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

by G. Norman Lippert

  “And Hogwarts just happens to be in need of a new headmaster,” Noah said, grinning.

  “Well?” Ron said, meeting Noah’s grin. “It does seem a little too perfect, doesn’t it?”

  “Even if the Ministry does agree to it, you think he’ll do it?” James asked. In the fireplace, Ron seemed to shrug. “Who can tell? Nobody has asked him yet. But first thing’s first.” Ron grew serious and studied James. “You know him best, nephew. You were there when he came out of the past. You were the one who talked him into coming and helping Hogwarts and the wizarding world. What do you think? Do you think he’d be a good headmaster? Do you think we should ask him?”

  Noah leaned back against the base of the couch, looking at James, waiting for his response. James knew he should think about it, but he already knew his answer. Merlin was a complicated man, and he wasn’t exactly what anyone could call ‘good’, not in the sense that Albus Dumbledore or even Minerva McGonagall were good. But James knew one thing for sure: Merlin wanted to be good. It was hard to tell if it was better to have a headmaster who was good by nature or one that was good because he had to try to be so every day, but James was old enough to know that it was a risk worth taking. Besides, the Gremlin part of James whispered, it might be fun having a headmaster who’d banish someone like Tabitha Corsica to the netherworld with a glance.

  “Ask him,” James said, nodding once, emphatically. “If the Ministry goes for it, ask him. And I hope he accepts.”

  “Woo hoo!” Noah hooted, throwing his hands in the air.

  “Keep it to yourselves, for now,” Ron said sternly. “If word gets out before your dad and Hermione arrange things at the Ministry, it could spoil everything. Got it?”

  Noah nodded. James smiled agreement.

  “Your dad took back the cloak and the map, did he?” Ron asked James, changing the subject.

  “Yeah. And I’m apparently going to be grounded when I get back. Two weeks off my broom.” Ron clucked his tongue. “Just when you were getting pretty good on it, I hear. Ah well. You know your dad has to keep up the look of the thing, punishing you and all, but he’s proud of you. Take it from me.”

  James’ smile widened and his cheeks flushed. “Not that I’d try it again, mind you,” Ron said, his grin vanishing. “Once is a charm. If you pull something like that again, Ginny will probably decide to home school you in the basement. Take it from me, she’s no one to fiddle with, James.”

  Later that afternoon, James met Zane and Ralph outside as the Alma Alerons gathered to disembark. As they watched, the three flying vehicles were driven out of the Garage, and then the Garage was broken down and packed inside the trunk of the Dodge Hornet.

  “There’s something deep and mystical about that, but I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Zane said thoughtfully.

  “What? The Garage being packed into what it was housing a few minutes ago?” “No. The way Professor Franklyn seems to get more and more popular with the girls the closer it gets to his departure.” It was true. Franklyn was quite popular with the ladies, from the oldest staff matron to the first-year girls, who giggled when he passed them, touching each lightly on the head. The only women he seemed to have no effect on were the Headmistress and Victoire, who claimed to believe he was a pompous old blowhard. Ted had explained that one of the benefits of being old was being free to flirt with any girl you wanted, because none of them took you serious enough to get offended. Zane found this remarkably instructive.

  “When I get old, I’m going to flirt like that,” he said wistfully.

  “He’s not even flirting,” James said, narrowing his eyes. “He’s just smiling at them and acting all self-effacing, like he always does.”

  “That just shows what you know about flirting.”

