James Potter and the Crimson Thread

by G. Norman Lippert

  “Nobody, it turns out,” James answered, swinging his feet to the floor. “Go back to sleep.”

  “If it’s Cedric,” Scorpius murmured, letting his head drop back into his pillow, “tell him to go back to Hufflepuff. S’too early for class…” His voice trailed away into incoherence.

  James decided to get up and be early to breakfast for once.

  That Friday, the Gryffindor Quidditch team faced off against Slytherin for the first time that season. James stoically took his position high over the field, his goggles strapped over his spectacles against the steadily falling snow, the world a seamless tableaux of white all around.

  The roar of the grandstands was interrupted only by the voice of Josephina Bartlett, who was calling the match from the announcer’s booth, clearly enjoying the amplification of her own words far too much.

  “An important contest is today’s event,” she said, pausing to allow her words to echo around the grandstands, “as statistically, the team to win their first match has a seventy-seven percent chance of defeating that same team, should they appear together in the final tournament. Much rides on this performance for both teams, in particular on the new players in key positions, such as Mr. James Potter, who will be facing off against his own brother as Seekers for their respective teams.”

  The roar of the grandstands increased to a fever pitch at this announcement. James knew he should feel abashed by such attention, and yet he secretly relished it. He’d been looking forward to this matchup for years, ever since Albus had been named Seeker for the Slytherin team. He was deeply committed to beating his younger brother and bringing home an important win for Gryffindor, and his assurance that he could do so was bolstered by the confidence that the team seemed to show on his behalf.

  “We’ve got this!” Graham called through the snow, swooping into position. “Go crimson and gold!”

  “Go Gryffindor!” Deirdre shouted in response, rallying the rest of the team into whoops and cheers.

  James gripped his broom tightly, wearing the fingerless gauntlets he’d first worn three years earlier when he’d played Clutchcudgel at Alma Aleron, eventually accompanying team Bigfoot to their first win in decades. He looked wistfully at the slot on the right wrist, especially sewn into the gauntlet to store his wand. No game magic allowed in Quidditch, he mourned, although he had successfully brought it to the Night League, where Julian Jackson had proven herself right about quickly adapting and mastering the Clutchcudgel spells. All of the teams had borrowed and duplicated James’ old Clutchcudgel rulebook, and subsequently made very good use of Gravity Wells, Bonefuse hexes, Knucklers, Inertia Enhancers, and many others that even James had not yet fully mastered.

  The slot on his gauntlet was empty now, however. No wands were allowed on the Quidditch pitch. James would have to defeat his brother using plain old grit, finesse, and determination.

  Fortunately, as match official Cabe Ridcully blew his whistle and released the game balls, James was fairly brimming with grit and determination. He launched into motion, swooping immediately in pursuit of the snitch, even as it flashed its golden wings and flitted into the pall of densely falling snow, vanishing from sight.

  It turned out to be a very long match, lasting well past nightfall.

  Josephina’s voice grew hoarse as the evening progressed, with Slytherin maintaining a steadily growing, even daunting, lead over Gryffindor throughout. James began to dread the shrill ding of the scoreboard as more points accumulated, marked by green fireworks from the enchanted sign.

  Slushy snow caked James’ hair, freezing it to stiff fronds that slapped and battered his skull as he flew. His jersey and cape, like the rest of the players’, was sodden with a mixture of melted snow and cold sweat, weighing him down as he slewed through the melee, dodging Bludgers that hurled out of the dark like malevolent comets, whistling dully as they whickered past. All around, the crowd had reached that point of stubborn weariness that reduced their cheers to a dull, constant rumble, strung out between a sturdy commitment to their team’s victory, and the increasing desire for the match to be over so they could all return to the warmth and light of the castle.

  James was wiping the slush from his goggles for what felt like the millionth time when a sudden roar lifted from the crowd. There was no ding from the scoreboard, no flash and pop of celebratory fireworks, which meant the roar could only mean one thing: the snitch had been seen. And if the crowd had seen it, that meant that Albus probably had as well.

