James Potter and the Crimson Thread

by G. Norman Lippert

  Their own oldest child, Fred Aleksey, was in attendance alongside them, wearing his first year Hogwarts robes. He sat just like his father, bolt upright and stoic, but his face and green eyes were entirely Weasley.

  James had a suspicion that there was more than a little mischief hiding beneath that practiced posture. He would have to keep an eye on young Mr. Fred Aleksey. Albeit, not too close an eye. He did want the boy to have a little fun.

  Ralph and Ashley Doone (now Dolohov) sat together on James’ right. Ashley’s belly was as round as a punch bowl beneath her strained robes. She rubbed it with one hand and fanned herself with the other.

  Ralph’s face was a carefully constructed mask of respectful attention, but James knew that the big man was constantly, almost obsessively, shifting his eyes to his wife and their unborn child. Throughout the ceremony, he checked on her quietly, offered to fan her with his program, or simply stroked the back of her head, doting on her with almost comical devotion.

  James couldn’t blame him. They had been childless for the nearly twelve years of their marriage, which was exactly eleven years longer than Ralph had wanted to be. Ashley bore his ministrations with affectionate patience, smiling wanly in the afternoon sun.

  Arianna sat with her own parents, Lily and Graham Warton—a union that James could not begin to understand even to this day, a decade after it had been announced to the world via a surprise wedding in Hogsmeade. It seemed to work for them, if occasionally tumultuously, judging by the number of times that Lily showed up at her parents’ old house in Marble Arch “needing to talk”!

  More familiar faces dotted the assembled crowd. James saw Scorpius and Nastasia halfway around the bowl of the amphitheatre, him watching with stoic boredom, her peering down at the parchment in her own lap, scribbling things with her finger. Her hair was no longer pink. Today, it was a sort of aquamarine at the crown of her head, fading to a bright acid green at its flouncy, pixie tips. It would probably be neon blue by the time they arrived at the reception. They were not a happy couple, quite. And yet they were somehow perfect for each other, James thought, sharing their time between her residence in Muggle New York city, where she was a freelance writer and “professional malcontent”, and wizarding Diagon Alley, where Scorpius had followed in his father’s footsteps at Gringotts bank.

  Their own three children, Wentz, Beckett, and Urie, were apparently at their London flat in the charge of their house elf nanny.

  Hagrid was also in attendance, of course, near the front, his broad back and now-grey bushy hair blocking at least three full seats behind him. Elsewhere, James spied Gennifer Tellus and Noah Metzker, Uncle George and Ted Lupin, Lucy and her grown sister Molly, and of course, the couple whose firstborn son they were there to celebrate, Damian and Sabrina Damascus. They sat near the front, on the row opposite Hagrid, beaming with fierce joy as their son, young Damian Junior, crossed the stage and accepted his enormous rolled diploma from headmaster Longbottom, who shook the boy’s hand firmly and smiled. There was, James saw, a stiffness in Neville’s smile, a certain admonitory brittleness at the edges.

  Damian Junior ignored this. He tucked his diploma under one arm, turned to the crowd, and raised both fists to his head. He jammed his extended thumbs into his ears and stuck out his pinkies, waggling them energetically.

  “Gremlin salute!” his father cried from the audience, jumping to his feet and returning the gesture, his square face positively brick red with pride.

  Gennifer Tellus hooted and jumped up as well, as did Ted Lupin, Noah Metzker, and a few of the other original Gremlins. Zane was on his feet, joining in the gesture even before Cheshire knew what was happening. The crowd murmured with mixed laughter and annoyance. Cheshire yanked Zane frantically by his coattail, pulling him back down into his seat.

  James wanted to join in, but reluctantly chose not to. It would likely be considered unseemly for an incoming headmaster. Besides, he had never been particular good at Gremlinery.

  On the stage, Neville rolled his eyes and shook his head, drawing a weary hand to his brow.

