James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing

by G. Norman Lippert

  Inside was a large apartment, complete with a set of draped bunk beds, framed Gryffindor posters on the walls, a wardrobe containing Harry’s trunk and James’ school robes, and a fully equipped washroom. James stood inside the door, opening and closing his mouth, speechless.

  “The Room of Requirement,” Harry explained, plopping onto a low, overstuffed chair. “I can’t believe I never told you about it.”

  James got ready for bed, but his dad simply changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater and freshened up in the basin.

  “I need to go out for a little while,” he told James. “After dinner tonight, Professor Franklyn asked me to meet him privately. He wanted some time to discuss a few things outside of tomorrow’s official meetings.” There was something about the way Harry said this that told James his dad preferred a private chat over an official meeting anyway. “I shouldn’t be too long, and I’ll be just down the hall, in the Americans’ quarters. Breakfast tomorrow, you and me?”

  James nodded happily. He still hadn’t brought himself to tell his dad about his abysmal failure on the Quidditch pitch, and he was happy to put it off as long as possible.

  When Harry was gone, James lay in the top bunk, thinking about the events of the night. He remembered the sudden nastiness of Franklyn, which had surprised him. It was almost as great a change in character as the change that came over the voodoo queen, Madame Delacroix, when she smiled. Thinking of Madame Delacroix reminded James of the way she’d spooned the gumbo, unseeingly, operating the ladle with her creepy black wand, never spilling a drop.

  James realized he was simply too excited to sleep. He slid off the top bunk and prowled the room restlessly. His dad’s trunk sat open in the bottom of the wardrobe. James looked into it idly, then stopped and looked closer. He knew what it was when he saw it, but was surprised his dad would have brought it along. What use would he have for it here? James considered it. Finally, he reached into the trunk and withdrew his dad’s Invisibility Cloak, unfolding its smooth, heavy length as it came.

  How many times had the young Harry Potter explored the grounds of Hogwarts safely hidden away under this cloak? James had heard enough tales, from both his dad, Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione, to know that this was an opportunity not to be missed. But where to go?

  James thought for a moment, and then smiled a long, mischievous smile. He slipped the cloak over his head, just the way he used to on the rare occasions when Harry would let him play with it. James vanished. A moment later, the door of the Room of Requirement seemed to open all by itself, rocking slowly on its huge hinges. After a pause, it shut again, carefully and silently.

  Tiptoeing, James headed for the quarters of the representatives of Alma Aleron.

  James had only gotten halfway down the corridor when there was a flicker of motion. Mrs. Norris, Filch’s awful cat, had darted across the passage that intersected the corridor twenty feet ahead. James stopped, his breath caught in his chest. “Shouldn’t you be dead by now, you ratty old carpet sample?” he whispered to himself, cursing his luck. Then, worse, Filch’s voice came echoing down the passage.

  “That’s it, dearest,” he said in a singsong voice. “Don’t let the little buggers escape. Teach them a lesson that will have their little mousey kin shivering with fear.” Filch’s shadow leaked across the floor of the intersection, weaving as he approached.

  James knew he was invisible, but he couldn’t help feeling that he should hunker up against the wall. He sidled into a narrow space between a doorway and a suit of armor, trying to keep his breathing shallow and silent. He peered around the elbow of the suit of armor.

  Filch stepped into the intersection, his gait rather unsteady. “Find a hidey-hole, did they, precious?” he asked the unseen Mrs. Norris. He reached into his coat and produced a silver flask. He took a swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then spun the cap back on. “There they are, coming this way again, my dear. Come, come.”

  Two mice scurried into the intersection, looping and dodging as they approached Filch’s feet. Mrs. Norris pounced, batting at them, but the mice scampered away, darting along the wall toward where James was hiding. Mrs. Norris followed, growling. To James’ great chagrin, the mice scampered behind the suit of armor and wriggled under the edge of the Invisibility Cloak. Their cold little feet scurried over James’ bare toes, then they stopped between his feet, sniffing the air as if sensing a hiding place. James tried to push them out from under the cloak with his toes, but they refused to go.

