James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing [1]

by G. Norman Lippert

  Grawp, James, and Zane half fell, half crawled up the bank until they found firm ground. There they collapsed, panting and heaving, amid the dead leaves and broken branches. When James rolled over and pulled himself to a kneeling position, there was a figure standing nearby, glowing faintly with the same golden green light that had repulsed the vines. James could see through the figure, although what he saw through it was both brightened and refracted, the way things might look if seen through a raindrop. The figure looked like a woman, very tall and very thin, in a dark green gown that fell straight from her hips and, apparently, right through the ground. Her whitish-green hair spread and flowed around her head like a corona. She was beautiful, but her face was grave.

  “James Potter, Zane Walker, Grawp, son of the earth, you are in danger here. You must leave this wood. No human is safe under this canopy now.”

  James struggled to his feet. “Who are you? What was that?”

  “I am a dryad, a spirit of the wood. I have managed to silence the Voice of the Island, but I won’t be able to hold it back for long. It grows more restless with each day.”

  “A spirit of the wood?” Zane asked as Grawp helped him rather roughly to his feet. “The woods have a ghost?” “I am a dryad, a tree sprite, a spirit of a single tree. All the trees in the wood have spirits, but they have been asleep for ages and ages, seeped down into the earth, almost diminished. Until now. The naiads and dryads have been awakened, though we know not why. Those few humans that once communed with the trees are gone and forgotten. Our time is past. Yet we are summoned.”

  “Who summoned you?” James asked. “We have not been able to know that, despite our greatest efforts. There is disharmony among us. Many trees remember only the saw of man, not his replanting. They are old and angry, wishing only to do harm to the world of men. They have gone over. You have experienced their wrath, though not as they would have it.”

  “What do you mean they’ve ‘gone over’?” Zane asked, taking half a step closer, squinting at the dryad’s beauty. “Is it that place? The island? The… the Hall of Elder’s Crossing?” “Man’s time is short on the earth, but we trees watch the years march past like days. The stars are motionless to you, but we watch and study the heavens as a dance,” the dryad said, her voice becoming soft, almost dreamy. “Since our awakening, the dance of the stars has become dire, showing a thousand dark destinies for the world of men, all swinging on the balance of the coming days. Only one possible destiny bears good. The rest are heavy with bloodshed and loss. Great sorrow. Dark times, full of war and greed, powerful tyrants, famines of terror. Much will be determined within the closing of this cycle. We tree folk can only watch, for now, but those of us who remain faithful to the memory of harmony between our world and the world of men, when the time comes, we will help as we can.”

  James was almost hypnotized by the dryad’s voice, but he felt a rising sense of helplessness and frustration at her words. “But you said there is one chance we can avoid this war. What can we do? How can we make the one good destiny happen?”

  The dryad’s face softened. Her large, liquid eyes smiled sadly. “There is no way to predict the path of a single action. It could be that you are already doing that which will bring about peace. It could also be that the very things you do to for good are the things that will result in war. You must do what you know to do, but only with an unclouded mind.”

  Zane risked a derisive laugh. “Helpful stuff, there, Sensei.” “There are greater dangers in the fabric of destinies than you yet know, James Potter,” the dryad said, slipping closer to James so that her light played across his face. “The enemy of your father, and of all who know love, is dead. But his blood beats within a different heart. The blood of your greatest enemy lives still.”

  James felt his knees grow watery. He wobbled, and then threw his hand out, pressing it against a nearby tree for support. “Vol-Voldemort?” he whispered. The dryad nodded, apparently unwilling to say the name. “His preferred plan was thwarted forever by your father. But he was infinitely crafty. He prepared a second plan. A successor, a bloodline. The heart of that bloodline beats today, at this moment, not one mile hence.”

  James’ lips were trembling. “Who?” he asked in a barely audible voice. “Who is it?” But the dryad was already shaking her head sadly. “We are prevented from knowing. Not from without, but from within. Those trees that have gone over work against us, fog our vision, keep many of us asleep. We can only know of that heartbeat, that it is there, but no more. You must beware, James Potter. Your father’s battle is over. Yours begins.”