  Later that night, the white tent was once again erected on the lawn overlooking the lake. Most of the families had gone home, but Ralph, Rose, Scorpius, and Albus had stayed behind, ostensibly to serve as chaperones, although James well knew that they were mostly there for their own nostalgic reasons.

  The group divided their time between halfhearted patrols around the tent for illicit consumption of firewhiskey and a largish round table near the tent entrance, where they congregated and reminisced and caught up on each other’s new lives.

  Ralph, like Scorpius, had followed in his father’s footsteps, becoming the official technical security liaison to the Ministry of Magic.

  He alone had been responsible for the complete and comprehensive update of the Rules of Secrecy, which encompassed everything from Artificial Stupidity hexes for Muggle GPS devices to new official terminology of the ages-old Vow of Secrecy that all magical citizens took upon coming of age. Thanks to him, the wizarding world was, if not more secure than ever, certainly no less secure than it had been back when James himself was a first year and a lone Muggle reporter had forced himself, via pure bloody-minded determination, through the unplottable boundary of the Forbidden Forest and into Hogwarts School.

  Rose had become a partner in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, opening its first American location in New Amsterdam to much fanfare and unexpected success. She was now negotiating store franchises in locations all across both America and the UK, while juggling the more prosaic responsibilities of taking care of their younger son, Ivan Arthur, while Volkiev trained to assume command of the Harrier Corps from the soon-retiring Viktor Krum.

  Zane had become a writer of fiction stories, partnering with the Muggle detective, Marshall Paris, for a series of novels based on his completely bizarre and inexplicable adventures. His first novel, “Bullets are Forever”, had not been a bestseller, but it had been popular enough to gain the attention of a huge wizarding publishing firm in New Amsterdam. His latest book, “X Equals Revenge”, was the fifth in the Marshall Paris series, slated for release during the upcoming Christmas season.

  “That’s the key,” Zane said conspiratorially. “I could publish my grocery list, and if it came out on the first of November, it would sell like lemonade at Hades’ gates. It’s all a racket! But a racket that works in my favor, so I don’t complain one tiny bit.”

  James knew there was more to Zane’s success than mere release dates, but appreciated his old friend’s tactful self-deprecation.

  Albus, of course, didn’t talk much about what he was doing. As chief deputy Auror, second only to their dad, there wasn’t much he was allowed to talk about, at any rate. Instead, Rose asked him about his wife, Fiera. Albus responded happily, talking about her and their daughter, Fiona Constance, with the deliberate detail of a man avoiding other, more sensitive topics.

  Altogether, they offered up the typical middle-aged laments, obligatory and blithe. They were all living pretty much exactly the lives that they had hoped and dreamed of, even if, in actual practice, those lives were rather more prosaic and bland than they might ever have expected.

  The gathering toasted James’ new position, clinking various glasses of butterbeer, blackcurrant wine, and one firewhiskey (Albus, of course). They lamented the continued lack of a Gryffindor house ghost, ever since Nearly Headless Nick had made it into the Headless Hunt, well over two decades earlier.

  When the party was over, or at least winding down to its final dregs, James abandoned the tent and made his way to the empty Gryffindor common room.

  Not much had changed. There were a few newer chairs and tables. The sofa beneath the window had been replaced with one that was, while still threadbare and sagging, not quite as threadbare and sagging as the one that he remembered. The bust of Godric Gryffindor, chipped and battered, stood on the mantel, just begging to be used in one more game of Winkles and Augers.

  James’ old bed up in
the boys’ tower had long since been refinished, the words WHINY POTTER GIT expunged permanently from its headboard. This was probably a good thing, considering his new position. And yet he felt a certain wistful sadness about it.

  He sighed and sat down on the sofa facing the coals of the fire.

  It was too warm for the flames to need stoking. They were only there for effect, offering mere ruddy light and little heat.

  A blonde woman was seated on the chair nearby, her eyes glinting in the light of the coals.

  “Petra would be very proud of you,” she said.

  James nodded, knowing it was true. “She would think the post was beneath me, probably. She would say I should be Minister of Magic, not headmaster.”

