James Potter and the Crimson Thread

by G. Norman Lippert

  “Annnd I’m bored already,” James sighed, bypassing Rose as he entered the classroom. “But bully for you for getting a sneak-peek at the harbor under the lake. I’m sure it was worth all the time slathering magic varnish all over Hagrid’s secret boat.”

  “He does the slathering,” Rose rolled her eyes, following James and Ralph inside. “I just charm the stuff. And unlike you, I like learning new things. One never knows when a hydrophobic spell might come in handy.”

  The previous class was draining from the room, still muttering and collecting their books, while the next class filtered in around them.

  “Boys,” Debellows said, raising his eyebrows as he settled behind his huge desk. “And Miss Weasley. I don’t believe I have you in my class until tomorrow’s advanced lesson. Or am I mistaken?”

  James shook his head quickly. “No, sir. We came to ask something else. We were, uh, curious, sir, about using some of our Defence Against the Dark Arts class-time for our seventh-year field work in a related profession.”

  Debellows stopped organizing the hopeless mess of paperwork on his desk and looked up, giving them his full attention for the first time. He looked vaguely puzzled, and then blinked and nodded. “Ah yes. I’m sure I must have received a notice about such a programme. I likely ignored it, as I do most intra-school communications. One can only be informed so many times about revisions to school dress codes and rescheduled meetings one has no intention of attending in the first place before all such notices start going directly into the rubbish bin. So.

  You three intend to pursue some practical experience in lieu of my class-time, is that it?” He seemed both open to the idea and slightly churlish about it.

  “Not all three of us—” James began, but Rose overruled him suddenly, shouldering past him to stand directly in front of Debellows’ desk.

  “Yes, sir, Professor,” she said quickly, clearly not intending to miss a serendipitous opportunity. “All three of us. James, Ralph, and me. Er, yes. We three.”

  She glanced back at James briefly, her eyes stern. James closed his mouth with a small click.

  “Well,” Debellows said slowly, looking back down at his desk and shuffling papers again, randomly. “I suppose it would depend upon what sort of practical field experience you intended to engage in. I can only assume that you’d like to participate in some preliminary training for the Harrier Corps. I should warn you, my young friends: it is an arduous journey, becoming a Harrier, but vastly rewarding in every respect. I shall contact my old commander, see if I cannot call in a few favors to—”

  “Um,” Ralph interrupted, sharing a suddenly wide-eyed glance with James. “Um. Not the Harriers, sir. Exactly. Quite…”

  Debellows frowned and looked up again, his face etched with sincere puzzlement. “Not the Harriers? What could it possibly be, then?”

  Rose answered, standing stiffly upright, almost as if she meant to salute the professor. “Auror training, sir. We wish to use the skills you’ve taught us to learn Auror methodology. To track down and capture dark wizards and witches, warlocks, hags, and other various threats to the good people of the magical world.”

  James blinked at Rose, annoyed but rather impressed. Glancing back at Debellows, he added: “Like my dad, sir.”

  Debellows turned his iron gaze from Ralph, to Rose, to James, and then drew a deep, skeptical sigh. “I suppose one can’t blame you three for entertaining such designs, coming from the families that you do. It does strike me as a bit of a wasted resource. You, especially, Mr.

  Potter, show great potential not only in defensive spellwork, which we will be delving into much more deeply in your final year, but in your Artis Decerto and battle psychology. But…” he shrugged his massive shoulders—they were like continental tectonic plates on either side of his bull neck—and sighed again. “If that’s what you have your hearts set upon, I suppose I cannot dissuade you.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Rose said, still standing at attention in front of the cluttered desk.

  “All right, then,” Debellows looked down again, clearly reluctant but not quite invested enough to protest any further. “I suppose there is some… official parchment or other that I should sign.” He shook his head dismissively. “I shall look into it. For now, assume my general support of your endeavor. I shall inform you when something has been arranged.”

  James backed away from the desk, pulling Rose and Ralph with him, anxious to escape before Debellows changed his mind. After a few clumsy backwards steps, the three thanked the professor, then turned and virtually ran from the classroom, threading past younger students who watched them go, bemused and curious.