  The dryad was fading. Her eyes slipped shut and even as she drifted into nothingness, she already seemed to be asleep.

  There was a creaking groan, then a splash from the island.

  “Well,” Zane said with manic cheerfulness, “what say we jump back onto our giant buddy’s shoulders and make this place a memory before it does the same to us?”

  The three of them met Titus Hardcastle before they were halfway back to their starting point. His face was like a thunderstorm, but all he said was, “Is everyone safe?”

  “Safe enough,” Zane called down from Grawp’s shoulders. “But let me tell you, we’ve had one weird time of it.”

  Grawp bent down to allow Hardcastle to climb onto his back. “It’s going around, then, isn’t it?” Hardcastle grunted.

  Zane held a hand out, intending to help Hardcastle climb up and almost getting yanked from his seat instead. “So what was that thing you were chasing, anyway?” he said, puffing. “Spider. One of old Aragog’s kin, no doubt. They’ve grown dumb in the last decade or two, but that one had gone and found himself a toy.” Hardcastle held something up, and James saw that it was the little handheld video camera that the intruder had been using on the Quidditch pitch. “It was still working when I caught up to the brute, the little screen all lit up. Got broken when I, er, dispatched the beast. At least it’d had a good last meal.”

  James shuddered involuntarily as Grawp began to make his way back through the woods. “You really think it… ate the guy?”

  Hardcastle set his jaw. “Circle of life, James. Strictly speaking, though, spiders don’t eat people. They just suck their juices out. Ugly way to go, but at least he’s not a problem anymore.” James didn’t say so, but he had a feeling that the real problems were just beginning.

  Wednesday morning, James felt sluggish and prickly as he entered the Great Hall for breakfast. It was a thoroughly glum morning, with a low, bruised sky filling the top portion of the Hall and a fine mist speckling the windows. Ralph and Zane were seated at the Slytherin table, Zane blowing on his traditional morning coffee and Ralph attacking an orange with a butter knife, sawing through it, peel and all. They didn’t appear to be talking much. Zane wasn’t typically a morning person, and he had been out just as late as James had been. Neither Zane nor Ralph looked up, and James was glad. He was still angry and disgusted with Ralph. Under that, though, he was sad and hurt about the boy’s betrayal. He tried not to feel resentment toward Zane for sitting with Ralph, but he was too tired to make much of an effort, and the mood of the morning wasn’t helping.

  James made his way to the Gryffindor table, glancing up at the dais as he went. Neither his dad nor Titus Hardcastle were anywhere to be seen. James figured that, despite the lateness of the previous night, they had still risen and breakfasted shortly after dawn and were already about their morning’s business. The thought that his dad’s and Titus’ day was already well underway, probably full of exciting meetings and secret intrigues, while he was just now having breakfast on his way to a day of gloomy classes and homework, filled him with melancholy. He found a seat surrounded by happily babbling Gryffindors, plopped into it, and began to eat methodically, joylessly.

  The night before, James had been up with Titus Hardcastle, his dad, and Headmistress McGonagall for almost two hours after their return from the perimeter of the lake. Titus had sent up a wand signal as soon as they’d re
ached the castle, summoning Harry, Ted, Prechka, and Hagrid back from their forays. When they’d all assembled again by Hagrid’s cottage, the Headmistress dismissed Grawp and Prechka, thanking them both formally, and offering them a barrel of Butterbeer for their efforts. After that, the group convened in Hagrid’s cottage, congregated around the huge, rough table, drinking Hagrid’s tea, which was suspiciously cloudy and brown and tasted vaguely medicinal, and avoiding some rather stale biscuits.

  Hardcastle had spoken first. He explained to everyone present how he had first heard the spider, and then pursued it, leaving James and Zane in the protection of Grawp. Harry had shifted in his seat, but refrained from comment. After all, he had been the one to request that James go along on the expedition, and had consented, albeit reluctantly, to Zane’s accompaniment. The Headmistress had pointed a rather long and penetrating glare at Harry when she’d seen Zane enter the cottage. Now McGonagall turned to Hardcastle, asking how he’d managed to kill the spider.

