James Potter and the Crimson Thread

by G. Norman Lippert

  James couldn’t help feeling sorry for the elf, in spite of the mess that she had made. Mr. Vandergriff may not wish for any explanation, but James thought that her intention had been painfully clear.

  Heddlebun had resorted to one final, desperate measure to regain her duties from the Muggle servants.

  Instead, she had lost her service entirely.

  Blake, for one, seemed to understand this. He watched the elf go with a placid expression, then looked askance at James. Silently, he mimed wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, and then winked. There was something conspiratorial in the gesture, as if James and Blake had somehow plotted for the elf to be sacked, rather than merely watched it happen. James frowned and shook his head.

  Many voices began to speak now, in low, urgent tones. Millie still had her hands clamped over her mouth, but she seemed to have lost the urge to laugh. She swiveled her eyes toward James, speechless at what had transpired.

  “I’m fine,” Mrs. Vandergriff stated over the rabble of voices.

  “I’m fine, truly. It’s nothing that a good tergeo charm won’t fix. I shall summon Gennywik as soon as the play is completed. No, I won’t hear a word of it, Topham. You stay and enjoy the remainder of the performance. It is, I daresay, just coming to the good bit.”

  Much to the consternation of her husband and their guests, Mrs.

  Vandergriff composed herself, brushed futilely at the mess on her shoulders and skirts, and then lowered back to her seat on the sofa, crossing her gloved right hand over her bare left.

  There was a long, pregnant pause as the rest of the room stood by awkwardly, unsure how to proceed.

  “The Lady has spoken,” Mr. Vandergriff nodded briskly, changing his expression to a determined smile. “And so it shall be.

  Carry on then, loves! Lights, please.” He clapped his hands again, and the chandelier snuffed itself, plunging the room back into dimness.

  On the stage, Edmund still stood atop his ottoman boat, his face blank in the spotlight.

  “Shall I…” he asked in a stage whisper, looking around at Millie and James, “shall I begin again?”

  “I suggest we skip directly to the fight scene with Donovan,”

  Millie whispered with a hard glint in her eye, cocking a glance at James.

  “And do let’s make it a good one.”

  James lay in bed that night listening to the low crackle of the fire in the hearth, staring up at the dim shadows of the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. His mind was full of chasing, whirling thoughts: the inexplicable sensation of Petra’s kiss during the climactic moment at the theatre; the Black estate and its mysterious, portentous title; the sacking of Heddlebun the elf in favor of paid, human servants.

  The latter debacle had led to muttered discussion later that night, with the men gathered secretively in the den for cognac and cigars, discussing a word that James had never heard before.

  “It’ll come up for vote, this Wexit business. It’s inevitable,” the Ministry official with pork-chop sideburns said matter-of-factly. “It’s the direction of the future. Britain must lead the charge.”

  Mr. Vandergriff remained unconvinced. “I don’t know if it should come to that. It’s a monumental step, the entirety of wizarding Britain exiting the Vow of Secrecy. There is no reversing from that decision, should it come to pass.”

  “And yet, I wonder if there is any hope in fighting it?” Benton suggested, his voice uncharacteristically somber. “You heard what happened at Hogwarts on First Night. A Muggle family actually drove straight into the courtyard, purely by accident. The lot of them wandered into the Great Hall, for heaven’s sake. Ask James here, he’ll tell you all about it.”

  James didn’t wish to recount the event, and didn’t need to. The story had made its way into the Daily Prophet, of course, and become national news.

  “Mark my words,” the Ministry official insisted, raising a single, pudgy finger. “Wexit will come to vote, and it will pass. We cannot wait for the Vow to crumble down around our shoulders. This Elven uprising business is just the start. We must act now to minimize and control the revelation while we still can.”

  James thought on the man’s words in the darkness of his room, unsure what to make of them, unsure if he agreed or not, knowing that Benton was probably right in saying that it didn’t really matter; the momentum was begun. The Vow was indeed crumbling.

