“Mr. Potter would no doubt agree with you,” the Headmistress said pointedly. “Although, since I will be requiring your services in increasing the security of the grounds, I should explain to you precisely what did occur. James, you are free to wait a moment, aren’t you? I shall not detain the professor for long, and he will accompany you down to the corridor.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned back to Neville, launching into a detailed account of the previous night.
James knew the whole story, of course, but still felt he was meant to wait near the door, as far from earshot as possible. It was uncomfortable and vaguely annoying. He felt rather proprietary about the intruder, having been the first to see him, and having been the one to point him out on the Quidditch pitch. It was just like adults to deny something a kid said, then, when it proved true, to completely take over and dismiss the kid. He realized that this was another part of why he hadn’t yet told any adults about his suspicions concerning the Slytherin-Merlin plot. He felt even stronger now about keeping that his secret, at least until he could prove something substantial.
James crossed his arms and hovered near the door, turning to look back at Neville, who was seated in front of the Headmistress’ desk, and McGonagall, who was pacing slightly behind it as she spoke. “What are you up to, Potter?” a low voice drawled behind James, making him jump. He spun around wildly, eyes wide. The voice cut him off before he could respond. “Don’t ask who I am and don’t waste my time with a load of pointless lies. own father, that you are up to something.” You know exactly who I am. And I know, even more than your
It was, of course, the portrait of Severus Snape. The dark eyes probed James coldly, the mouth turned down into a knowing sneer.
“I’m…,” James began, and then stopped, feeling very strongly that if he lied, the portrait would know. “I’m not going to tell.” “A more honest answer than any ever provided by your father, at least,” Snape drawled, keeping his voice low enough not to attract the attention of McGonagall or Neville. “It’s a pity I’m not still alive to be headmaster or I’d find ways of getting the tale from you, one way… or another.”
“Well,” James whispered, feeling a little braver now that shock had worn off, “I guess it’s a good thing you aren’t headmaster anymore, then.” He thought it might be a bit too much to say it’s a good thing you’re dead. James’ dad had a load of respect for Severus Snape. He’d even made Severus Albus’ middle name.
“Don’t try the smart tactic with me, Potter,” the portrait said, but more tiredly than angrily. “You, unlike your father, know well enough now that I was as devoted to Albus Dumbledore and the downfall of Voldemort as was he. Your father believed it was up to him to win battles entirely on his own. He was foolish and destructive. Don’t think I didn’t see that very same look in your eye not five minutes ago.”
James couldn’t think what to say. He just met the portrait’s dark gaze and frowned stubbornly. Snape sighed theatrically. “Have it your way, then. Like Potter, like son. Never learning the lessons of the past. But know this: I will be watching you, as I did your father. If your unnamed suspicions are, against all probability, accurate, be assured that I will be working toward the same end as you. Try, Potter, not to make the same mistakes as your father. Try not to leave others to pay the consequences for your arrogance.”
That last stung James to the core. He assumed Snape would leave his portrait frame after a salvo like that, confident of having had the last word, but he didn’t. He stayed, that same penetrating stare on his face, reading James like a book. Still, there wasn’t anything specifically malicious in that gaze, despite the pointed words.
“Yeah,” James finally found the voice to say. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.” It was a lame response and he knew it. He was only eleven, after all. “James?” Neville said behind him. James turned and looked up at the professor. “Sounds like you had an exciting night last night. I’m curious about the vines that attacked you. Maybe you could tell me more about them sometime, yes?”
“Sure,” James said, his lips feeling numb. When he turned back toward the door, following Neville out, the portrait of Snape was still occupied. The eyes followed him darkly as he left the room.
9.theDebate Betrayal
As James became more familiar with the routine of school, time seemed to slip past almost without his noticing. Zane continued to excel at Quidditch, and James continued to feel an uncomfortable mix of emotions about Zane’s success. He still felt the stab of jealousy when he heard the crowd cheer for one of Zane’s well-hit Bludgers, but he couldn’t help smiling at how much the boy loved the sport, how he delighted in each match, in the teamwork and camaraderie. Also, James was growing increasingly confident of his own broom skills. He practiced with Zane on the Quidditch pitch many evenings, asking Zane for tips on technique. Zane, for his part, was always enthusiastic and supportive, telling James that he’d definitely make the Gryffindor team next year.