  “I don’t think so,” the blonde woman said, smiling sadly.

  “Political posts are for crusaders or puppets. Headmasters are the ones who really change the future. They provide the subtle pebbles of destiny that shift the rivers of the future. She would be glad you were here. She would applaud you.”

  James glanced aside, and smiled ruefully. “How are you, Izzy?”

  Izzy shrugged. She was older than a young woman now. In her prime, if such a person could be said to have a prime. James secretly suspected that she might never grow a year older as long as she lived.

  Not unless she desired it, and allowed it. “I’m well. I can’t not be. I expect you know that.”

  “Wellbeing is more than safety and happiness,” James said with a sigh, turning back to the fire.

  “I know,” Izzy answered, a smile in her voice.

  They sat in comfortable silence for a minute. Izzy was a like a sister to James, although a sister that he had never fought with, or tattled on, or been embarrassed by in front of his friends. She was all the warmth and knowing of a beloved sibling, with none of the jealousy or spite.

  Of course, she was also completely unlike any other human being. She was, as Merlin had long ago said, a Guardian. It was less a description, James had come to discover, than an ancient title. Such beings had apparently lived long, long ago. Some legends said that they still did, although now in secret, forever hidden, watching and guiding from the backstage of reality. James wondered sometimes if that was where Izzy went when she withdrew from her childhood home with the Potters, when she seemed to step right out of the world of regular people, both magical or Muggle.

  He suspected he would never know the truth about that. Izzy had never explained, and he had never had the audacity to ask.

  “I saw Deirdre Finnegan the other day,” she finally said, speaking as if to the dying embers. “She said to tell you hello.”

  James shook his head ruefully. “Don’t start.”

  “She’s very beautiful,” Izzy shrugged. “Much more fetching now than she was even back when you two were in school. She intends to apply for the Transfiguration position. She’s very good. I think she would make a wonderful addition.”

  “I know what you’re getting at,” James said, his smile softening only a little. “It’s not any additions to Hogwarts staff that you’re dreaming up. It’s very sweet. But stop.”

  “Tabitha Corsica is between husbands at the moment,” Izzy commented with a sly smile. “What with her working for the Department of Ambassadorial Relations, she’d be traveling so much that you’d rarely see each other anyway.”

  James rolled his eyes. “You’re very amusing.”

  Izzy’s smile softened. “And then there’s always Lucy. She’s never really gotten over you, no matter what she says.”

  “Enough,” James sighed. “Lucy and I… look, it’s complicated.

  And not just because we’re technically family. I love her, of course. And we did see each other for awhile.”

  “On several occasions, I recall.”

  James glanced aside at her. “Our story isn’t over yet, I suppose.

  But for now, it’s at a bit of a stalemate. She’s busy studying for her doctorate in advanced technomancy at Alma Aleron. I’m here, getting ready to start a new career…”

  Izzy met his eyes knowingly. “A bachelor headmaster isn’t a requirement, you know.”

  “I know,” James answered with a sigh. “It’s not that. Really. I just…” He shook his head faintly. “It’s not that I’m not looking. Or that I’m disinterested. I go out sometimes. And who knows: maybe someday someone will come along. Maybe Lucy. Maybe even Deirdre.

  Definitely not Tabitha Corsica. But, for now… I’m happy. My life is… uncomplicated. I’m content.”

  Izzy nodded, seemed to consider this thoughtfully for a minute.

  Then she looked at him and said, “If anyone else said that, I think they’d be lying, both to me and themselves. But in your case, James… I believe you.”

  James smiled at her, happy to be known.

  They chatted a little longer. Izzy asked about Albus and Lily, Mum and Dad. And then, as the clock struck midnight, she stood up.

  James stood as well. He walked her to the portrait hole, and she gave him a hug. It was affectionate, lingering, and over too soon. And yet, as always, James felt comforted by the nonverbal promise of many more hugs to come, in a future that was, if unpredictable, at least steady.

  Izzy would see to that.

