“Oh, it’s not me I’m thinking of,” James said hurriedly, taking his eyes off Ralph so as not to implicate him. “It’s just a, sort of, you know, general question. I was just wondering.” Hagrid smiled crookedly and clapped James on the back, making him stumble half a step. “Just like your dad, yeh are. Always lookin’ out for other people when yeh ought to be watchin’ your own step. It’ll get yeh in hot water if yeh aren’t careful, just like it did him!” He chuckled, making a sound like loose rocks in a fast river. The thought seemed to bring Hagrid a great deal of hearty pleasure. “Nah, the Sorting Hat knows what it’s up to, I expect. Everything’ll come out all right. Yeh wait and see.”
But as James walked back to his table, making eye contact with Ralph for a moment as he passed the Slytherins, he wondered.
4.the Progressive Element
James Potter sat up in his bed, stifling a gasp. He listened very intently, peering around the darkened sleeping chamber. All around him were the small sounds of sleeping Gryffindors. Ted rolled over and snorted, muttering in his sleep. James held his breath. He’d awakened a few minutes earlier with the sound of his own name in his ears. It had been like a voice in a dream: distant and whispered, as if blown on smoke down a long, dark tunnel. He had just about convinced himself that it had, in fact, been the tail of a dream and drifted back to sleep when he’d heard it again. It seemed to come out of the walls themselves, a faraway sound, still somehow right next to him, like a chorus of whispers saying his full name.
Very quietly, James slipped out of bed and shrugged into his bathrobe. The stone floor was cool under his feet as he stood and listened, tilting his head. He turned slowly, and as he looked toward the door, the figure there moved. He hadn’t seen it appear, it was simply there, floating, where a moment before there had been darkness. James startled and backed into his bed, almost falling backwards onto it. Then he recognized the ghostly shape. It was the same wispy, white figure he’d seen chase the interloper off the school grounds, the ghostly shape that had come to look like a young man as it came back to the castle. In the darkness of the doorway, the figure seemed much brighter than it had appeared in the morning sunlight. It was wispy and shifting, with only the barest suggestion of its human shape. It spoke again without moving.
James Potter.
Then it turned and flitted down the stairs.
James hesitated for only a second, then wrapped his bathrobe more tightly about him and followed the figure, his bare feet slapping lightly on the stone steps.
He reached the deserted common room just in time to see the ghostly shape glide through the portrait hole, passing through the back of the portrait of the Fat Lady. James hurried to follow. James expected the Fat Lady to scold him as he snuck past her, but she was deeply asleep in her frame as he closed it gently. She was snoring a remarkably tiny, ladylike snore, and James wondered if it was an enchanted sleep cast by the ghostly figure.
The halls were silent and dark, it being the very pit of night. Silvery blue moonlight sifted through the few windows. It occurred to James that he should have brought his wand. He couldn’t do much with it yet, but he did know a basic Illumination Spell. He glanced around the pattern of moonlight and shadows that was the hall, seeking the ghostly shape. It was nowhere in sight. He chose a direction at random and trotted along it.
Several turns later, James was about to give up. He wasn’t even sure he’d know his way back to the Gryffindor common room. The corridor here was high and narrow, with no windows and only one torch guttering redly near the archway he’d entered by. Closed doors lined the corridor on both sides, each one made of thick wood and braced with iron bars. Behind one of them, a gust of night wind made something creak, low and long, like the moan of a sleeping giant. The overall effect was rather frightening, but James couldn’t quite bring himself to turn back just yet. He walked slowly down the corridor, the torch making his shadow stretch before him, flickering into blackness.
“Hello?” he said quietly, his voice hoarse, just above a whisper. “Are you still there? I can’t see you.” There was no response. The corridor was growing colder. James stopped, squinting hopelessly into the shadows, and then turned around. Something flickered across the corridor inches from his face and he jumped. The white shape streamed through one of the doors, and James saw that that door wasn’t entirely closed. Blue moonlight filled the space he could see through the crack. Trembling, James pushed the door and it creaked open. Almost immediately, the door caught on something, making a grating scrape. There were broken chunks of iron on the floor next to something long and black with a hook on the end. It was a crowbar. James kicked these aside and pushed the door further open, stepping in.
