James Potter and the Hall of the Elders' Crossing

by G. Norman Lippert

  “Today is a day for taking notes, I can assure you,” Jackson said ominously. He arranged the paintings in a row along the shelf of the chalkboard. The first painting was of a thin man with owlish glasses and an almost perfectly bald head. He blinked at the class, his expression alert and slightly nervous, as if he expected someone, at any moment, to jump up and shout “Boo!” at him. The next painting was empty but for a rather bland wooded background. The last showed a fairly ghastly clown in white face with a hideously large, red smile painted over its mouth. The clown leered inanely at the class and shook a little cane with a ball on the end. The ball, James noticed with a shudder, was a tiny version of the clown’s own head, grinning even more insanely.

  Murdock finished handing back everyone’s papers and slid back into his own seat. James glanced down at his essay. On the front, in Jackson’s perfect, left-slanting cursive, were the words, Tepid, but borderline cogent. Grammar needs work.

  “As always, questions about your grades may be submitted to me in writing. Further discussion will be obtained, as needed, during my office hours, assuming any of you remember where my office is. And now, onward and upward.” Jackson paced slowly along the line of paintings, gesturing vaguely at them. “As many of you will recall, in our first class, we had a short discussion, spearheaded by Mr. Walker,” he peered beneath his bushy eyebrows in Zane’s direction, “about the nature of magical art. I explained that the artist’s intentions are imbued on the canvas via a magical, psycho-kinetic process, which allows the art to take on a semblance of motion and attitude. The result is a drawing that moves and mimics life at the whim of the artist. Today, we will examine a different kind of art, one that represents life in a wholly different way.”

  Quills scratched feverishly as the class struggled to keep up with Jackson’s monologue. As usual, Jackson paced as he spoke.

  “The art of magical painting comes in two forms. The first one is just a more lavish version of what I illustrated in class, which is the creation of purely fanciful imagery based on the imagination of the artist. This is different from Muggle art only inasmuch as the magical versions may move and emote, based on the intention—and only within the imaginative boundaries—of the artist. Our friend, Mr. Biggles here, is an example.” Jackson gestured at the painting of the clown. “Mr. Biggles, thankfully, never existed outside the imagination of the artist who painted him.” The clown responded to the attention, bobbing in its frame, waggling the fingers of one white-gloved hand and waving the cane in the other. The tiny clown’s head on the end of the cane ran its tongue out and crossed its eyes. Jackson glared at the thing for a moment, and then sighed as he began to pace again.

  “The second type of magical painting is much more precise. It depends on advanced spellwork and potion-mixed paints to recreate a living individual or creature. The technomancic name for this type of painting is imago aetaspeculum, which means��� can anyone tell me?”

  Petra raised her hand and Jackson nodded at her. “It means, I think, something like a living mirror image, sir?”

  Jackson considered her answer. “Half credit, Miss Morganstern. Five points to Gryffindor for effort. The most accurate definition of the term is ‘a magical painting that captures a living imprint of the individual it represents, but confined within the aetas, or timeframe, of the subject’s own lifetime’. The result is a portrait that, while not containing the living essence of the subject, mirrors every intellectual and emotional characteristic of that subject. Thus, the portrait does not learn and evolve beyond the subject’s death, but retains exactly that subject’s personality as strictly defined by his or her lifetime. We have Mr. Cornelius Yarrow here as an example.”

  Jackson now indicated the thin, rather nervous man in the portrait. Yarrow flinched slightly at Jackson’s gesture. Mr. Biggles capered frantically in his frame, jealous for attention.

  “Mr. Yarrow, when did you die?” Jackson asked, passing the portrait on his way around the room again.

  The portrait’s voice was as thin as the man in it, with a high, nasal tone. “September twentieth, nineteen fortynine. I was sixty-seven years and three months old, rounding up, of course.”

  “And what—as if I needed to ask—was your occupation?”

  “I was Hogwarts school bursar for thirty-two years,” the portrait answered with a sniff.

  Jackson turned to look at the painting. “And what do you do now?”

  The portrait blinked nervously. “Excuse me?”