  James flung his gaze around the pitch desperately and finally found it: a streak of fluttering gold, zigging and zagging through the players. Albus was closing in on it already, his hand outstretched, banking and swooping in pursuit.

  James threw himself low over his broom and it shot forward, dipping toward the golden streak as it angled nearer.

  The crowd was a seamless blare now. As James arced to intercept the snitch, he caught a glimpse of the scoreboard. Gryffindor was currently down by a score of twenty-eight to one hundred sixty-two.

  If James failed to capture the snitch during this sighting, even if Albus managed to miss it, the Slytherins would soon have enough points to win the match no matter who eventually caught it.

  As James neared the whizzing golden ball, he watched it swoop directly over Deirdre’s shoulder. She watched it go past, clearly resisting the urge to catch it herself, which would, of course, only result in a penalty. She whipped her gaze back to James as he swooped after it, reaching forward with his right hand.

  Voices called in passing, some shouting him back or vying to distract him, others urging him on. James heard none of them, merely strained forward, dodging Bludgers that threatened to bash him from his broom, piloting as if through a tunnel of snowy white streaks.

  Albus was ahead of James still. His cloak flapped and snapped behind him, flinging damp mist into James’ face. The snitch dipped, however, and James saw it an instant before Albus corrected. James’ broom dropped away beneath him at his urging, cutting beneath Albus and catching up to the golden ball. James reached, stretching so hard that his arm felt it would pop right out of its socket. His fingers brushed the snitch’s buzzing wings. He grinned with determination, then snapped his hand closed onto…

  …empty air!

  Another hand had swept across his view from above, engulfing the snitch in an instant and sweeping away again, taking the golden ball with it.

  James boggled at the empty darkness where the snitch had been, still reaching uselessly with his fisted right hand, then twisted his head to look up.

  Albus was hanging upside down beneath his broom, dangling from his folded knees with his right arm fully extended, grasping the golden snitch just above James’ head. He met James’ gaze through his own slush-streaked goggles and grinned, shrugging his upside-down shoulders down at his brother.

  The crowd erupted into shocked—and perhaps even slightly relieved—applause. The match was over. Josephina Bartlett breathlessly announced the final score, but James deliberately tuned her out, swooping down to the field and not even dismounting, merely ducking his head and flying straight into the open doors of the locker area beneath the Gryffindor grandstand. His face was hot with mingled rage and embarrassment. He had no wish to speak to anyone or endure the cheering that even now still echoed from the pitch, celebrating Albus’ amazing capture.

  By the time James had stripped out of his wet gauntlets and half-frozen cape, the rest of the team came trudging along the tunnel, dragging their brooms, their heads down. Few spoke at all. None made eye contact with each other. James plopped onto a bench to pry off his wet shoes, the laces stiff with ice. He changed into a dry pair of trainers, tossed his Quidditch shoes into the bottom of his locker, and tugged his coat from a hook inside the door.

  He was just turning to leave when he saw Lily near her own locker, disconsolately shaking frozen clots of snow from her pony tail.

  He walked over to her, straddled the bench that ran between the row of wooden l
ockers, and plopped down. He had some vague idea of walking back with the team, finding some nominal solace in their silent camaraderie. It had been a bad loss—there was simply no escaping that fact—but at least they could suffer it together.

  Lily plopped next to him and grunted as she pried her own shoes off. The second one kicked from her foot and struck her locker, knocking its door shut with a bang. She glared at it, breathing angry chugs through her nose.

  “You might have seen that coming, if you’d been paying any attention over the past few years,” she said quietly, still gazing at her closed locker door.

  James frowned, replaying her words in his head. “What do you mean, if I’d ‘been paying any attention’?”

  She turned to him but kept her voice low. “Albus loves those stupid aerial acrobatics. He’s always looking for reasons to try out some harebrained maneuver, like that thing he did tonight when he stole the snitch right from under your nose. You might have seen it coming, is all.”