  “All three of us, eh?” James turned a sardonic look on his cousin as they hurried toward the stairs for lunch.

  “You didn’t expect me to pass up an opportunity like that, did you?” she shrugged. “To skip out on Debellows’ annoying class and skive off to the Ministry of Magic to hob-nob with Uncle Harry and my mum? I doubt it’ll last long before somebody catches on. But it’ll be Professor McGonagall or Headmaster Merlin who do, not that mountainous lump, Debellows.”

  “You really don’t much like him, do you?” Ralph commented as they turned to tramp down the stairs.

  “If he taught the girls the same things he taught the boys I might feel differently,” she sniffed. “He thinks a woman’s best battle magic is a charm for cleaning blood off her husband’s robes. Believe me, I’ve learned more defensive magic watching a wizard chess match than sitting in his stupid class.”

  James was familiar with Rose’s ongoing private feud with the current Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and knew enough not to debate her about it. She was right that Debellows divided his classes between boys and girls, ostensibly to make dueling practices fairer. As far as James was concerned, considering the competent fierceness of girls like Ashley Doone and Julian Jackson, he suspected Debellows might be exercising fairness more on the boys’ behalf than the girls’.

  At lunch, James noticed Albus seated, perhaps for the first time ever, at the Gryffindor table. He was across from Lily near the very end, in the centre of a group of laughing fourth-and fifth-years, all leaning close and keeping their own confidences. Next to him, Lily’s friend Chance Jackson was watching him closely, smiling and blinking far more than mere physiology demanded. James wondered for a moment if Albus’ vaunted bachelorhood was being secretly challenged.

  “Lily is a notorious matchmaker,” Rose commented, glancing toward the end of the table to see what James was looking at. “She’d just love to see Albus and Chance together.”

  James scoffed. “Never happen,” he grabbed his pumpkin juice and drank it down in three quick gulps, standing as he did so. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and went on, “Albus will date from within his own house or he won’t date at all. Fiera Hutchins is more his type.”

  “Hmph,” Rose replied, standing as well and gathering her things.

  Somebody bumped James from behind, hard enough to make him fumble his glass as he leaned to place it on the table. The glass tumbled and sprayed the dregs of his juice onto his books. Annoyed, he wheeled to see who had been clumsy enough to bump him so hard.

  A small, rather blocky boy, a first-year Ravenclaw, was standing there with another boy and girl. All three were watching James with smug, tight smiles.

  “Ooops!” the blocky boy said with sarcastic emphasis. “Clumsy you!”

  James frowned in stunned surprise. The boy, who was at least a foot and a half shorter, with a shock of greasy ginger hair and freckles so dense that they seemed to join forces in a single blotch around his nose, had clearly bumped James on purpose, and wanted James to know it.

  James opened his mouth, not even sure how to respond.

  “Whassa matter, Potter?” the boy challenged, “Hinkypunk got your tongue?” He crossed his eyes and gawped his own mouth up at James in childish mockery. “Gah-gah-bwa-bwa- duhhh!”

  The boy and girl with him snickered and glared u
p at James, their eyes sharp, glinting with baffling malice.

  Before James could even begin to formulate a response, the trio turned and walked away, unhurrying toward the open doors, laughing loudly and nudging each other with their elbows.

  “What was that all about?” It was Ralph, approaching from the Slytherin table, apparently having witnessed the interaction from a distance.

  “James was just bullied by a first-year,” Graham said, a disbelieving laugh coming into his voice. “Did that really just happen, or am I dreaming?”

  Rose looked equally consternated. “What did you do to earn that, James?” she asked, glancing from the departing trio to James. “And who is he?”

  Belatedly, a pulse of embarrassed anger arose in James’ chest. He felt it redden his cheeks. “I’ve never seen that little prat before in my entire life!” he said, wonder and surprise turning his voice into a low rasp. “I don’t even know his name!”