  “With all the time you now have on your hands, I mean. It’s been a long time since nineteen fortynine. What do you do with yourself, Mr. Yarrow? Have you developed any hobbies?”

  Yarrow seemed to chew his lips, obviously mystified and worried by the question. “I��� hobbies? No hobbies, as such. I��� I always just liked numbers. I tend to think about my work. That’s what I always did when I wasn’t figuring the books. I thought about the budgets, the numbers, and worked them out in my head.”

  Jackson maintained eye contact with the painting. “You still think about the numbers? You spend your time working out the books for the school budget as it stood in nineteen fortynine?”

  Yarrow’s eyes darted back and forth over the class. He seemed to feel he was being trapped somehow. “Er. Yes. Yes, I do. It’s just what I do, you understand. What I always did. I see no reason to stop. I’m the bursar, you see. Well, was, of course. The bursar.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Yarrow. You’ve illustrated my point precisely,” said Jackson, resuming his circuit of the room.

  “Always happy to be of service,” Yarrow said a little stiffly.

  Jackson addressed the class again. “Mr. Yarrow’s portrait, as some of you probably know, normally hangs in the corridor just outside the Headmistress’ office, along with many other former school staff members and faculty. We have, however, come into possession of a second portrait of Mr. Yarrow, one that normally hangs in his family’s home. The second portrait, as you may guess, is here in the center of our display. Mr. Yarrow, if you please?” Jackson gestured at the empty portrait in the center.

  Yarrow raised his eyebrows. “Hm? Oh. Yes, of course.” He shifted, stood, brushed some nonexistent flecks of lint off his natty robes, and then stepped carefully out of the portrait frame. For a few seconds, both portraits stood empty, then Yarrow appeared in the center portrait. He was wearing slightly different clothes in this portrait, and when he sat, he was turned at an angle, showing the prow of his nose in profile.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Yarrow,” Jackson said, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms. “Although there are exceptions, typically, a portrait only becomes active upon the death of the subject. Technomancy cannot explain to us why this should be, except that it seems to respond to the law of Conservation of Personalities. In other words, one Mr. Cornelius Yarrow at any given moment is, cosmically speaking, sufficient.” There was a murmur of suppressed laughter. Yarrow frowned as Jackson continued. “Another factor that comes into play once the subject is deceased is the interactivity between portraits. If there is more than one portrait of an individual, the portraits become connected, sharing a common subject. The result is one mutual portrait that can maneuver at will between its frames. For instance, Mr. Yarrow can visit us at Hogwarts, and then return to his home portrait as he wishes.”

  James struggled to write all of Jackson’s comments down, knowing the professor was notorious for creating test questions out of the least detail of a lecture. He was distracted from the task, however, by thoughts of the portrait of Severus Snape. James risked raising his hand.

  Jackson spied him and his eyebrows rose slightly. “A question, Mr. Potter?”

  “Yes, sir. Can a portrait ever leave its own frames? Can it, maybe, go over into a different painting?”

  Jackson studied James for a moment, his eyebrows still raised. “Excellent question, Mr. Potter. Let us find out, shall we? Mr. Yarrow, may I beg your service once more?”

  Yarrow
was trying to maintain the pose of his second portrait, which was studious and thoughtful, looking slightly away. His eyes slid to the side, looking out at Jackson. “I suppose so. How else may I help?”

  “Are you aware of the painting of the rather odious Mr. Biggles in the frame next to you?”

  Mr. Biggles responded to the mention of his name by feigning great shock and shyness. He covered his mouth with one hand and batted his eyes. The tiny clown’s head on the end of the cane goggled and blew raspberries. Yarrow sighed. “I am aware of that painting, yes.”

  “Would you be so kind as to step into his painting for just a moment, sir?”

  Yarrow turned to Jackson, his watery eyes magnified behind his spectacles. “Even if that were possible, I don’t believe I could bring myself to join his company. I’m sorry.”