  Ralph rolled his eyes. “I’m surprised you aren’t taking notes.” “He should offer a class,” Zane said seriously, watching Franklyn bow and kiss Petra Morganstern’s hand goodbye. Petra grinned and glanced aside, her cheeks reddening a little. When Franklyn straightened, she leaned in and gave him a chaste little peck on the cheek.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of Hogwarts,” he said, turning to address the crowd, “it has been our distinct pleasure to serve you this year. It has been, as I knew it would be, a remarkably instructive year for us. We have strengthened our resolve to work with the European magical community to maintain fairness and equity worldwide, not only for the magical world, but for all humanity.” He scanned the crowd, beaming, and then took off his glasses and sighed. “We are, I suspect, at the beginning of challenging times. The winds of change are blowing. On both sides of the ocean, we face forces that would shake our culture to its foundations. But we have made friends, you and us, and united we will stand, regardless of what may come. I have been around for a very long time, and I can say with some degree of confidence that change is always in the wind. The challenge of good men is not to thwart change, but to mold it as it comes, so that it may benefit rather than destroy. After this year, I am indeed confident that we may succeed in that endeavor.”

  There was a round of applause, although it felt to James a little perfunctory. Not everyone in the crowd agreed with Franklyn, and not all for the same reasons. Still, it had been a good speech, and James was glad Franklyn had made it. While the crowd was still cheering, Franklyn climbed into the Volkswagen Beetle. He waved once from the open door.

  Someone tapped James on the shoulder. He turned, and then had to look up. Professor Jackson was standing behind him. Tall and dressed in black, Jackson looked more imposing than ever. He looked down his nose at James, his bushy brows low.

  “I thought you might wish to have this,” Jackson said. James noticed that the man was holding a small wooden box. Jackson looked at it in his hands, and then handed it to James. “It was found in Madame Delacroix’s quarters. I believe it belongs to you more than it does to anyone. Dispose of it as you see fit.”

  James held the box, which was surprisingly light. It was a strange greenish color, covered in deep, carven scrollwork. It reminded him of the vines on the door of the Grotto Keep. He looked up to ask Professor Jackson what it was, but the man was already striding across the courtyard toward the Stutz Dragonfly. He stopped when he reached the vehicle, and then turned, raising one hand to the assembly, his face as stony as his nickname. The crowd cheered, a much longer and more sustained ovation than even Franklyn had received. Surprisingly, Jackson had become a favorite at Hogwarts, not so much in spite of his curmudgeon-like demeanor as because of it.

  Once Jackson had climbed into the vehicle, the rest of the assembly boarded quickly. The greycloaked delegates from the American Department of Magical Administration had arrived from London the day before to join their fellows for the trip back to the States. They filed into the vehicles, nodding goodbyes to the assembly. Last were the porters, who packed the enormous pile of luggage into the apparently bottomless trunks of the vehicles, and then climbed into the front seats to drive.

  The wings unfolded from the vehicles smoothly, delicately, and began to thrash the air. The Dodge Hornet took off first. With a squeak of springs and creak of metal, it rose into the air, turning slowly. The Stutz Dragonfly and the Volkswagen Beetle followed, the low drone of their wings beating the air and rippling the grass of the courtyard. Then, with sudden grace and speed, they raced off, rising, their noses tilted toward the ground. In less than a minute, the noise of their departure was lost in the late spring wind that blew over the hills.

  Ralph, Zane, and James plopped onto a bench near the courtyard entrance.

  “So what’s in the box Jackson gave you?” Ralph asked, peering curiously at it. “I wouldn’t even open it, if I was you,” Zane warned. “Remember what he said about making our lives ‘interesting’? He’s the kind of guy to wait right until the moment he leaves to get his revenge on you. That way, he’s gone when the trouble starts.” He tapped the side of his head wisely.

  James frowned and shook his head slowly. He looked at the
box on his lap. It had a brass latch on the front, holding the lid shut. Without a word, he flipped the catch and raised the lid. Zane and Ralph leaned in, craning to see. The inside of the box was lined with purple velvet. There was one object inside, lying atop a piece of folded parchment.

  “I don’t get it,” Ralph said, sitting back again. “It’s a doll.” James removed it and held it up. It was indeed a small figure, roughly made of burlap and twine, with mismatched buttons for eyes.

  Zane peered at it, his face serious. “It’s… it’s you, James.” Sure enough, the figure did bear a striking resemblance. Black yarn on the head formed a good representation of James’ unruly hair. Even the shape of the head, the line of the stitched mouth, and the placement of the button eyes made an eerie portrait.