  “Oh, so you’re going to pin this whole thing on me, are you?”

  James hissed, pushing himself upright. “And what about when Beetlebrick and Dvorek were drilling home goals all match long, right under your nose? Are you going to tell me that was my fault too?”

  “I knocked more away than made it through!” Lily snapped, stripping off her gloves and throwing them violently to the floor. “It was snowing buckets out there, in case you didn’t notice. I could barely see the bloody Quaffle before it was too close to catch!”

  “That didn’t seem to bother Lamia Lorelei at the other end of the pitch, did it?” James declared, heaving himself to his feet and pointing in the general direction of the Slytherin goal rings. “She was like a brick wall out there!”

  “Well none of it would have mattered if you’d done your duty and caught the snitch in time!” Lily shouted, giving James a shove in the chest. “I was busy all night! You had one job, and you blew it, just because you fell for some stupid stunt your own brother’s been dying to pull for months!”

  James felt like an icicle had been stabbed straight through his chest. He took a step back from Lily’s furious gaze, his mouth open in surprise and dismay.

  “Now hold on, both of you,” Graham said with weary alarm, moving to get between Lily and James, but James smacked his placating hand away. He turned, grabbed his broom, and stalked away from the locker area, into the darkness of the tunnel, smarting from Lily’s words, feeling betrayed and furious at his brother, and most of all cursing himself as a complete failure.

  Snow was still falling in steady, skirling clouds over the pitch, which was now criss-crossed with footprints. The grandstands were mostly empty as the last spectators trickled away. James moved to follow them, keeping his head down.

  “James,” a girl’s voice called, the sound muffled by the falling snow. For a moment he thought it was Lily coming to apologize and his heart quickened, unsure if he would let her beg forgiveness, or scorn her and make her stew for a while. It was not Lily, however. He stopped and glanced back to see Millie plodding quickly toward him through the deepening drifts. She was bundled in her coat and Hufflepuff scarf with a fetching woolen hat on her blonde hair, now heavily dusted with white, but she carried a Gryffindor pennant in her right hand, drooped in defeat.

  She stopped near him, her breath puffing in thick white clouds.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said simply.

  For a moment, he thought she had somehow divined what had happened with Lily in the locker area. The look of commiseration on her face was so heartfelt and unabashed that, for a fleeting second, it almost made him want to cry. He drew a deep, bracing breath instead and looked up at the mostly empty grandstands. “It was a rough match.

  I should have seen the snitch sooner. Albus beat me to it. He was the better player tonight.”

  Millie nodded soberly at James, her lips pressed into a thin line, and then drew a deep breath and said, “That’s complete skrewt dooey.”

  James glanced back at Millie again, frowning. “Excuse me?”

  “I say it’s skrewt dooey, top to bottom. You were by far the better flyer out there. You had Albus beat square. He won by being a numpty showoff, not by being a better player.”

  “He did, didn’t he?” James suddenly seethed, smacking a fist into his open hand. “I completely had him beat! He didn’t see when the snitch changed direction, but I did! I cut him off!”

  “He resorted to sloppy desperation tactics and got lucky,” Millie agreed emphatically. “He won’t pull that off again. That sort of thing only works once.”

  James shook his head at the injustice of it. “I wish you’d been down in the locker room with me and the rest of the team,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

  “Why?” Millie asked, threading an arm through James’ as they turned and trudged toward the castle together. “Don’t tell me they blamed you for what happened?”

  James blew out a deep sigh. “Not most of them. Just… my sister…”

  Millie chose to remain silent on that detail, which James thought was probably a very wise move on her part. They walked in silence toward the warm glow of the castle, which shone from its myriad windows onto the falling curtain of snow and the white blanket that was the grounds. James could just make out Hagrid’s hut far to the right, shouldered up against the fringe of the forest. The roof was cloaked with snow. A grey ribbon of smoke arose from the crooked fieldstone chimney. The scent of burning wood was an ode to warmth in the crisp air.