  Jackson nodded, closing his eyes respectfully. “Thank you, yes, I don’t blame you, Mr. Yarrow. No, we can see, therefore, that while a much stronger magic is required to create the imago aetaspeculum, it isn’t designed to allow the portrait to enter a painting of a purely imaginary subject. It would be, in a sense, like trying to force yourself through a drawing of a door. On the other hand, Mr. Biggles?” The clown jumped up ecstatically at the mention of its name again, then looked at Jackson with a caricature of intense attention. Jackson spread an arm toward the middle frame. “Please join Mr. Yarrow in his portrait, won’t you?”

  Cornelius Yarrow looked shocked, then horrified, as the clown leaped out of its own painting and into his. Mr. Biggles landed behind Yarrow’s chair, grabbing it and nearly rocking Yarrow out of it. Yarrow spluttered as Biggles leered forward, his head over Yarrow’s left shoulder, the miniature clown’s head cane over his right, blowing raspberries into the man’s ear.

  “Professor Jackson!” Yarrow exclaimed, his voice rising an octave and trembling on the verge of inaudibility. “I insist you remove this��� this fevered imagining from my portrait at once!”

  The class erupted into gales of laughter as the clown leaped over Yarrow’s shoulder and landed on his lap, throwing both arms around the man’s skinny neck. The clown’s head cane kissed Yarrow repeatedly on the nose. “Mr. Biggles,” Jackson said loudly, “that’s enough. Please return to your own painting.”

  The clown seemed disinclined to obey. He threw himself off Yarrow’s lap and hid elaborately behind the man’s chair. Biggles’ eyes peeped over Yarrow’s right shoulder, the miniature head peeped over his left. Yarrow turned and swatted at the clown prissily, as if it were a spider he was loath to touch but anxious to kill. Jackson produced his wand—a twelve-inch length of hickory—from his sleeve and pointed it carefully at the clown’s empty frame. “Shall I alter your environment while you are away, Mr. Biggles? You’ll need to return to it eventually. Would you prefer to find it stocked with a few more Japanese Thorn Thickets?”

  The clown frowned petulantly under its make-up and stood. Sulking, it clambered out of Yarrow’s portrait and back into its own frame.

  “A simple rule of thumb,” Jackson said, watching the clown give him a very enthusiastic nasty look. “A one-dimensional personality can merge into a two-dimensional personality’s environment, but not the other way around. Portraits are confined to their own frames, while imaginary subjects can move freely into and through any other painting in their general vicinity. Does that answer your question, Mr. Potter?”

  “Yes, sir,” James answered, then rushed on. “One more thing, though. Can a portrait ever appear in more than one of its frames at once?”

  Jackson smiled at James while simultaneously furrowing his brow. “Your inquisitiveness on the subject knows no bounds, it seems, Mr. Potter. As a matter of fact, that is possible, although it is a rarity. For great wizards, whose portraits have been duplicated many times, there has been known to be some division of the personality, allowing the subject to appear in multiple frames at once. Such is the case with your Albus Dumbledore, as you might guess. This phenomenon is very difficult to measure and, of course, depends entirely on the skill of the witch or wizard whose likeness appears in the portrait. Is that all, Mr. Potter?”

  “Professor Jackson, sir?” a different voice asked. James turned to see Philia Goyle near the back, her hand raised.

  “Yes, Miss Goyle,” Jackson said, sighing.

  “If I understand correctly, the portrait knows everything that the subject knew, yes?”

  “I believe that is apparent, Miss Goyle. The painting reflects the personality, knowledge, and experiences of the subject. No more and no less.”

  “Does a portrait, then, make its subject immortal?” Philia asked. Her face, as always, was stoic and impassive.

  “I am afraid you are confusing what appears to be with what is, Miss Goyle,” Jackson said, eyeing Philia closely, “and that is a dreadful mistake for a witch to make. Much of magic, and much of life in general, I might add, is concerned primarily with illusion. The ability to separate illusion from reality is one of the fundamental basics of technomancy. No, a portrait is merely a representation of the once-living subject, no more alive than your own shadow where it falls on the ground. It can in no way be thought to prolong the life of the deceased subject. Despite all appearances, a wizard portrait is still merely paint on canvas.”