  James shuddered. “It’s a voodoo doll,” he said. He remembered the note inside the box. All three boys leaned in to read it as he unfolded it.

  Mr. Potter, You will surely recognize what this object is. There was no time in this year’s Technomancy curriculum to discuss the ancient art of Representational Harmonics, but I suspect you grasp the implications. This was found inside Madame Delacroix’s quarters. After some discussion with the Headmistress and the portraits of your Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore-whom you should know have taken rather an interest in you-it was determined that you might benefit from knowing how Madame Delacroix used this object against you. The elegance of her manipulation was quite impressive, really. This figure was placed next to a much larger figure of your father, Harry Potter. On the other side of that was a candle. It seems apparent that she kept that candle lit at all times. The result, of course, Mr. Potter, was that your figure was always in the shadow of the representation of your father.

  There is always a grain of truth in the manipulations of the voodoo art. Delacroix knew that you would legitimately struggle with the expectations of your legendary father. The lesson you must learn from this, Mr. Potter, is that emotions are not bad, but they must be examined. Know yourself. Feelings always seem valid, but they can confuse. And they can, as you have seen, be used against you. I repeat, as your teacher and as your elder, know your feelings. Master them or they will master you.

  Theodore Hirshall Jackson

  “Wow!” Ralph breathed. “We didn’t call her ‘the voodoo queen’ for nothing!”

  Zane asked, “What are you going to do with it, James? I mean, if you destroy it, will you be destroyed, somehow?” James stared at the small, unattractive caricature of himself. “I don’t think so,” he replied thoughtfully. “I don’t think Jackson would’ve given it to me in that case. I think he just means for me to remember what happened. And to try to make sure it never happens again.”

  “So?” Zane repeated. “What are you going to do with it?”

  James stood, stuffing the doll into the pocket of his jeans. “I don’t know. I think I’ll keep it. For a while, at least.”

  With that, the three boys meandered into the school, intent on doing as little as possible with their last day of the school year. Late that night, unable to sleep from the excitement of the next day’s departure, James got out of bed. He crept down the stairs into the common room, hoping someone else might still be up for a game of wizard chess or even Winkles and Augers. By the glow of the banked fire, the room appeared to be empty. As he was turning away, something caught James’ eye and he looked again. The ghost of Cedric Diggory sat near the fire. His silvery form was still transparent, but was noticeably more solid than the last time James had seen him.

  “I was trying to think of a name for myself,” Cedric said, smiling as James threw himself onto the couch nearby.

  “You’ve got a name already, haven’t you?” James answered.

  “Well, not a proper ghostly name. Not like ‘Nearly Headless Nick’ or ‘the Bloody Baron’. I need something with some panache.”

  James considered it. “How about ‘the Chaser of Annoying Muggles’?”

  “It’s a little long.”

  “Well, can you do any better?”

  “I was thinking--you’d better not laugh,” the ghost said, giving James a stern look. “I was thinking of something like ‘the Specter of Silence’.”

  “Hmm,” James replied carefully. “But you aren’t silent. In fact, you sound a lot better now. Your voice doesn’t sound like its being blown in from the Great Beyond anymore.”

  “Yeah,” Cedric agreed, “I’ve become quite a bit more… here, sort of. I’m as ghostly as the rest of the school ghosts, now. I was silent for a long time, though, wasn’t I?”

  “I guess so. But still, with a name like ‘the Specter of Silence’,” James said doubtfully, “it’s going to be hard to make that stick if you go around chatting people up all the time.” “Maybe I could be all broody and quiet a lot of the time,” Cedric mused. “Just do a lot of floating around and looking dour and everything. And then, when I pass by, people would whisper to each other, ‘Hey, there he goes! The Specter of Silence!’”

  James shrugged. “It’s worth a shot. I guess you have the summer to practice the whole brooding silence bit.”

  “I guess so.”