  Mrs. Norris padded down the corridor intently, her whiskers twitching. She hunkered along the front of the suit of armor’s base, one paw outstretched, then pounced around it, stopping inches from the edge of the Invisibility Cloak. She looked around, her eyes flashing, sensing the mice were nearby, but not seeing them.

  “Don’t tell me those dumb animals have bested you, my dear,” Filch said, scuffling down the corridor toward them.

  James watched Mrs. Norris. She had encountered the Invisibility Cloak before, years earlier. James knew the stories, having been told them by both Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron. Maybe she remembered the smell of it. Or maybe she was sensing James himself, his heat or scent or the beat of his heart. She raised her eyes, narrowing them, as if she knew he was there and was trying very hard to see him.

  “Don’t be a sore loser, my dear Mrs. Norris,” Filch said, coming closer still. He was almost near enough that if he reached out, he might inadvertently touch James. “If they got away, they’ll just tell their rodent friends about you. It’s a victory either way you slice it.”

  Mrs. Norris inched closer. The mice between James’ feet were getting nervous. They tried to hide under each other, scooting further back between James’ feet. Mrs. Norris raised a paw. To James’ horror, she brushed the edge of the Invisibility Cloak with it. She hissed.

  The mice, hearing the hiss, panicked. They scampered out from under the cloak, darting right between Mrs. Norris’ feet. She jumped at the sight of them, ducking to watch them scurry away into the corridor. Filch laughed raspily.

  “They put the spook on you, precious! I’d never have expected it. There they go! After them, now!”

  But Mrs. Norris half turned back toward James, her baleful orange eyes narrowed, her slit pupils flared wide. She raised her paw again.

  “Go, Mrs. Norris, go!” Filch said, his mood swinging to annoyance. He shoved her with his foot, scooching her away from James and toward the mice, which had disappeared further along the corridor. Filch’s foot caught the edge of the cloak, pulling it away from James’ feet. He felt cool air on his toes.

  Mrs. Norris looked back toward James and hissed again. Filch, however, was too sodden to take heed. “They went that way, you blind old thing. I’d have never guessed a pair of dumb animals would get the jump on you. Let’s go, let’s go. There’re always more near the kitchens.” He ambled on into the shadows of the corridor and eventually Mrs. Norris followed, throwing occasional rankled glances back towards James.

  When they turned the corner, he exhaled shakily, composed himself, then continued down the corridor, running lightly and feeling extremely lucky.

  When he reached the door to the Americans’ quarters it was closed and bolted. In the darkness, James could hear the voices of his dad and Franklyn inside, but they were muffled and unintelligible. He was about to give up and head downstairs, thinking he might perhaps find Cedric’s ghost again, or even the Muggle intruder, when the voices inside the door grew louder. The bolt socked back and James scrambled out of the way, forgetting for a moment that he was hidden under the cloak. He pressed himself against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor just as the door creaked open. Franklyn emerged first, talking quietly. Harry followed, closing the door with the practiced stealth of any good Auror. “Practice being quiet when you don’t need to,” Harry had told his son on many occasions, “and you won’t need to think about it when you do.”

  “I find it’s safer to move around during a private conversatio
n,” Franklyn was saying. “Even our own quarters are subject to eavesdropping by those whose philosophies differ from my own. At least this way no, unwanted ears can hear the entirety of our dialogue.”

  “Funny thing,” Harry said. “I spent so much time sneaking around these halls and corridors when I was a student that even as an adult, it’s difficult to avoid the instinct to skulk and sneak, for fear that I might get caught and be given detention.”

  The two men began to walk slowly, apparently meandering in no particular direction. James followed at a safe distance, taking care not to breathe too heavily or stumble against any of the statues or suits of armor that lined the walls. “Things haven’t changed much, you know,” Franklyn said. “Now, however, we have worse things than detention to worry about.”

  “I don’t know,” Harry said, and James could hear the wry smile in his voice. “I had some pretty horrible detentions.”