The room was long and dusty, cluttered with broken desks and chairs, apparently once sent here for repair, but long forgotten. The ceiling sloped down toward the back wall, where four windows glowed with moonlight. The window on the far right was broken. Glass glittered on the floor and one of the swinging panes hung crookedly like a broken bat wing. The ghostly figure stood there, looking down at the broken glass, and then turned to look at James over its shoulder. It had resumed its human shape, and James gasped as he saw the young man’s face. Then two things happened simultaneously. The ghostly shape evaporated in a wisp of silvery smoke, and there was a crash and clatter from the corridor outside.
James jumped and spun on the spot, peering out the door. He didn’t see anything, but he could still hear an echoing clatter from the darkness. James leaned against the inside of the door, his heart thudding so hard that he could see dull green flashes in his peripheral vision. He glanced around the room, but it was completely dark and empty except for the cobwebby furniture and broken window. The ghostly man was gone. James took a deep breath, then turned and crept out into the corridor again.
There was another, smaller clatter. James could tell by the sound of it that it was further down the corridor, in the darkness. It echoed as if it were coming from another side room. Again, James berated himself for having forgotten his wand. He tiptoed into the darkness. After what felt like an age, there was another open door. He held onto the stonework of the doorframe and peered in.
James vaguely recognized the Potions storage room. There was a man in it. He was dressed in black jeans and a black shirt. James recognized him as the very same man he had seen the morning before at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, sneaking photographs. He stood on a stool, examining the shelves with a small penlight. On the floor by the stool were the shattered remains of a couple of small vials. As James watched, the man stuck the penlight in his teeth and groped for another jar on the top shelf, keeping a precarious hold on the opposite shelf with his free hand.
“ Heritah Herung,” he read to himself around the penlight, craning his neck to direct the light onto the jar. “What the heck ith thith thtufh?” His voice was a low, awed mutter. Suddenly, the man looked toward the door. His eyes made contact with James, and for a long moment, neither moved. James was sure the man would attack him. He was obviously an intruder, and James had seen him. He tried to will his feet to turn and run, but there seemed to be some disconnect between his brain and his lower extremities. He stood and stared, gripping the stonework of the doorway as if he meant to climb it. Then the man did the last thing James expected. He turned and ran.
He was gone almost before James realized it. The curtain at the back of the storage room still swayed where the man had blown through it. To James’ great surprise, he darted to follow the man. The Potions storage room led into the Potions classroom itself. Long, high tables stood in the darkness, their stools tucked neatly beneath them. James stopped and cocked his head. Footsteps echoed from the corridor beyond. His own feet smacked the stone floor as James dodged around the tables and out into the corridor, following the man.
The man was hesitating at a point where two corridors crossed. He looked desperately back and forth, then glanced up and saw James coming. The man let out the same high, little shriek James
had heard him make when he’d been chased by the ghost. He slipped on the stones, his feet seeming to run in three directions at once, then he mastered them and ran clumsily down the broader corridor. James knew where he was now. The man would come out onto the hall of the moving staircases. Even as James was thinking it, he heard another little shriek of surprise echoing back to him. He grinned as he ran.
James stuttered to a stop at a railing and leaned over, peering intently into the darkness of the floors below. At first, the subtle grinding of the stairs was the only noise, and then he heard the clatter of the man’s shoes. There he was, holding onto a railing for dear life and stumbling down a staircase as it swiveled ponderously. James hesitated for a moment, then did something that he’d always wanted to do but never quite had the temerity to try: he clambered up on the railing of the nearest staircase, straddled it, and then let go.
