleeves and bent to retrieve the ball. “Very nice, indeed.”

  James smiled despite himself as he trotted to the back of the line.

  “Teacher’s pet,” Zane muttered as James passed.

  “Nice foot, Potter,” Ted called as the class finally headed back to the castle. “We need to work that into the Wocket routine somehow. Sabrina, think of something we can do with that. High-kicking aliens from the planet Goalatron or something. Got it?”

  “Aye, aye,” Sabrina called, saluting as she entered the castle gate. “By the way, Captain, you’ve got grass stains on your bum. Nice work.”

  After lunch, James and Zane joined Ralph in the library for a study period. As they unpacked their books and spread them around a corner table, Ralph seemed even more melancholy than usual.

  “What’s going on, Ralph?” Zane said, trying to keep his voice low so as not to attract the attention of Professor Slughorn, who was monitoring the library that period. “Your Slytherin buddies tell you your underwear aren’t magical enough or something?”

  Ralph looked around cautiously. “I got in trouble this morning with Professor Slughorn.”

  “Seems to be going around,” James said. “I spent my morning in McGonagall’s office getting detention.”

  “McGonagall?” Ralph and Zane both exclaimed. “You first, then, James. McGonagall outranks Slughorn,” Ralph said.

  James told about the ghost the night before, and about being led to the Muggle intruder and the chase that followed.

  “That was you?” Ralph asked incredulously. “We all saw the broken window on the way down to breakfast. Filch was covering it with canvas and muttering away under his breath. He looked like he wanted us to ask him about it so he could rant and rave a bit.”

  “Who do you think it was?” Zane prodded James.

  “I don’t know. All I know is that it was the same guy I saw hiding out by the forest the other morning. And I think he’s a Muggle.”

  “So?” Zane said, shrugging. “I’m a Muggle. Ralph’s a Muggle.”

  “No you aren’t. You’re Muggleborn, but you’re both wizards. This guy was just a plain old Muggle. Although, according to McGonagall, that’s impossible. No Muggle can get past the school’s Disillusionment Charms.”

  “Why not? What happens?” Ralph asked.

  “Well, for one thing, like I said on the train, Hogwarts is unplottable. It can’t be mapped. Also, no Muggle has ever heard of it. And, even if some Muggle did just happen to wander into the grounds, the Disillusionment Charms would guide them around so they didn’t even know they were passing us. If they tried to push through the Disillusionment Charms, they’d just get all disoriented and doubt themselves. Their compasses would go all wacky and they’d end up turning around even without knowing it. You can’t just force your way through that kind of Disillusionment Charm. The whole point of it is to deflect anybody who isn’t supposed to get in, and make them believe the deflection was their idea.”

  Zane frowned. “So how do any of us get in, then?”

  “Well, we’re all basically SecretKeepers, aren’t we?” James said, and then had to explain the idea of being a SecretKeeper, about how only a SecretKeeper could find the secret place or lead others there. “Of course, it all gets a lot less secure with this many of us. That’s why there are laws against even Muggle parents of students telling anyone.”

  “Yeah, my parents had to sign some big non-disclosure agreement before I came,” Zane said, as if the very idea was the greatest thing he’d ever heard. “It said that any ‘privileged Muggles’ like my parents weren’t allowed to talk to any other Muggles about Hogwarts or the magical community. If they did, the contract would kick in and their tongues would curl up until somebody from the Ministry came to release the spell. Excellent.”

  “Yeah,” James said, “Ted told me about a Muggleborn girl he dated his third year. Her parents accidentally mentioned Hogwarts at a dinner party and their hosts called the Muggle paramedics because they thought both of them were having some sort of weird seizure at exactly the same time. The Ministry had to do memory modifications on everybody. It was a mess, but it was pretty funny.”

  “Cool,” Ralph said meaningfully. “Hey, I should’ve used one of those Disillusionment Charms on my duffle bag. Would’ve saved me some trouble.”

  Zane turned to him. “So what’s the deal, Ralphie? What kind of trouble are you causing now?”

  “It wasn’t me!” Ralph protested, and then lowered his voice, glancing toward the front desk. Slughorn was rec
lined behind it, peering at a gigantic book through a pair of tiny spectacles and drinking something frothy in a stoneware mug. Ralph grimaced and sighed. “Slughorn found my GameDeck this morning. He said I left it in the common room. He was all diplomatic about it, but he told me I wanted to be very careful about things like that. Said I should probably try to leave my ‘Muggle toys’ at home.”

  James furrowed his brow. “I thought you said it’d gone missing a few days ago?”

  Ralph became animated. “It did! That’s what I mean! I didn’t leave it in the common room! I’m about to chuck the stupid thing in the toilet! Somebody took it out of my bag and left it out there for Slughorn to find. I hate those guys!” Ralph’s voice had descended to a harsh whisper. He glanced around quickly, as if he expected his housemates to pop out from behind the nearest bookcase.

  Zane looked thoughtful. “You don’t know who took it?”

  “No,” Ralph said sarcastically. “I’m pretty sure that was the point.”

  “You have it with you?”

  “Yeah,” Ralph said, deflating a bit. “I’m not letting it out of my sight until I can get rid of it. It doesn’t work all that well around here anyway. Too much magic in the air or something.” He dug the game console out of his backpack and handed it under the table to Zane.

  James watched as Zane worked the buttons swiftly and the screen came to life. “If anybody sees you with that thing,” Ralph muttered, “it’s yours. Happy Christmas.”

  Zane pressed buttons fluidly, making the screen flash and cycle. “I’m just checking to see if the last person who played it made a profile.”

  “What’s a profile?” James asked, leaning to look at the screen.

  Zane waved him away without looking up. “Don’t look. Slughorn will see. Ralph, tell Mr. Wizard here what a game profile is.”