James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing

by G. Norman Lippert

  Hardcastle had spoken first. He explained to everyone present how he had first heard the spider, and then pursued it, leaving James and Zane in the protection of Grawp. Harry had shifted in his seat, but refrained from comment. After all, he had been the one to request that James go along on the expedition, and had consented, albeit reluctantly, to Zane’s accompaniment. The Headmistress had pointed a rather long and penetrating glare at Harry when she’d seen Zane enter the cottage. Now McGonagall turned to Hardcastle, asking how he’d managed to kill the spider.

  Hardcastle’s beady eyes glinted a little as he said, “Best way to kill a spider that won’t fit under your boot is to get its legs off. First one’s the hardest. After that, it gets easier and easier.”

  Hagrid wiped a hand over his face. “Poor ol’ Aragog. If he’d lived to see his young turn wild, it’d have killed him. Poor fellow was just doing what spiders do. You can hardly blame him.”

  “The spider had the intruder’s camera,” Harry said, glancing down at the broken object on the table. The lens was shattered and the little screen on the back was cracked. “So we know the man escaped via the lake woods.”

  “Nasty way to go, whoever he may have been,” McGonagall said.

  Harry’s expression didn’t change. “We don’t know for certain that the spider caught the man.”

  “Seems unlikely the thing asked to borrow his camera so it could make home movies of its kids, doesn’t it?” Hardcastle rumbled, “Spiders aren’t the polite type. They’re the hungry type.”

  Harry nodded thoughtfully. “You’re probably right, Titus. Still, there’s always the chance the intruder dropped the camera and the spider simply found it. It wouldn’t hurt to increase security for a while, Minerva. We don’t yet know how this person got in or who he was. Until we learn those things, we have to assume there is an ongoing risk of breach.”

  “I’m particularly interested in knowing how this camera managed to operate within the grounds,” the Headmistress sniffed, staring hard at the device on the table. “It is well-known that Muggle equipment of this sort doesn’t work inside the school’s magical environment.”

  “That is indeed well-known, Madam Headmistress,” Hardcastle rumbled, “but very little understood. The Muggles are endlessly inventive with their tools. What once was true may not be so anymore. And we all know that the protective spells erected around the grounds since the Battle are not quite as perfect as those maintained by old Dumbledore, God rest his soul.”

  James thought of Ralph’s GameDeck, but decided not to mention it. The broken video camera was all the proof they needed that at least some modern Muggle devices worked on the school grounds.

  Finally, attention turned to James and Zane. James explained how Grawp had wandered away in search of food, and how the two boys had chased him, finding him by the lake and the marshy island. Zane chimed in then, describing the mysterious island and the bridge. He carefully glossed over the part where James had tried to open the gates using magic, and James was glad. It had seemed foolish the very moment he’d done it, and he regretted it. Still, at the time, it had felt so natural. They took turns telling of the enchanted dragon’s head bridge that attempted to eat them, then the attacking vines that had almost pulled them all into the sinkhole. Finally, James explained the tale of the tree sprite.

  “Naiads and dryads?” Hagrid exclaimed incredulously. James and Zane stopped, blinking at him. Hagrid went on, “Well, they’re not for real, are they? They’re just stories and myth. Aren’t they?” He addressed the last question to the adults present.

  “The lake woods are just an extension of the Forbidden Forest,” Harry said. “If there is a place where things like the naiads and dryads can exist, it’d be there. Still, if it’s true, they haven’t been seen for hundreds of years. Of course we’d think of them as myth.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if it’s true’?” James asked, a little louder than he’d intended to. “We saw her. She spoke to us.”

  “Your father is being an Auror, James,” McGonagall said placatingly. “All possibilities must be considered. You were all under a great deal of stress. It isn’t that we don’t believe you. We must simply determine the most likely explanation for what you saw.”

  “Seems like the most likely explanation to me is that she was what she said she was,” James muttered under his breath.

  James purposely hadn’t told his dad or any of the other adults the last thing the sprite had said, the part about the successor, the blood of the enemy beating in another heart. Part of his reluctance was in his remembrance of his dad’s stories of how the wizarding world had treated him, Harry Potter, when he’d returned from the Triwizard Tournament maze with the tale of Voldemort’s return, how he had been doubted and discredited. Another part of it was that his dad wasn’t even prepared to believe the part about the dryad. If he doubted that, how could he accept that the dryad had predicted a new kind of Voldemort’s return, through an heir, a bloodline? But the thing that had finally determined James not to tell was his memory of the very last words the dryad had spoken: Your father’s battle is over. Yours begins.

  The conversation had droned on long after all the details had been described and discussed, long after James had grown bored with it. He wanted to get back so that he could sleep, but more than that, he wanted time to think about what the dryad had said. He wanted to work out what the island was for, what the poem on the gate meant. He worked to remember it, itching to write it down while it was still fresh in his mind. He was sure, somehow, that it all fit in with the story of Austramaddux and the secret plot of the Slytherins to bring back Merlin and start a final war with the Muggle world. He wasn’t even asking himself anymore if it was true. It had to be true, and it was up to him to prevent it.