The thick wooden railings, polished by generations of house-elves to a rocklike, glassy shine, were like beams of ice beneath James. He shot down the railing, craning his head over his shoulder to see where he was going. His hair, which had gotten lank with sweat in the minutes before, ruffled as air whipped past. When he neared the bottom, he gripped the railing again with both his arms and his legs, slowing, and then hopping lightly off the bottom. He cast around, looking for the man, and saw him clambering toward another landing, one floor below.
James’ dad had told him about the moving staircases, had explained the secret of navigating them. James gauged the moving labyrinth, and then chose another staircase just as it began to swivel. He swung himself over the railing and let go, streaking down it as if it were greased. On one side was the swaying chasm of landings, staircases, and halls; on the other, the speed of the blurring stairs. James gritted his teeth and craned to look behind him again. The man was just reaching the landing below. He stumbled, disoriented, as he backed off the staircase, and then looked up just as James rocketed into him.
James hit the man at full speed, rebounded off him, and sprawled onto the flagstones of the landing. The man shrieked a third time, this time in frustration and surprise, as the force of the collision knocked him entirely off his feet. There was a piercingly loud crash, followed by a shower of tinkling glass. James rolled and covered his face instinctively. When silence descended again, James peeked through his fingers. There was a very large, roughly man-shaped hole in the stained-glass window at the foot of the landing. Through it, the spindly black fingers of trees swayed in a night breeze, scratching amiably at the star-strewn sky.
“ What is going on up there?” a raspy voice called, vibrating with rage. James scrambled to his feet, being careful not to step on any of the broken glass with his bare feet. Gingerly, he edged as close to the hole as he could and peered down. It was hard to tell how high the window was. There was no noise from the night except the hiss of the wind in the treetops.
Mrs. Norris the cat streaked up a nearby staircase, her orange eyes baleful as she flicked her gaze over the window, the broken glass, and then James. Mr. Filch followed, puffing and cursing as he climbed.
“Oh,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s the Potter boy. Why, oh, why am I not surprised?”
“What were you thinking, Potter, chasing an unidentified individual, through the castle, at night, alone?” Headmistress McGonagall was standing behind her desk, leaning on it with both arms, ramrod straight. Her eyes were incredulous, her face scowling.
“I--” James began, but she raised one hand, stopping him. “Don’t answer. I’ve no patience for it this morning.” She sighed and stood up straight, pushing up her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ve heard enough Potter explanations throughout the years to know the general shape of them, anyway.”
Filch stood nearby, the jut of his jaw and the glint of his eye showing his pleasure at catching the latest Potter troublemaker so quickly. Mrs. Norris purred in his arms like a small, furry engine. James risked a look around the Headmistress’ office. The room was still dim with very early morning shadows. The portraits of all the previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames. James could just see the portrait of his brother’s namesake, Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore was seated, his chin on his chest and his hat lowered over his eyes. His lips moved as he snored silently.
McGonagall lowered herself into her chair. “Mr. Potter, you, of all people, cannot tell me that you are not aware that there are rules against students wandering the school grounds at night.”
“No,” James said quickly. “Er, yes, I do know about the rules. But the ghost--” McGonagall raised her hand again. “Yes, the ghost, I know.” Everything except her actual words expressed doubt about that part of his story. “But Mr. Potter, you understand that even if a ghost appears in a student’s bed chamber, that does not give said student a free pass to break whatever rules he deems temporarily inconvenient.”
Mr. Filch stirred, seeming to decide that now was the time to press the point as he saw it. “He destroyed the Heracles window, Headmistress. Priceless bit of glasswork. We’ll not find a replacement to match it, I’ll wager.” He sneered down at James as he finished.
“Windows are one thing, Mr. Filch,” McGonagall said, not looking at him, “but intruders on school grounds are quite another. I presume you’ve already arranged an inspection of the campus, beginning with the area outside the Heracles window?”
“Yes, ma’am, and we’ve found nothing. The Venus Rose Gardens are immediately below that window. They’re a bit of a mess, broken glass everywhere, but there’s no sign of any intruder. We’ve only got this boy’s word that there ever was such an intruder, Headmistress.”