  “Edgar Edgecombe,” said a small voice. James glanced aside to see Shivani’s young brother, Sanjay, still seated nearby, his eyes wide and serious. “He’s a first-year, like me. Are you, you know…” he paused and glanced around the table, as if reluctant to be the one to say it, “going to let him get away with that?”

  “I’d practice every jinx I ever learned on him,” Graham nodded, turning serious and meeting James’ eyes. “All at once. Twice over.

  Make an example out of ‘im.”

  “James can’t just go jinxing first-years,” Rose said with a derisive glance toward Graham. “He’d just get hauled before the headmaster.

  Maybe even expelled. What’s wrong with you?”

  As a group, they began to drift toward the doors, following the baffling trio into the Entrance Hall. “But the little Ravenclaw prat just insulted James!” Graham insisted in a hushed tone. “And by extension, all of us!”

  “It’s James’ problem,” Rose replied loftily. “He may not feel free to discuss his response in front of the Head Boy—” she glared aside at Ralph, who looked mildly affronted, “—but he will respond.” She turned her gaze meaningfully on James. “Won’t you.”

  It was a statement, not a question. James blew out a breath and shrugged. This was the very last thing he needed—some inexplicable upstart berk embarrassing him during his final year. Whatever bee the little prat had in his bonnet, James mostly just hoped that the boy, Edgar Edgecombe, had gotten it out. James didn’t enjoy comeuppance the way people like Scorpius Malfoy did. He didn’t understand meanness, and was deeply baffled about how to respond to it.

  Fortunately, by the time he and Ralph got to the third floor and their next class, they were distracted from Edgar Edgecombe by the young new Charms teacher, Professor Odin-Vann.

  The professor was very thin, James noticed, and dressed to hide that fact in layers of dark robes and a high, stiff collar. His beard, though sparse, was combed and waxed into a point sharp enough to draw blood. As the class filed in, he sat behind his desk, bent over a sheaf of parchments and scribbling busily with his quill. James had a secret suspicion that the professor’s busyness was a ruse to hide his nervousness. The young man didn’t look up as the students found their seats, unusually hushed in the presence of a new teacher. When everyone was seated, Odin-Vann put down his quill and finally raised his head. A lank wing of his black hair covered one eye. He raised a hand and pushed it aside in what was certainly, by now, a purely automatic gesture.

  “Welcome, class,” he said in a reedy voice, sitting up slowly in his seat. “As you all know by now, I am Professor Donofrio Odin-Vann.

  I replace your previous teacher, the esteemed Professor Filius Flitwick, whom I sat under myself when I was in your place not that very long ago. I am sure you, like me, are sorry to see him go. But I also hope that you, like me, will make the best of a new opportunity.” He smiled, and although it wasn’t entirely a genuine smile, James sensed that it was less insincere than anxious.

  The professor stood then and brushed his robes off, moving from behind his desk. He glanced back at the chalkboard behind him and startled slightly, apparently surprised at the drabble of handwritten notes remaining from his most recent class. He produced his wand reflexively, and then paused, the wand raised awkwardly in his hand.

  “Er, Mr. Potter,” he said, scanning the class and fixing his gaze on James. “If you would, ahem, please clear the chalkboard for us?”

  He waited, his eyes imploringly on James. James blinked at the professor, and then drew his own wand from the pocket of his robes, suspecting that the professor had called on him not because of James’ potential magical competence, but only because he happened to know James’ name. Why the professor didn’t clear the chalkboard himself, James had no guess whatsoever.

  “Correptus,” James called from his seat, giving his wand a flick toward the chalkboard. With a puff of white dust, the scribbled words and diagrams vanished, leaving the board clean, if nominally smudged.

  It wasn’t a spell he’d had much practice with.

  “Thank you,” Odin-Vann nodded with palpable relief, glancing back at the board. Stiffly, he put his own wand away again. “To begin, then, please turn in your textbooks to chapter one, ‘elemental transcendents and transmutations’.”

  “Well that was weird,” Ralph said an hour later as they made their way to the library for study period. “He didn’t do a single spell himself until nearly at the end of the lesson.”