“Then I’ll have to stop practicing with you and giving you pointers, you know,” Zane said, flying next to James and calling over the roar of the air. “It’d be like consorting with the enemy.” As usual, James couldn’t tell if Zane was joking or not.
James enjoyed becoming more confident on the broom, but he was surprised to discover that he loved football. Tina Curry had divided all of her classes into teams and arranged a casual game schedule for them to play against one another. Many students had grasped the essential concepts of the game and being competitive at heart, had worked to make the class-time matches interesting. Occasionally, a student would forget the non-magical nature of the sport and would be seen frantically searching their pockets for their wands or simply pointing at the ball and yelling something like “Accio football!”, resulting in a general breakdown of the match while everyone laughed. Once, a Hufflepuff girl had simply grabbed the ball in both hands, forgetting the basic rules of the game, and charged down the field as if she were playing rugby. James discovered, rather reluctantly, that Professor Curry’s assessment of his skills had been fairly accurate. He was a natural. He could control the ball easily with the tips of his trainers as he zigged and zagged down the field. His ball-handling was regarded as among the best of any of the new players, and his scoring rate was second only to fifth-year Sabrina Hildegard, who, like Zane, was Muggle-born and unlike Zane, had played on Muggle leagues when she was younger.
James and Ralph, however, barely talked. James’ initial anger and resentment had simmered down to a stubborn aloofness. Some small part of him knew that he should forgive Ralph, and even apologize for yelling at him that day in the Great Hall. He knew that if he’d kept his cool, Ralph probably would have seen the error of siding with his Slytherin housemates. Instead, Ralph seemed to feel it was his duty to support the Slytherins and the Progressive Element as earnestly as he could. If it wasn’t for the fact that even Ralph’s enthusiastic support was rather weak-willed and doleful, James would have found it easier to stay angry at him. Ralph wore the blue badges, and he attended the debate meetings in the library, but he did so with such a dogged attitude of obligation that it seemed to do more harm than good. If any of the Slytherins actually spoke to him, he’d jerk upright and respond with manic eagerness, then deflate as soon as they turned their attention elsewhere. It hurt James a little to watch it, but not enough to make him change his attitude toward Ralph.
In his room at night or in a corner of the library, James would study the poem he and Zane had seen on the gate to the Grotto Keep. With Zane’s help, he had written it down from memory and was confident it was accurate. Still, he couldn’t seem to make much of it. All he knew for sure was that the first two lines referred to the fact that the Grotto Keep could only be found by moonlight. The rest was a puzzle. He kept fetching up on the line that read ‘Did wake his languid sleep’, wondering if that could refer to Merlin. But Merlin wasn’t asleep, was he?
“Makes it sound like he’s Rip Van Winkle,” Zane whispered one day in the
library. “Snoozing away a few hundred years out under a tree somewhere.” Zane had had to explain the fairy tale of Rip Van Winkle, and James considered it. He knew from hearing his dad’s conversations with other Aurors that much of Muggle mythology came from long, distant encounters with witches and wizards. Stories of wizarding lore made their way into Muggle fairy tales, became stylized or altered, and grew into legends and myth. Perhaps, James mused, this story of the long sleeper, who awoke hundreds of years later, was a Muggle echo of the story of Merlin. Still, it didn’t get James or Zane any closer to figuring out how Merlin could possibly return after so many centuries, nor did it offer any clues as to who might be involved in such a conspiracy.