  She left via the portrait hole. James knew that once the painting swung shut, Izzy would likely vanish from the school altogether. She didn’t have to use doors. But leaving via them, at least in other people’s presence, was a kindness and a courtesy.

  He considered going upstairs to the boys’ dormitory and finding an old student bed to sleep in. It was a ridiculous thought, of course. It made him smile. His trunk was already stowed in the formal guest quarters adjacent to the headmaster’s suite, just waiting for him to move across the hall tomorrow and start his new life.

  He would not look back. Not when there was so very much to look forward to.

  Thus, he decided to go to the guest quarters after all. He was confident that he would sleep exceptionally well, and awaken ready for whatever new adventures awaited him, this time from the other side of that ancient, foreboding headmaster’s desk, with the Sorting Hat snoozing on its shelf behind him.

  Perhaps he would even get a phoenix.

  On that note, he climbed through the portrait hole, leaving the portrait of the Fat Lady, snoring daintily in her frame, to swing gently shut behind him.

  In the empty darkness of the Gryffindor common room, a shadow moved. It had been there the whole time, only perfectly still, knowing that stillness made it invisible. That was simply one of the rules. The shadow had watched Izzy and James speak, listened to them with affection, and a little amusement, and a touch of old, deep sadness.

  The shadow was the shape of a young woman. She had long dark hair, somewhat windswept, but rakishly so. She wore a pale blue hooded jumper over a calico dress and work boots. She had deep eyes the peculiar blue of moonlight on a frozen pond.

  She was considering what name she might choose for herself. All the ghosts had special names, after all. There was the Bloody Baron, and the Grey Lady, and even Cedric’s silly Spectre of Silence.

  She thought she might call herself the Crimson Thread. It wasn’t a phrase that had any meaning in this world anymore. That story had never officially happened. Nor, technically speaking, was her thread crimson anymore. Now it was the pale, pervasive blue of her eyes. But still. It had a nice ring to it. People would probably respond well to it.

  It was memorable.

  The new Gryffindor house ghost considered these things for a long moment, and then drifted back into the shadows, planning, musing, considering…

  She had plenty of time to decide. Her schedule was empty. Her tasks were done.

  Her conscience was clear.

  The End

  Except possibly not.

  James was well over a year into his tenure as Headmaster when an idea came into his head. It was almost as strong as the ideas that had preceded his feverish fugue during the days of the trip
le-six enigma, except that this one, he knew, was no alternate dimensional intrusion.

  For one thing, he really had spent a holiday with Millie Vandergriff, back during his seventh year of schooling. He remembered very clearly sitting at a formal Christmas table with her grandmother, the countess Eunice Vandergriff, who was, quite remarkably, still alive and, if only metaphorically, kicking. In truth, James didn’t think the countess had deigned to do anything so undignified as kicking even when she had been a young woman, sometime during the beginning of the previous century.

  He remembered, very clearly, their discussion about the significance of the House of Black.

  It is more than a landholding and title, she had told him. More than a mere name.

  The colour Black meant something. It protected and regulated some elemental human force, just as the Greene Barony had once been charge of the force of jealousy and ambition, and the Marquess of Rose had moderated the fickle tides of love.

  But the Countess had refused to tell him what the House of Black was the charge of. Or perhaps she had been unable to tell him.

  Because perhaps she did not herself know, or remember.

  The idea had come back to him many times over the years as a mere curiosity. Something he might one day choose to investigate on a whim, should he have the time and the inclination.

  Until the dreams began in earnest.

  Except that they weren’t dreams, exactly, as much as they were simply an ill-defined sense of urgency, like the echo of a loved one’s voice, calling out in need, or some important but forgotten appointment, nagging at memory. Even during daylight hours, in his office or seated at the head table at meals, James would be overcome with a shock of directionless panic, as if he himself was a student again, a nervous first year waking up and realizing that class had already started, the exam was about to begin, and he had barely enough time to struggle into his robes and dash, hair mussed and shoes untied, as fast as he could to the classroom door before it shut him out, too late, doomed to fail.