  Hardcastle’s beady eyes glinted a little as he said, “Best way to kill a spider that won’t fit under your boot is to get its legs off. First one’s the hardest. After that, it gets easier and easier.”

  Hagrid wiped a hand over his face. “Poor ol’ Aragog. If he’d lived to see his young turn wild, it’d have killed him. Poor fellow was just doing what spiders do. You can hardly blame him.” “The spider had the intruder’s camera,” Harry said, glancing down at the broken object on the table. The lens was shattered and the little screen on the back was cracked. “So we know the man escaped via the lake woods.”

  “Nasty way to go, whoever he may have been,” McGonagall said.

  Harry’s expression didn’t change. “We don’t know for certain that the spider caught the man.”

  “Seems unlikely the thing asked to borrow his camera so it could make home movies of its kids, doesn’t it?” Hardcastle rumbled, “Spiders aren’t the polite type. They’re the hungry type.” Harry nodded thoughtfully. “You’re probably right, Titus. Still, there’s always the chance the intruder dropped the camera and the spider simply found it. It wouldn’t hurt to increase security for a while, Minerva. We don’t yet know how this person got in or who he was. Until we learn those things, we have to assume there is an ongoing risk of breach.”

  “I’m particularly interested in knowing how this camera managed to operate within the grounds,” the Headmistress sniffed, staring hard at the device on the table. “It is well-known that Muggle equipment of this sort doesn’t work inside the school’s magical environment.”

  “That is indeed well-known, Madam Headmistress,” Hardcastle rumbled, “but very little understood. The Muggles are endlessly inventive with their tools. What once was true may not be so anymore. And we all know that the protective spells erected around the grounds since the Battle are not quite as perfect as those maintained by old Dumbledore, God rest his soul.”

  James thought of Ralph’s GameDeck, but decided not to mention it. The broken video camera was all the proof they needed that at least some modern Muggle devices worked on the school grounds. Finally, attention turned to James and Zane. James explained how Grawp had wandered away in search of food, and how the two boys had chased him, finding him by the lake and the marshy island. Zane chimed in then, describing the mysterious island and the bridge. He carefully glossed over the part where James had tried to open the gates using magic, and James was glad. It had seemed foolish the very moment he’d done it, and he regretted it. Still, at the time, it had felt so natural. They took turns telling of the enchanted dragon’s head bridge that attempted to eat them, then the attacking vines that had almost pulled them all into the sinkhole. Finally, James explained the tale of the tree sprite.

  “Naiads and dryads?” Hagrid exclaimed incredulously. James and Zane stopped, blinking at him. Hagrid went on, “Well, they’re not for real, are they? They’re just stories and myth. Aren’t they?” He addressed the last question to the adults present.

  “The lake woods are just an extension of the Forbidden Forest,” Harry said. “If there is a place where things like the naiads and dryads can exist, it’d be there. Still, if it’s true, they haven’t been seen for hundreds of years. Of course we’d think of them as myth.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if it’s true’?” James asked, a little louder than he’d intended to. “We saw her. She spoke to us.” “Your father is being an Auror, James,” McGonagall said placatingly. “All possibilities must be considered. You were all under a great deal of stress. It isn’t that we don’t believe you. We must simply determine the most likely explanation for what you saw.”

  “Seems like the most likely explanation to me is that she was what she said she was,” James muttered under his breath. James purposely hadn’t told his dad or any of the other adults the last thing the sprite had said, the part about the successor, the blood of the enemy beating in another heart. Part of his reluctance was in his remembrance of his dad’s stories of how the wizarding world had treated him, Harry Potter, when he’d returned from the Triwizard Tournament maze with the tale of Voldemort’s return, how he had been doubted and discredited. Another part of it was that his dad wasn’t even prepared to believe the part about the dryad. If he doubted that, how could he accept that the dryad had predicted a new kind of Voldemort’s return, through an heir, a bloodline? But the thing that had finally determined James not to tell was his memory of the very last words the dryad had spoken: Your father’s battle is over. Yours begins.