  James suddenly sat up. “So do you think you’ll be the new Gryffindor ghost?” he asked. “I mean, with Nearly Headless Nick gone on to wherever ghosts go, we don’t have a House ghost anymore.”

  Cedric thought for a moment. “I don’t think so, really. Sorry. I was a Hufflepuff, remember?”

  James slumped back. “Yeah. I forgot.”

  A few minutes went by, and then Cedric spoke again. “That was a pretty great thing you did, going out and calling Merlin back to help us out when it seemed like he’d left for good.” James lifted his head and looked at the ghost. He frowned a little. “That? Well, it was just a shot in the dark, really. It was all my fault Merlin was brought to this time at all. I thought I was doing the world this big favor, standing in the way of Delacroix’s and Jackson’s evil plan. Turns out she was using me all along and Jackson was actually a good guy.”

  “Well?” Cedric countered. “You learned something, then, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” James said automatically. He thought for a moment and then added, “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “There is one way that you and your dad are one and the same, James,” Cedric said. James laughed a little humorlessly. “I can’t see what it is. All I learned is that my way of doing things isn’t Dad’s. If I try to do it his way, I screw everything up. If I try to do it my way, I might help things scrape by on sheer luck. Dad’s way was the way of the hero. My way is the way of the manager. My best talent is asking for help.”

  “No, James,” Cedric said, leaning forward to look James directly in the eye, “your best talent is inspiring people to want to help. You think that’s no big deal? The world needs people like you, because most of the people out there don’t have the courage or the passion or the direction to be heroes. They want to be, but they need someone to tell them why, and to show them how. You have that gift, James. Your dad was a hero because he was the Boy Who Lived. He had a destiny. It wasn’t an easy road for him, but it was an obvious road. There was Harry and there was Voldemort. He knew where he stood and what he had to do, even if it killed him. You, though… you are a hero because you choose to be one, every day. And you have the talent to encourage others to choose that, too.”

  James stared into the banked coals of the fire. “I’m no hero.”

  Cedric smiled and sat back again. “You only think that because you think heroes always win. Trust me on this one, James. A hero isn’t defined by winning. Loads of heroes die in the effort. Most of them never get any recognition. No, a hero is just somebody who does the right thing when it would be far, far easier to do nothing.”

  James turned to look at the ghost, smiling crookedly. “Maybe we should call you ‘the Specter of Cheesiness.’”

  “Ha, ha,” the ghost replied.

  James stood up again. “Thanks, Cedric. That… helps.”


  Cedric nodded. James headed back for the stairs, but stopped with his foot on the bottom step. “One thing still bothers me, though, Cedric. Maybe you know something about it, being a ghost and all.”

  “Maybe. Ask me.”

  “The dryad in the forest said that there was an heir of Voldemort. She said that this person was alive and nearby, right here on the school grounds.”

  Cedric nodded slowly. “I was there when you told Snape about it.” “Well, whoever that is, I think that’s who took Ralph’s GameDeck and used the name Austramaddux. If that hadn’t happened, none of this would’ve come about. Whoever it is had to have been working with Miss Sacarhina from the very beginning.”

  Cedric looked away, out a nearby window. “You think you know who it is?” “Tabitha Corsica,” James said flatly. “I thought it might be her after I talked to Snape and I still think it could be her. So her broom wasn’t the Merlin staff. There’s still something scary about it. And about her in general.”

  Cedric stood and walked through the chair, apparently without noticing he was doing so. “I’ve felt something, James. I’ll admit that to you. There is a sense of He Who Must Not Be Named here still. It lingers within the halls. It’s like a smell, like something rancid and oozing and… purple, somehow. Maybe I am more sensitive to it than the other ghosts. After all, he was responsible for my death.”

  “Yeah,” James said quietly. “I hadn’t forgotten.” “But James, things are rarely as obvious as we’d like to think they are. In the real world, at least in our time, if not in Merlin’s, evil wears many masks. It’s confusing. You have to be very careful. Sometimes, even good people can look bad. A lot of us, your father included, made that mistake when it came to Professor Snape.”