  And what, exactly, was the “Elven uprising”?

  A low laugh echoed from beneath the bedroom door, as if from a long way off. James glanced toward the door, saw the narrow band of candlelight beneath it. It was unbroken. No one was moving in the hall outside.

  He dismissed the sound, returning reluctantly to his sleepless reverie, but a moment later the sound came again, and this time it was accompanied by a shrill whisper.

  After a moment’s consideration, James slipped to the floor in his pajamas and padded barefoot to the door. He gripped the brass doorknob and opened the door just enough to peek out.

  The hallway was long, decked with gilt-framed portraits, flickering wall-sconces, and low sofas and side tables. At the end nearest the staircase, a figure stood half-hidden within an open bedroom door.

  It was Millie’s room, James recognized, but the figure standing there was not Millie.

  Frowning in consternation, he recognized the shape as Blake.

  The young man was murmuring in a low voice, no longer dressed in his formal coat and tails. Now, he wore a leather jacket and jeans. Millie’s voice was thin and secretive, tittering with laughter. James could make out no words. After only a moment, Blake stepped back to make room for Millie. She exited her bedroom dressed in a heavy jumper and winter hat. Closing her bedroom door with exaggerated care, she bounced lightly on her toes, and then pushed Blake playfully toward the staircase. Together, they crept down and out of sight.

  James felt completely stymied. He stared down the now-empty hall feeling a mixture of confusion, jealousy, and surprised spite. What were they up to? Why hadn’t she told him about it, much less invited him along?

  Wounded resentment arose in place of his confusion, bringing a flush to his cheeks and pressing his lips into a firm line.

  Leaving the bedroom door ajar, he retreated to the enormous wardrobe, yanked out his coat, pocketed his wand, shoved his bare feet into his trainers, and crept quickly out into the hall, closing his own door as quietly as possible.

  Blake and Millie were in the main entrance hall when he spied them again from the shadows of the landing. They were still whispering as Blake swung open the front door, heavy but silent on its well-oiled hinges. Cold air carried a raft of snowflakes into the entryway. They alit on Millie’s hair and hat as she followed the young man outside. With a faint clunk, the door closed behind them.

  James trotted lightly down the steps, the confused umbrage in his chest heating into a boiling cauldron. A set of tall windows stood on either side of the front doors, each glazed with silvery frost. Leaning so close that his breath fogged the glass, James peered out.

  An automobile stood on the curving drive, its exhaust puttering white breath as Blake opened the passenger door for Millie. The car was not new, but it was low and muscular, clearly immaculately cared for, shining a deep midnight blue, with fat racing tyres. Blake closed Millie’s door quietly, then rounded the front of the car swiftly, drawing a hand lovingly across the bonnet before dropping into the driver’s seat. A moment later, as the door swung shut, the car surged forward, crunching on the snow.

  James could scarcely believe what he was seeing. She was sneaking out again, and this time without telling even him! Would she and Blake go to the same place that they had all gone the previous night?

  Why were they driving Blake’s fancy sports car this time? What was Blake’s intention with the rich blonde witch? Worse, what was her intention with him?

  If only there was a way to find out.

  James cast anxiously around the entry hall. A large coatroom stood on one side. On th
e other was a narrow door, closed but unlocked. For lack of any better idea, James took a lunging step forward and grasped the handle, yanking the door open.

  It was a utility closet. A vacuum cleaner stood in the centre, surrounded by shelves of cleaning supplies, folded serving towels, feather dusters, spray-cans of furniture polish, a rack of hanging black coats for the servants to wear when greeting guests in bad weather, and a leaning collection of mops and brooms.

  James began to close the door in frustration, and then stopped, his eye catching on the brooms.

  Was it possible? He scanned the wooden handles. One of them was more curved than the others, dull with age but polished a deep chestnut, with a small brass plate screwed to one side of the handle. On the plate, curlicue letters spelled: WoodSprite ’75.