  “I was wondering,” Millie said, snuggling a little closer to James as they turned toward the open courtyard, “if maybe you’d like to come to Canterbury for the holidays with me this year?”

  James stopped in the lantern light of the main entrance, turning to look aside at Millie, surprised at her offer.

  She went on before he could answer, “I already asked my mum and dad and they were totally keen on the idea. Honestly, I think they’re more excited about it than I am. I just thought…” She shrugged a little and looked out over the dark courtyard, “maybe you’d like to meet my parents, and brother and sister. I mean… I’m sure you have your own holiday traditions and things that you’re looking forward to.

  So maybe this is absolutely the last thing you expected. And my timing is probably perfectly horrid, now that I think of it. Soooo… maybe we should just pretend I didn’t even—”

  “I’d love to, Millie,” James interrupted. He very much enjoyed the look of surprised delight that crossed her face, bringing her eyes immediately back to his.

  “Really? Seriously?”

  He shrugged and nodded, glancing back toward the unseen darkness of the Quidditch pitch. “I’d love to meet your family. And I love Christmas in the city. It’d be nice for a change, since we usually have Christmas at the Burrow, out in the middle of nowhere.”

  Millie’s enthusiasm was seamless. She squeezed James’ arm ecstatically and kissed him briefly on the lips. “Oh, but I love Christmas in the country! We should go to your family’s next year! Promise you’ll invite me! Even if we aren’t… well… I don’t want to assume…”

  Her cheeks reddened, but James was feeling very cavalier in the wake of the evening’s disappointments. “Make all the assumptions you want. Sure, I’ll invite you next year. But you have to keep in mind that Headmaster Merlin is part owner of the Burrow and spends his summers and holidays there. That means when we go home for Christmas, even next year when we’re graduated, school sort of comes with.”

  “I’ll love it no matter what,” Millie enthused, dragging James onward again, up the steps to the main entrance. “I’ll send an owl to mum and dad tonight telling them to expect us both. Oh, we’ll have simply a grand time! But do pack your dress robes! It’s traditional for the Christmas Eve dinner. And we attend a play every year, too, at the Theatre d’Extraordinaire! This year it’s the Triumvirate, isn’t that just perfect? And, oh! My grandmother Eunice will be there, too. She takes some getting used to. I’ll t
ell you all about her on the way…”

  As they made their way into the Entrance Hall, James allowed Millie to fill the air with excitement and planning, warnings of dodgy relatives and promises of amazing sights and experiences. Filch watched them go past with a malevolent glare, leaning on a mop, pausing in his futile attempt to sop up the slush that had accumulated in the wake of the evening’s match. As Millie went on, James wondered if perhaps he’d agreed a bit too easily. He’d meant to break up with Millie over the holiday, not deepen their relationship with a visit to meet her parents. A dull, sinking feeling darkened his already dark mood, but he pushed it away. At least going to the city with Millie meant not having to spend the holiday with his showoff brother and blaming sister. At the mere remembrance of them, his resolve firmed and he determined to send a note to his own mum that night as well, announcing his new plan.

  Millie was so caught up in her excitement about the upcoming holiday that she accompanied James all the way to the portrait of the Fat Lady, only then remembering herself. “Oh, I passed my own corridor, didn’t I?” she laughed, and then kissed James again, impetuously. “We’ll have a grand time. You’ll simply love it. I can’t wait!” She gripped his hand and squeaked with delight and James was once again both gratified and slightly worried by her enthusiasm.

  A moment later, she turned and skipped back the way they’d come, humming Christmas carols happily to herself.

  “Well,” the Fat Lady indulged with a knowing smile. “It looks to me like some body is in love…”

  James was still watching Millie as she turned and capered cheerily down the stairs. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered with a sigh.

  James half hoped that his mum would forbid the trip to Canterbury over the holidays, although he knew it was unlikely. She was a born matchmaker, just like his sister, and would likely adore the idea of James partaking in some innocent romance over the break.