  As Jackson finished speaking, he turned toward the painting of Mr. Biggles. With one swift movement, he pointed his wand at the painting, not even quite looking at it. A jet of clear, yellowish liquid spurted from the end of the wand and splashed on the canvas. Instantly, it dissolved the paint. Mr. Biggles stopped moving as his image blurred, then ran freely down the canvas. The unmistakable smell of turpentine filled the room. The class was deadly quiet.

  Professor Jackson walked slowly behind his desk. “I fancied myself a bit of an artist when I was younger,” he said, studying the end of his wand as he turned. “Mr. Biggles, horrid as he was, was one of my better works. You may freely guess what kind of life circumstances could lead to my creating such a thing, as I myself have forgotten. I thought Mr. Biggles was long forgotten as well, until I found him in the bottom of a trunk while packing for my journey. I thought,” he said, glancing over at the streaky mess that ran out of the frame and dripped to the floor, “that this would be a fitting end for him.”

  Jackson sat down at his desk, carefully laying his wand on the blotter in front of him. “And now, class, what technomancic truth can we derive from what I’ve just illustrated?”

  No one moved. Then a hand raised slowly.

  Jackson inclined his head. “Mr. Murdock?”

  Murdock cleared his throat. “Don’t try to be an artist if you’re supposed to be a Technomancy teacher, sir?”

  “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, Mr. Murdock, but that is inarguably true as well. No, the truth I was illustrating is that, while a wizard painting, portrait or otherwise, is indeed still merely paint on canvas,” Jackson’s gaze searched the class, then settled on James, “only the original artist can destroy his painting. No one or nothing else. The canvas can be slashed, the frame destroyed, the bindings cut, but the painting will endure. It will continue to represent its subject, no matter what happens to it, even in a hundred pieces. Only the original artist can destroy that connection, and once he does, it is destroyed forever.”

  As the class was dismissed, James couldn’t help slowing as he passed the destroyed painting of Mr. Biggles. The clown’s face was nothing more than a muddy grey blur in the center of the canvas. Squiggly streaks of paint ran over the bottom edge of the frame, puddled in the chalk tray, and dripped onto the floor, making a drab spatter of white and bloody red. James shuddered, and then walked on. He thought he’d never look at another wizard painting the same way again. As he made his way to his next class, he passed a painting of several wizards gathered around a gigantic globe. Ironically, James noticed that one of the wizards, a severe man with a black mustache and glasses, was watching him closely. James stopped and leaned in. The wizard’s stare became stonier, his eyes p
iercing.

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about,” James said quietly. “I don’t even know how to draw. Art is Zane’s department.”

  The painted wizard grimaced at him, annoyed, as if James had entirely missed the point. He made a harrumphing noise and pointed in the direction James had been walking, as if to say move along, nothing to see here.

  James resumed his walk to Charms class, musing idly about the wizard in the painting. He’d looked familiar, but James couldn’t quite place him. By the time he entered Professor Flitwick’s classroom, James had already forgotten the little painted wizard and his piercing stare.

  The day of the much ballyhooed first school debate came and James was surprised at how many people were planning to attend. He had assumed debates were typically stodgy little affairs attended only by the teams themselves, some teachers, and a handful of the more academically-minded students. By lunch that Friday, though, the debate had generated the sort of boisterous tension that accompanied certain Quidditch matches. The one thing that seemed to be missing, however, was the joking taunts between the supporters. Thanks to the carefully worded banners and signs advertising the debate, the student population had been rather evenly divided between two worldviews that, it seemed, were not compatible on any level. The result was a sullen tension that filled the silences where jests and competitive taunts might otherwise have been. James had not been seriously considering attending the debate. Now, though, he realized that the outcome of the event would very likely affect the entire culture of Hogwarts. For that reason, he felt an obligation to go, as well as a growing curiosity. Besides, if Zane was going to be arguing in front of a large portion of the school populace, partly in defense of Harry Potter, James knew it’d be important that he be there to show his support.

  After dinner, James joined Ted and the rest of the Gremlins as they made their way to the event, along with much of the rest of the student populace.