  Finally, the adults finished talking. They had determined that the mysterious island, while obviously dangerous, was just one of the many mysterious and inexplicable dangers that made the Forbidden Forest forbidden. The primary concern was still discovering how the intruder had gotten in, and making sure no one else was able to do it again. With that resolution, the meeting broke up.

  Headmistress McGonagall had accompanied James, Zane, and Ted back to the castle, instructing them to do their best to keep the discussions of the night a secret.

  “Especially you, Mr. Lupin,” she said sternly. “The last thing we need is you and your band of hooligans running off into the woods in the middle of the night attempting to duplicate Mr. Potter’s and Mr. Walker’s experiences.”

  Fortunately, Ted knew enough not to try to deny the possibility of such a thing. He merely nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  James only saw his dad once more during his visit, and that was after classes that evening, just as Harry, Titus, and the Ministry officials were preparing to leave. Neville had returned to Hogwarts that afternoon, and he chaperoned James to the Headmistress’ office to say goodbye to Harry and the rest. The group planned to travel via the Floo Network, as they had arrived, and had decided upon the Headmistress’ fireplace for their departure since it was the most secure. If it struck Neville odd that the office now belonged to his former teacher, who he’d known as Professor McGonagall, instead of to Albus Dumbledore, he didn’t let on. But he did pause for a moment next to the portrait of the former headmaster.

  “Off again, is he?” he asked Harry.

  “I think he generally just sleeps here. Dumbledore’s got portraits all over the place,” Harry sighed. “Not to mention all his old Chocolate Frog cards. He still shows up in them sometimes just for fun. I keep mine in my wallet, just in case.” He pulled his wallet out and slipped a dog-eared card out of it. The portrait space was empty. Harry grinned at Neville as he put it back.

  Neville moved to the group congregated around the fireplace. Harry squatted down next to James.

  “I wanted to thank you, James.”

  James hid the look of pride that surfaced on his face. “I was just doing what you asked us to do.”


  “I don’t just mean coming along with us and helping us find out what happened,” Harry said, putting a hand on James’ shoulder. “I mean for spying the intruder on the field and pointing him out to me. And for being alert enough to see him the other times. You’ve got a sharp eye and an alert mind, my boy. I shouldn’t be surprised, and I’m not.”

  James grinned. “Thanks, Dad.” “Don’t forget what we talked about the other night, though. Remember?”

  James remembered. “I won’t be saving the world single-handedly.” I’ll have at least Zane’s help, he thought, but didn’t say, and maybe Ted’s, too, now that Ralph’s abandoned me.

  Harry hugged his son, and James hugged him back. They grinned at each other, Harry with his hands on James’ shoulders, and then he stood, leading James over to the fireplace.

  “Tell Mum I’m doing good and eating my vegetables,” James instructed his dad.

  “And are you?” Harry asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Well, yes and no,” James said, a bit uncomfortable as everyone looked at him.

  “Make it true and I’ll tell her,” Harry said, removing his glasses and tucking them into his robe.

  Moments later, the room was empty but for James, Headmistress McGonagall, and Neville.

  “Professor Longbottom,” the Headmistress said, “I suspect it’d be best for me to inform you of all that has happened these past twenty hours.”

  “You mean regarding the campus intruder, Madam?” Neville asked.

  The Headmistress looked markedly taken aback. “I see. Perhaps I might simply be repeating myself, then. Do tell me what you’ve already heard, Professor.”

  “Merely that, Madam. Word amongst the students is that a man was seen or captured on the Quidditch pitch yesterday. The common theory is that he was a representative of the gambling community either reporting on or influencing the match. Pure rubbish, of course, but I assume it’s better to let tongues wag and inflate the tale to something ridiculous than to deny anything.”

  “Mr. Potter would no doubt agree with you,” the Headmistress said pointedly. “Although, since I will be requiring your services in increasing the security of the grounds, I should explain to you precisely what did occur. James, you are free to wait a moment, aren’t you? I shall not detain the professor for long, and he will accompany you down to the corridor.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned back to Neville, launching into a detailed account of the previous night.

  James knew the whole story, of course, but still felt he was meant to wait near the door, as far from earshot as possible. It was uncomfortable and vaguely annoying. He felt rather proprietary about the intruder, having been the first to see him, and having been the one to point him out on the Quidditch pitch. It was just like adults to deny something a kid said, then, when it proved true, to completely take over and dismiss the kid. He realized that this was another part of why he hadn’t yet told any adults about his suspicions concerning the Slytherin-Merlin plot. He felt even stronger now about keeping that his secret, at least until he could prove something substantial.

  James crossed his arms and hovered near the door, turning to look back at Neville, who was seated in front of the Headmistress’ desk, and McGonagall, who was pacing slightly behind it as she spoke.

  “What are you up to, Potter?” a low voice drawled behind James, making him jump. He spun around wildly, eyes wide. The voice cut him off before he could respond. “Don’t ask who I am and don’t waste my time with a load of pointless lies. You know exactly who I am. And I know, even more than your own father, that you are up to something.”