At night, as he was drifting to sleep, James often found his thoughts returning, strangely enough, to his conversation with the portrait of Severus Snape. Snape had said he’d be watching James, but James couldn’t imagine how that could be. There was only one portrait of Snape on the Hogwarts grounds, as far as James knew, and it was up in the Headmistress’ office. How could Snape possibly be watching James? Snape had been a powerful wizard, and a potions genius according to Dad and Mum, but how would either of those things allow his portrait to see around the castle? Still, James didn’t doubt Snape. If Snape said he was watching him, James felt confident that, somehow or other, it was true. It was only after two weeks of mulling over the conversation he’d had with Snape that James realized what struck him most about it. To Snape, unlike James and the rest of the wizarding world, it was a foregone conclusion that James was just like his father. “Like Potter, like son,” he’d said, sneering. Ironically, though, to Snape, if no one else, this was not precisely a good thing.
As the leaves in the Forbidden Forest began to settle into the browns and yellows of autumn, the blue Progressive Element buttons were augmented by the posters and banners for the first All-School Debate. As Ralph had predicted, the theme was ‘Re-evaluating the Assumptions of the Past: Truth or Conspiracy’. As if the words themselves weren’t enough, the right side of each banner and poster bore a drawing of a lightning bolt that was enchanted to shift into the shape of a question mark every few seconds. Zane, who, according to Petra, was quite good at debate, told James that the school debate committee had argued for quite some time about the topic of the first event. Tabitha Corsica was not on the debate committee, but her crony, Philia Goyle, was the committee chair.
“So in the end,” Zane had reported to James, “the debate team turned out to be a great example of democracy in action: they argued all night, then she chose.” He shrugged wearily. The sight of the signs and banners, and especially, that very unambiguous lightning bolt, made James’ blood boil. Seeing Ralph on a ladder finishing hanging one of the banners just outside the door to Technomancy class was more than he could take.
“I’m surprised you can reach like that, Ralph,” James said, anger pushing the words out, “what with Tabitha Corsica’s hand so far up your backside.” Zane, who’d been walking next to James, sighed and ducked into the classroom. Ralph hadn’t noticed James until he spoke. He glanced down, his expression surprised and wounded. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“It means, I’d think by now, you’d have gotten sick of being her little first-year puppet.” James already regretted saying anything. The guileless misery on Ralph’s face shamed him. Ralph had the mantra down well, though. “ Your people are the puppetmasters, preying on the fears of the weak-minded to maintain the demagoguery of prejudice and unfairness,” he said, but without much conviction. James rolled his eyes and walked into the classroom.
Professor Jackson was absent from his usual spot behind the teacher’s desk. James sat next to Zane in the front row. As he sat down, he made a point of joking and laughing with a few other Gryffindors nearby, knowing Ralph was watching through the doorway. The mean pleasure it gave him was hollow and raw, but it was pleasure nonetheless.
Finally, the room hushed. James looked up and saw Professor Jackson entering, carrying something under his arm. The object was large, flat, and wrapped in cloth. “Good morning, class,” he said in his usual, brusque manner. “Your last week’s essays are graded and on my desk. Mr. Murdock, would you mind distributing them, please? On the whole, I am not terribly disappointed, although I think most of you can be relieved that Hogwarts does not generally grade on the curve.”
Jackson carefully set his parcel on the desk. As he unfolded the cloth from around it, James could see that it was a stack of three rather small paintings. He thought of the painting of Severus Snape and his attention perked up.
“Today is a day for taking notes, I can assure you,” Jackson said ominously. He arranged the paintings in a row along the shelf of the chalkboard. The first painting was of a thin man with owlish glasses and an almost perfectly bald head. He blinked at the class, his expression alert and slightly nervous, as if he expected someone, at any moment, to jump up and shout “Boo!” at him. The next painting was empty but for a rather bland wooded background. The last showed a fairly ghastly clown in white face with a hideously large, red smile painted over its mouth. The clown leered inanely at the class and shook a little cane with a ball on the end. The ball, James noticed with a shudder, was a tiny version of the clown’s own head, grinning even more insanely.
Murdock finished handing back everyone’s papers and slid back into his own seat. James glanced down at his essay. On the front, in Jackson’s perfect, left-slanting cursive, were the words, Tepid, but borderline cogent. Grammar needs work.