  “Mm,” Franklyn murmured noncommittally. “The history of both our schools has involved some unsavory characters and unnecessary ugliness. Your Miss Umbridge, our Professor Magnussen. Your Voldemort, our… well, honestly, we have no one in our history that compares to him. Indeed, he was a terrible threat to all of us while he lived. Our duty is to ensure that such things don’t happen again.”

  “Am I to assume that this meeting, then, is an opportunity to compare notes about such threats? Off the record, so to speak?” Harry asked seriously.

  Franklyn sighed. “One can never have too many friends or too many sources, Mr. Potter. I am not an Auror, and I do not have any official authority or policing jurisdiction even in my own country. I am just an old teacher. Old teachers, however, are often underestimated, as you certainly know. Old teachers see quite a lot.”

  “You have your own version of the Progressive Element at Alma Aleron?”

  “Oh, it’s beyond that, unfortunately. For most of the students and even the staff, the facts of Voldemort and his Death Eaters are up for conjecture. It’s incredible how short a time must pass before a certain kind of mentality feels it is safe to turn history onto its head.”

  “The Progressive Element here knows they need to be very careful,” Harry said in a low voice. “Enough people are still alive who have firsthand memories of Voldemort and his atrocities. Enough people still remember lost family and friends, killed at the hand of his Death Eaters. Still, the lure to challenge the status quo, whatever it may be, is strong in the young. It’s natural, but typically short-lived. History will out, as they say.”

  “History is bunk,” Franklyn said disgustedly. “I should know. I lived during quite a bit of it, and I can indeed tell you that sometimes, there is, in fact, a wide gulf between what gets reported and what actually happened.”

  “I would expect that that is the exception and not the rule,” Harry stated.

  Franklyn sighed as they turned a corner. “I suppose. The fact is, though, that the exceptions give rabble-rousers like the Progressive Element all the ammunition they need to challenge any historical record they wish. The history of Voldemort and his rise to power, as we know it, doesn’t fit their agenda. Thus, they carefully attack it, sowing the seeds of doubt among minds shallow enough to believe the distortions.”

  “It sounds,” Harry said, keeping his voice low and conversational, “like you have a pretty good idea what their agenda is.”

  “Of course I do, and so do you, Mr. Potter. The agenda hasn’t changed for a thousand years, has it?”

  “No, it hasn’t.”

  “Harry Potter.” Franklyn stopped in the darkness of the corridor, looking at Harry’s face. “Even now, a sizeable minority in my country believe that Lord Tom Riddle, as they prefer to call him, has been unfairly demonized by you who defeated him. They prefer to believe that Voldemort was a revolutionary hero, a fresh thinker, whose beliefs were simply too much for the traditional ruling class to tolerate. They think he was destroyed because he threatened to make things better, not worse, but that the wealthy and powerful were resistant even to a change for the good.”

  James, standing several feet away, hidden under the cloak, could see his dad’s jaw clenching as Franklyn spoke. But when Harry responded, his voice remained calm and measured. “You know that these are lies and distortions, I assume.”

  “Of course I do,” Franklyn said, waving a hand dismissively, almost angrily. “But the point is that they are attractive lies to a certain type of person. Those that preach these distortions know how to appeal to the emotions of the populace. They believe the truth is a wire to bend to their will. It is their agenda only that they care for.”

  Harry remained stoic and unmoving. “And the agenda, you believe, is the domination of the Muggle world?”

  Franklyn laughed rather harshly, and James thought of the nasty chuckle the professor had made during dinner, when discussing Madame Delacroix’s powers. “Not to hear them tell it. No, they are crafty these days. They claim to be for the exact opposite. Their rallying cry is absolute equality between the Muggle and magical worlds. Full disclosure, the abolition of all laws of secrecy and non-competition. They preach that anything less is unfair to the Muggles, an insult to them.”

  Harry nodded grimly. “As we are seeing here. Of course, it is a two-edged sword. Prejudice and equality in the same message.”

  “Certainly,” Franklyn agreed, resuming his walk along the corridor. “In America, we are seeing a resurgence of stories about Muggle scientists capturing witches and wizards, torturing them to discover the secret of their magic.”