  “He knows his stuff, though,” Deirdre commented appreciatively. “There’s more to Charms than wand-work. There’s theory and new spell writing, charmed objects, wand reflexology—”

  “What’s wand reflexology?” James asked.

  “Training a wand to do stuff on its own,” Rose explained, joining them at an intersection. “The witch or wizard has to have it in their hand for the magic to work, but it saves time. A wand can reflexively complete a chain of pre-incanted spells or some especially hard magic, so long as the witch or wizard has embedded it properly.”

  “Well that’s sort of the point, innit?” Ralph shook his head and glanced aside at Rose. “It all still ends up with a wand in a hand, doing magic. That new bloke, Odin-Vann, barely touched his wand until class was almost over. Although when he did, he was brilliant with it. Made the coatrack scuttle-dance around the room to the beat of a Rig Mortis song on the wireless.”

  Rose shrugged. “He’s probably just nervous, what having the Head Boy in his class and all.”

  “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” the bigger boy grumped, nettled.

  “Actually, I’m very happy for you,” Rose softened her voice and patted him on the shoulder, which was quite a reach. “So this will be the last thing I say on the subject: it’s a worthy accomplishment, and you’re like a brother to me. But the Weasley in me insists that I warn you: if you ever pull rank on me, I’ll pull wand on you. And even that overgrown broom-handle of yours is no match for me in a duel.”

  She smiled sweetly up at him and batted her eyes. Ralph blinked at her, then at James, who merely raised his hands in a keep me out of this gesture.

  At dinner that evening, James watched Cedric Diggory’s ghost flit happily over the Hufflepuff table. He was happy for Cedric, but joined his own house in bemoaning the lack of an official Gryffindor Ghost. As they discussed this, their gazes roaming over the other tables and their attendant spectres, James’ eye was caught by the glare of Edgar Edgecombe. The small, blocky boy was seated in the middle of the Ravenclaw table, flanked by his two friends, whom James now recognized as Quincy Ogden and Polly Heathrow, both first-years. He vaguely remembered them from the Sorting. All three craned to peer at James, to assure he saw them looking. Edgecombe grinned and his brow lowered. Pure spite beat from him like waves of radiation. Then, still staring at James, the ginger boy leaned and muttered something to his friends, who burst into shrill, nasty laughter.

  James shook his head dismissively and looked away. What was the deal with the little prat? Maybe he would
find out later. He hoped it wouldn’t come to a confrontation. He wasn’t particularly good in such situations. The stress of confrontation always muddled his mind, blew away his words, made his reactions feel clumsy and stupid.

  And suddenly it occurred to him: perhaps that was what it was like for Professor Odin-Vann. Perhaps the nervousness he’d shown at the beginning of class resulted in the magical equivalent of stage-fright, the way some people developed stutters or nervous tics when under stress. Maybe the professor couldn’t trust himself to do magic when he felt tense or selfconscious. Later, of course, when the professor had warmed to both the class and his subject, he had used his wand naturally, and with great skill.

  Still, James thought, if an extremely competent witch or wizard couldn’t rely on their magic in stressful or confrontational situations, that would be a rather debilitating limitation. It was no wonder, perhaps, that the young man had gone into teaching instead of, say, magical law enforcement.

  James, on the other hand, may be unaccustomed to confrontation, and he may lose his wit momentarily when surprised, but he could do magic if it came to it. Edgar Edgecombe had surprised him once, but the obnoxious little twit wouldn’t do so again. As Graham had suggested, James did know enough jinxes to put the boy in his place.

  Mentally, he checked them off— the Jellylegs jinx, Levicorpus, the Bat-Bogey hex, stinging spells, the Toe Bite r— and decided that he could do most or any of them without getting into too much trouble with the administration. If, that was, the little berk was the tattling type. Maybe instead he was the type of wanton little bully who respected a hard shove back more than conciliatory words or appeals to authority.

  Over the years, James had confronted and battled monstrous powers, maddened ghosts, mythical beings, and even doomed love. But up until now he had never had much experience with bullies. Somehow, this nemesis seemed, if not the most difficult, at least the most potentially annoying.