“As always, questions about your grades may be submitted to me in writing. Further discussion will be obtained, as needed, during my office hours, assuming any of you remember where my office is. And now, onward and upward.” Jackson paced slowly along the line of paintings, gesturing vaguely at them. “As many of you will recall, in our first class, we had a short discussion, spearheaded by Mr. Walker,” he peered beneath his bushy eyebrows in Zane’s direction, “about the nature of magical art. I explained that the artist’s intentions are imbued on the canvas via a magical, psycho-kinetic process, which allows the art to take on a semblance of motion and attitude. The result is a drawing that moves and mimics life at the whim of the artist. Today, we will examine a different kind of art, one that represents life in a wholly different way.”
Quills scratched feverishly as the class struggled to keep up with Jackson’s monologue. As usual, Jackson paced as he spoke. “The art of magical painting comes in two forms. The first one is just a more lavish version of what I illustrated in class, which is the creation of purely fanciful imagery based on the imagination of the artist. This is different from Muggle art only inasmuch as the magical versions may move and emote, based on the intention--and only within the imaginative boundaries--of the artist. Our friend, Mr. Biggles here, is an example.” Jackson gestured at the painting of the clown. “Mr. Biggles, thankfully, never existed outside the imagination of the artist who painted him.” The clown responded to the attention, bobbing in its frame, waggling the fingers of one white-gloved hand and waving the cane in the other. The tiny clown’s head on the end of the cane ran its tongue out and crossed its eyes. Jackson glared at the thing for a moment, and then sighed as he began to pace again.
“The second type of magical painting is much more precise. It depends on advanced spellwork and potion-mixed paints to recreate a living individual or creature. The technomancic name for this type of painting is imago aetaspeculum, which means… can anyone tell me?”
Petra raised her hand and Jackson nodded at her. “It means, I think, something like a living mirror image, sir?” Jackson considered her answer. “Half credit, Miss Morganstern. Five points to Gryffindor for effort. The most accurate definition of the term is ‘a magical painting that captures a living imprint of the individual it represents, but confined within the aetas, or timeframe, of the subject’s own lifetime’. The result is a portrait that, while not containing the living essence of the subject, mirrors every intellectua
l and emotional characteristic of that subject. Thus, the portrait does not learn and evolve beyond the subject’s death, but retains exactly that subject’s personality as strictly defined by his or her lifetime. We have Mr. Cornelius Yarrow here as an example.”
Jackson now indicated the thin, rather nervous man in the portrait. Yarrow flinched slightly at Jackson’s gesture. Mr. Biggles capered frantically in his frame, jealous for attention.
“Mr. Yarrow, when did you die?” Jackson asked, passing the portrait on his way around the room again.
The portrait’s voice was as thin as the man in it, with a high, nasal tone. “September twentieth, nineteen forty-nine. I was sixty-seven years and three months old, rounding up, of course.”
“And what--as if I needed to ask--was your occupation?”
“I was Hogwarts school bursar for thirty-two years,” the portrait answered with a sniff.
Jackson turned to look at the painting. “And what do you do now?”
The portrait blinked nervously. “Excuse me?”
“With all the time you now have on your hands, I mean. It’s been a long time since nineteen fortynine. What do you do with yourself, Mr. Yarrow? Have you developed any hobbies?” Yarrow seemed to chew his lips, obviously mystified and worried by the question. “I… hobbies? No hobbies, as such. I… I always just liked numbers. I tend to think about my work. That’s what I always did when I wasn’t figuring the books. I thought about the budgets, the numbers, and worked them out in my head.”
Jackson maintained eye contact with the painting. “You still think about the numbers? You spend your time working out the books for the school budget as it stood in nineteen forty-nine?” Yarrow’s eyes darted back and forth over the class. He seemed to feel he was being trapped somehow. “Er. Yes. Yes, I do. It’s just what I do, you understand. What I always did. I see no reason to stop. I’m the bursar, you see. Well, was, of course. The bursar.”
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