  The conversation had droned on long after all the details had been described and discussed, long after James had grown bored with it. He wanted to get back so that he could sleep, but more than that, he wanted time to think about what the dryad had said. He wanted to work out what the island was for, what the poem on the gate meant. He worked to remember it, itching to write it down while it was still fresh in his mind. He was sure, somehow, that it all fit in with the story of Austramaddux and the secret plot of the Slytherins to bring back Merlin and start a final war with the Muggle world. He wasn’t even asking himself anymore if it was true. It had to be true, and it was up to him to prevent it.

  Finally, the adults finished talking. They had determined that the mysterious island, while obviously dangerous, was just one of the many mysterious and inexplicable dangers that made the Forbidden Forest forbidden. The primary concern was still discovering how the intruder had gotten in, and making sure no one else was able to do it again. With that resolution, the meeting broke up.

  Headmistress McGonagall had accompanied James, Zane, and Ted back to the castle, instructing them to do their best to keep the discussions of the night a secret. “Especially you, Mr. Lupin,” she said sternly. “The last thing we need is you and your band of hooligans running off into the woods in the middle of the night attempting to duplicate Mr. Potter’s and Mr. Walker’s experiences.”

  Fortunately, Ted knew enough not to try to deny the possibility of such a thing. He merely nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  James only saw his dad once more during his visit, and that was after classes that evening, just as Harry, Titus, and the Ministry officials were preparing to leave. Neville had returned to Hogwarts that afternoon, and he chaperoned James to the Headmistress’ office to say goodbye to Harry and the rest. The group planned to travel via the Floo Network, as they had arrived, and had decided upon the Headmistress’ fireplace for their departure since it was the most secure. If it struck Neville odd that the office now belonged to his former teacher, who he’d known as Professor McGonagall, instead of to Albus Dumbledore, he didn’t let on. But he did pause for a moment next to the portrait of the former headmaster.

  “Off again, is he?” he asked Harry. “I think he generally just sleeps here. Dumbledore’s got portraits all over the place,” Harry sighed. “Not to mention all his old Chocolate Frog cards. He still shows up in them sometimes just for fun. I keep mine in my wallet, just in case.” He pulled his wallet out and slipped a dog-eared card ou
t of it. The portrait space was empty. Harry grinned at Neville as he put it back.

  Neville moved to the group congregated around the fireplace. Harry squatted down next to James.

  “I wanted to thank you, James.”

  James hid the look of pride that surfaced on his face. “I was just doing what you asked us to do.” “I don’t just mean coming along with us and helping us find out what happened,” Harry said, putting a hand on James’ shoulder. “I mean for spying the intruder on the field and pointing him out to me. And for being alert enough to see him the other times. You’ve got a sharp eye and an alert mind, my boy. I shouldn’t be surprised, and I’m not.”

  James grinned. “Thanks, Dad.” “Don’t forget what we talked about the other night, though. Remember?”

  James remembered. “I won’t be saving the world single-handedly.” I’ll have at least Zane’s help, he thought, but didn’t say, and maybe Ted’s, too, now that Ralph’s abandoned me.

  Harry hugged his son, and James hugged him back. They grinned at each other, Harry with his hands on James’ shoulders, and then he stood, leading James over to the fireplace.

  “Tell Mum I’m doing good and eating my vegetables,” James instructed his dad.

  “And are you?” Harry asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Well, yes and no,” James said, a bit uncomfortable as everyone looked at him.

  “Make it true and I’ll tell her,” Harry said, removing his glasses and tucking them into his robe.

  Moments later, the room was empty but for James, Headmistress McGonagall, and Neville.

  “Professor Longbottom,” the Headmistress said, “I suspect it’d be best for me to inform you of all that has happened these past twenty hours.”

  “You mean regarding the campus intruder, Madam?” Neville asked.

  The Headmistress looked markedly taken aback. “I see. Perhaps I might simply be repeating myself, then. Do tell me what you’ve already heard, Professor.” “Merely that, Madam. Word amongst the students is that a man was seen or captured on the Quidditch pitch yesterday. The common theory is that he was a representative of the gambling community either reporting on or influencing the match. Pure rubbish, of course, but I assume it’s better to let tongues wag and inflate the tale to something ridiculous than to deny anything.”