  “A throwback to the old Salem witch trials?” Harry asked.

  Franklyn laughed, and this time there was no malice in it. “Hardly. Those were the good old days. Sure, witches were put on trial, and loads of them were burned, but as you know, any witch worth her wand wouldn’t be hurt by a Muggle bonfire. She’d stand in the flames and yell for a while, just to give the Muggles a good show, then transport herself from the pyre flames to her own fireplace. That was the origin of the Floo Network, of course. No, these days, the stories of witches and wizards being captured and systematically tortured are pure fabrications. That doesn’t matter to the faithful, though. The culture of fear and prejudice works side-by-side with their mission of ‘equality’. Full disclosure, they claim, will bring peace and freedom. Continuing the program of secrecy, on the other hand, can only lead to more attacks on wizarding society by an increasingly invasive Muggle world.”

  Harry stopped by a window. “And once they’ve achieved their goal of total disclosure with the Muggle world?”

  “Well, there’s only one outcome to that, isn’t there?” Franklyn answered.

  Harry’s face was thoughtful in the moonlight. “Muggles and wizards would descend into competitions and jealousies, just like they did in eons past. The dark wizards would make sure of it. It would start as small challenges and outbursts. Laws would be passed, enforcing equal treatment, but those laws would become the basis for new contentions. Wizards would demand to be placed into Muggle power structures, all in the name of ‘equality’. Once there, they’d push for greater control, more power. They’d win over Muggle leaders, using promises and lies where they could, threats and the Imperius Curse where they couldn’t. Eventually, order would break down. Finally, inevitably, there would be all-out war.” Harry’s voice had gone soft, considering. He turned to Franklyn, who stood watching him, his face calm but dreadful. “And that’s what they want, isn’t it? War with the Muggle world.”

  “That’s what they’ve always wanted,” Franklyn agreed. “The struggle never stops. It just has different chapters.”

  “Who’s involved?” Harry asked simply.

  Franklyn sighed again, hugely, and rubbed his eyes. “It’s not so simple. It’s virtually impossible to tell the instigators from their followers. There are some individuals it would be instructive to watch closely, though.”

  “Madame Delacroix.”

  Franklyn glanced up, studying Harry’s face. He nodded. “And Pr
ofessor Jackson.”

  James gasped, and then clapped his hand over his mouth. His dad and Professor Franklyn stood very still. James was sure they’d heard him. Then Harry spoke again.

  “Anyone else?”

  Franklyn shook his head slowly. “Of course. But then you’d just be watching everyone and everything. It’s like an infestation of cockroaches in the walls. You can either watch the cracks or burn down the house. Take your pick.”

  James backed away very carefully, then when he felt safely out of earshot, he turned and retraced his steps back to the Americans’ quarters. His heart was pounding so heavily he had been sure that his dad or Professor Franklyn would hear it.

  He knew the so-called Progressive Element was no good, but now he knew it must be them that were planning the return of Merlinus Ambrosius, believing he would help them to accomplish their false goal of equality, which would lead inevitably to war. Merlin had said that he would return when the balance between Muggles and wizards was ‘ripe for his ministrations’. What else could that mean? He hadn’t been surprised that Madame Delacroix might be involved in such a plot. But Professor Jackson? James had come to quite like the professor, despite his crusty exterior. He could hardly imagine that Jackson could be secretly plotting the domination of the Muggle world. Franklyn had to be wrong about him.

  James ran lightly past the Americans’ quarters, looking for the door to the guest room he and his dad were staying in. With a sudden stab of fear, he remembered that the doorway had vanished when he’d come out. It was a magical room, after all. How was he supposed to get back in? He had to be inside the room, apparently asleep, by the time his dad came back. He stopped in the corridor, not even sure what stretch of wall the doorway had appeared in. He glanced around hopelessly, unable to keep himself from looking for some subtle clue or hint of where the doorway was hidden. What had his dad called it? The ‘Room of Requirement’? James had remembered his wand this time. He pulled it out and shook his hand out from under the cloak, revealing it.