  James had never heard of a broom called a WoodSprite. He didn’t even know which century the “’75” referred to. He only knew, with immense relief, that the Vandergriffs had consigned someone’s ancient broom to the servants for mere sweeping. He grabbed it, yanked it from its fellows with a clatter, and leapt for the front door.

  It was bitterly cold outside, with fresh snowflakes falling silently through the dome of interwoven trees that canopied the Vandergriff’s peninsula estate. James barely felt the wintry air as he tugged the door closed behind him and straddled the antique broom.

  The taillights of Blake’s car were mere red pinpricks in the distance, obscured by the falling snow. They brightened momentarily as James watched, showing a tap of the car’s brakes. Then, the vehicle turned off the tree-lined drive, accelerated, and vanished into the Muggle neighborhood beyond.

  James kicked off from the mansion’s portico and drove the broom forward as fast as it would go. The WoodSprite felt like a Flobberworm compared to his own ThunderStreak, yet James knew that it would be plenty fast enough to catch up to Blake’s car and keep pace with it. If, that was, he could overtake them before losing them in the warren of neighborhoods beyond the shore road.

  Snowflakes streamed past, stinging James’ cheeks and blurring his vision, but he only squinted and pressed onward, swooping low along the narrow drive, feeling the pulse of the trees as they rushed overhead. The fringe of forest began to close ahead of him as he watched, hiding the Vandergriff’s drive from the cul-de-sac beyond.

  James hunkered low and drew in his elbows, and still he had to slalom dangerously through the contracting trees, bursting out of them only a moment before they twined firmly together, completely blocking the drive.

  With a kick and a swerve, James angled upward, above the glow of the streetlamps, and sped into the night, following the boulevard below.

  Blake’s car was no longer in sight.

  Angry panic throttled James’ thoughts, but he merely leaned lower over the broom and pressed onward, glaring down at the snowy, illuminated road below. At the junction, he glanced frantically from right to left. There, much further away than he expected, was the same pair of taillights just turning right, passing behind a grand house. James kicked forward again in pursuit.

  Soon enough, he caught up to the car, slowed, and followed it more sedately, staying well above the light of the streets below, watching as the car ambled through more junctions, tooled past flashing traffic lights, and eventually made its way into a nearby town, where it began to cruise the streets in a seemingly random, meandering path.

  This went on for some time.

  James pressed higher as he flew over apartment complexes, churches, office buildings, and parking garages. Snow gathered in his hair and eyelashes. He grew cold, and then began to shiver so hard that his hands shook on the broom handle. And still, far below, the sleek blue car drove on. It never really arrived anywhere, although it slowed often, pausing longer than necessary at stop signs and intersections, random corners and parks. Several times it pulled off to the side of the road and stopped entirely. And yet, as James watched, Millie and Blake never got out to approach any of the establishments they parked near.

  The car doors never even opened. Minutes would creep by as James shivered violently far overhead, chilled and crusted with snow, and then, invariably, the car would pull forward again, merge onto the street, and continue placidly on.

  James tried very hard not to imagine what Millie and Blake were doing in the car during those parked minutes. In his mind, he heard Scorpius Malfoy sneering at him: “You really aren’t that thick, are you, Potter?”

  Finally, after what felt like hours, numb with cold and miserable with sick jealousy, James realized he was following the blue car back into the shoreline neighborhood overlooking the sea. He followed more closely now, caring less if he was seen, wanting only to be back indoors, to shake the crusted snow from his hair, and wallow in the stew of confused, indignant anger that now filled him from head to toe.

  The car’s headlights illuminated the cul-de-sac guardrail, but only for a moment. With a silent shimmy, the guardrail shot upwards and transformed into the wrought-iron gate of Blackbrier Quoit. The blue car surged through, and James swooped to follow.

  He considered whether he should confront them right then and there, as they emerged in front of the mansion. It would be perversely satisfying, he knew, but it would also mean admitting that he had jealously followed them, and been miserably frozen and humiliated in the act. He decided, with some reluctance, to hang back, to swoop up toward the interlaced dome of bare branches high overhead, watching down silently as the car angled onto the curving drive, glinting in the glow of the mansion’s entry.