  It was, of course, the portrait of Severus Snape. The dark eyes probed James coldly, the mouth turned down into a knowing sneer.

  “I’m…,” James began, and then stopped, feeling very strongly that if he lied, the portrait would know. “I’m not going to tell.”

  “A more honest answer than any ever provided by your father, at least,” Snape drawled, keeping his voice low enough not to attract the attention of McGonagall or Neville. “It’s a pity I’m not still alive to be headmaster or I’d find ways of getting the tale from you, one way… or another.”

  “Well,” James whispered, feeling a little braver now that shock had worn off, “I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t headmaster anymore, then.” He thought it might be a bit too much to say it’s a good thing you’re dead. James’ dad had a load of respect for Severus Snape. He’d even made Severus Albus’ middle name.

  “Don’t try the smart tactic with me, Potter,” the portrait said, but more tiredly than angrily. “You, unlike your father, know well enough now that I was as devoted to Albus Dumbledore and the downfall of Voldemort as was he. Your father believed it was up to him to win battles entirely on his own. He was foolish and destructive. Don’t think I didn’t see that very same look in your eye not five minutes ago.”

  James couldn’t think what to say. He just met the portrait’s dark gaze and frowned stubbornly.

  Snape sighed theatrically. “Have it your way, then. Like Potter, like son. Never learning the lessons of the past. But know this: I will be watching you, as I did your father. If your unnamed suspicions are, against all probability, accurate, be assured that I will be working toward the same end as you. Try, Potter, not to make the same mistakes as your father. Try not to leave others to pay the consequences for your arrogance.”

  That last stung James to the core. He assumed Snape would leave his portrait frame after a salvo like that, confident of having had the last word, but he didn’t. He stayed, that same penetrating stare on his face, reading James like a book. Still, there wasn’t anything specifically malicious in that gaze, despite the pointed words.

  “Yeah,” James finally found the voice to say. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.” It was a lame response and he knew it. He was only eleven, after all.

  “James?” Neville said behind him. James turned and looked up at the professor. “Sounds like you had an exciting night last night. I’m curious about the vines that attacked you. Maybe you could tell me more about them sometime, yes?”

  “Sure,” James said, his lips feeling numb. When he turned back toward the door, following Neville out, the portrait of Snape was still occupied. The eyes followed him darkly as he left the room.

  9. The Debate Betrayal

  As James became more familiar with the routine of school, time seemed to slip past almost without his noticing. Zane continued to excel at Quidditch, and James continued to feel an uncomfortable mix of emotions about Zane’s success. He still felt the stab of jealousy when he heard the crowd cheer for one of Zane’s well-hit Bludgers, but he couldn’t help smiling at how much the boy loved the sport, how he delighted in each match, in the teamwork and camaraderie. Also, James was growing increasingly confident of his own broom skills. He practiced with Zane on the Quidditch pitch many evenings, asking Zane for tips on technique. Zane, for his part, was always enthusiastic and supportive, telling James that he’d definitely make the Gryffindor team next year.

  “Then I’ll have to stop practicing with you and giving you pointers, you know,” Zane said, flying next to James and calling over the roar of the air. “It’d be like consorting with the enemy.” As usual, James couldn’t tell if Zane was joking or not.

  James enjoyed becoming more confident on the broom, but he was surprised to discover that he loved football. Tina Curry had divided all of her classes into teams and arranged a casual game schedule for them to play against one another. Many students had grasped the essential concepts of the game and being competitive at heart, had worked to make the class-time matches interesting. Occasionally, a student would forget the non-magical nature of the sport and would be seen frantically searching their pockets for their wands or simply pointing at the ball and yelling something like “Accio football!”, resulting in a general breakdown of the match while everyone laughed. Once, a Hufflepuff girl had simply grabbed the ball in both hands, forgetting the basic rules of t
he game, and charged down the field as if she were playing rugby. James discovered, rather reluctantly, that Professor Curry’s assessment of his skills had been fairly accurate. He was a natural. He could control the ball easily with the tips of his trainers as he zigged and zagged down the field. His ball-handling was regarded as among the best of any of the new players, and his scoring rate was second only to fifth-year Sabrina Hildegard, who, like Zane, was Muggle-born and unlike Zane, had played on Muggle leagues when she was younger.

  James and Ralph, however, barely talked. James’ initial anger and resentment had simmered down to a stubborn aloofness. Some small part of him knew that he should forgive Ralph, and even apologize for yelling at him that day in the Great Hall. He knew that if he’d kept his cool, Ralph probably would have seen the error of siding with his Slytherin housemates. Instead, Ralph seemed to feel it was his duty to support the Slytherins and the Progressive Element as earnestly as he could. If it wasn’t for the fact that even Ralph’s enthusiastic support was rather weak-willed and doleful, James would have found it easier to stay angry at him. Ralph wore the blue badges, and he attended the debate meetings in the library, but he did so with such a dogged attitude of obligation that it seemed to do more harm than good. If any of the Slytherins actually spoke to him, he’d jerk upright and respond with manic eagerness, then deflate as soon as they turned their attention elsewhere. It hurt James a little to watch it, but not enough to make him change his attitude toward Ralph.