“Yes,” McGonagall replied. “And unfortunately, in this case, that is a word I am inclined to trust. Someone obviously went through that window, unless you are suggesting that Mr. Potter himself came in through it.”
Filch ground his teeth and glared at James as if he wanted very much to suggest such a possibility.
“But he was in the Potions room, ma’am!” James insisted. “He broke some vials! They must still be there. And he broke in through a window not far from there. I saw it. The ghost led me there.” McGonagall studied James carefully. “Mr. Potter, I believe that you saw someone, but the likelihood of that person actually having broken onto the school grounds from outside is extremely small. You are aware that Hogwarts is protected by the best security measures and Anti-Magic spells available. No witch or wizard, regardless of their skills, can possibly get into these halls unless they are supposed to be here.”
“That’s just it, ma’am,” James said earnestly. “I don’t think he was a wizard. I think he was a Muggle!” He’d expected gasps of surprise from the Headmistress and Filch, but there were none. The Headmistress merely gazed at him, her expression unchanging. Filch glanced from her to James and back, then let out his breath in a nasty little laugh.
“You’ve got to hand it to ‘em, Headmistress. They get a little more creative every year.” “James,” McGonagall said, her voice softer, “the unplottable nature of the school, as well as the innumerable Disillusionment Charms that blanket the grounds, make it truly impossible for any Muggle, no matter how persistent, to ever find their way in. You know that, don’t you?”
James sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. “Yes. But that doesn’t change what I saw. It was a Muggle, ma’am. He used a crowbar. And a penlight. Not a wand.” McGonagall read his face for a long moment, and then turned businesslike. “Well, Mr. Potter, if you are correct, then we have a situation on our hands that certainly needs remedying. You may trust that we will look into the matter. However, in the meantime, there is still the issue of breaking curfew, as well as the damaged window. Under the circumstances, I won’t blame you for the latter, but you must still face the consequences for the former. You will serve two hours of detention with Mr. Filch this Saturday night.”
“But--” James began, then Filch’s hand descended heavily onto his shoulder.
&nb
sp; “I’ll take care of the lad, Headmistress,” he growled. “It’s not too late to save ‘em when you catch ‘em early. Is it, young lad?” “Potter,” McGonagall said, apparently having already moved on to other matters, “take Mr. Filch up to the Potions closet and the other broken window, won’t you? Let’s try to get things cleaned up before classes if we can. Good morning, gentlemen.”
James stood miserably and Filch guided him to the door with the great, callused hand on his shoulder.
“Come along, my lad. We’ve got mischief to rectify, haven’t we?” On the way out, James saw that one of the headmaster portraits was not sleeping. The eyes of that headmaster were black, like the lanky hair that framed the white face. Severus Snape studied James coldly, only his eyes moving to follow as Filch marched him from the room.
Tina Curry, the Muggle Studies Professor, led the class briskly out onto the lawn. The day which had started rather brightly was now turning grey and blustery. Gusts of wind sprang up and flapped the edges of Professor Curry’s sport cloak and the nets Hagrid was trying to hang on the wooden frame he had just finished assembling.
“Expertly done, Hagrid,” Curry called as she approached, the class trotting to keep up. “Sturdy as a barn, I daresay.”
Hagrid looked up, losing his grasp on the netting as he did so and scrambling to catch it. “Thank yeh, Ms. Curry. Weren’t what yeh might call a challenge. Up to this part, o’ course, which is a might hairy.”
Hagrid’s construction was a simple wooden framework, roughly rectangular. There was another one several dozen yards away, its netting strung taut and swishing in the stiffening breeze. “Curry’s new this year, if you haven’t guessed,” Ted commented to James as they gathered. “Has some pretty crazy ideas about how to learn about Muggles. Makes a fellow wish he hadn’t pushed off taking this class until his last year.”
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