  Some tiny, timid part of him suggested that he should be grateful for this night. He had already decided to break up with Millie once the holiday was over, hadn’t he? He had only to come up with a good reason. This made things all the simpler, didn’t it?

  And yet this voice was drowned out by the boiling, affronted rage in his chest, almost but not quite concealing the ocean of wounded pride beneath.

  The car’s engine idled, but the doors still did not open for several minutes. James’ fury grew with the intensity of his discomfort. The snow was thinner here as it filtered through the dome of trees, but the air was nearly arctic with cold. James’ breath fogged the air, shivering violently. His hands were numb on the WoodSprite’s handle.

  Finally, both of the car doors swung open. Blake and Millie stepped out into the dim glow of the portico lamps, looked at each other over the car’s roof, and then moved to meet at the rear. Blake took Millie’s hands briefly, and then turned to the car. He opened the boot, swung up the lid, and withdrew something from inside. It was small and squarish, a gift of some kind. James nearly vibrated with rage as he watched the young man offer it to Millie. She accepted it, looked at it, and then threw her arms up around his neck, still holding the square object in one hand. She hugged him, and then, as James observed with a wave of blinding, affronted rage, she kissed him.

  The boot lid banged shut suddenly, slamming so hard that it rocked the car and sent echoes across the snowy garden.

  Blake and Millie both jumped back from the car, startled.

  James saw this with some satisfaction before realizing that his wand was in his fist, aimed at the car. His knuckles were white, squeezing hard enough to make the tendons stand out on the back of his hand.

  A light popped on in an upstairs window of the mansion.

  Below, Blake saw this and swore urgently under his breath.

  “Hide!” Millie rasped, and yanked her wand from a pocket. She waved it at the car and muttered a brief spell. The car wavered, and then took on the ephemeral color and texture of the snowy drive beneath it, effectively vanishing from view. James marveled reluctantly. He himself had never perfected the Disillusionment spell.

  Millie ducked behind a stone balustrade at the base of the steps at the exact same moment that the curtains of the lit upstairs window twitched aside. A silhouetted figure appeared, peering down through the glass. From his angle high above, James could see that it was Mathilda, Millie’s older sister. She gaze
d this way and that, her suspicious eyes narrowed. Then, apparently seeing nothing out of order, she withdrew.

  Far below, Millie peered up from behind the balustrade. Next to her, a shadow moved. Blake was hiding there with her.

  James fumed furiously. Wand still in hand, he flicked it and muttered a spell of his own.

  A snowball arose spinning from a drift near the steps. It hovered for a moment, and then arced up to the lit window, bashing against the glass with an audible rattle.

  “What the bloody…!” Blake hissed, standing up to look around, annoyed and confused. Millie pulled him back down, but peered up herself, her eyes squinting. She was quicker, and knew what to look for.

  After only a moment, she glanced up toward the tree canopy just as James summoned another snowball.

  “James?!” she called up in a harsh whisper.

  James flicked his wand. The snowball arced toward Mathilda’s window and bashed itself to powder.

  Blake followed Millie’s gaze, spying James overhead. “It’s your boyfriend?” he asked, annoyance and amusement mingling in his voice.

  “James!” Millie rasped again, stepping out from the shadows.

  “Come down here! What in purple blazes are you doing!?”

  James firmed his jaw and heaved a deep sigh. Resignedly, he swooped down and jumped to the top portico step as Millie ran up to join him.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded again, so angrily that James’ own rage was dampened momentarily.

  “What am I doing?” he rallied, standing up straight and hefting the WoodSprite between them like a shield. “What are you doing?

  Sneaking out and… and… and… getting on with… with…!” He flapped a hand vaguely, disgustedly in Blake’s direction. For his own part, Blake stood in the shadows at the bottom of the steps, arms crossed, a look of weary impatience on his face.