"Magic mirror, shard of three," James muttered, "Show me what I wish to see."
The face of the Shard began to clear, revealing the interior of a dim room. James peered closely into the glass. The room was tiny and cluttered, with a steeply canted ceiling, covered with posters and banners, over a single window. A lumpy heap beneath the window revealed itself to be a bed covered with assorted clothing, mounds of blankets and pillows, open textbooks, and an impressive collection of empty liquorice soda bottles. James palmed his forehead, remembering the time change. It was barely afternoon in America. Zane wasn't in his dormitory room on the top floor of Alma Aleron's Zombie House. The yellow and black zombie banner-- an X-eyed skull with its tongue stuck out-- was draped over the window, blocking out the light. From the angle of view, it appeared that Zane had hung his Shard on the door. James sighed in annoyance, knowing he would get no answers tonight about what classes Zane was taking this term.
Just then, something in the far-off dorm room caught James' eye: a faint glow, just at the very edge of the dim scene. He squinted at it, involuntarily turning and twisting his own Shard, as if he could somehow alter the view on the other end. The glow seemed to emanate from a battered whiteboard hung opposite the canted ceiling. Notes and doodles were scribbled on it, their magical ink glowing a faint green in the gloom. There was an unflattering sketch of Professor Jackson (of course) and a few snippets of rude limericks. Beneath this, printed in messy capital letters, was a note, apparently a reminder to Zane himself: EXP COMM 10:15!!
James frowned at this for a few seconds until understanding dawned on him. Zane was part of school program, headed by Chancellor Benjamin Franklyn, devoted to experimental magical communication. Apparently they would be meeting at ten-fifteen (there was no way to tell if that meant morning or night). Unfortunately it wasn't particularly useful information to James.
He'd just have to try to catch Zane in the morning. Retrieving the white cloth, he wrapped the Shard again and buried it carefully in the bottom of his trunk. Restless and disgruntled, knowing he was not yet ready for sleep but unwilling to go back down to the common room, James began to change into his pyjamas. He reached to toss his knapsack onto the bedside table, and only then remembered the package from his father hidden inside.
Instantly, he plopped onto the bed again and rammed his arm into the knapsack, digging to the bottom. He felt the wrapped package, grasped it, and drew it out eagerly, shoving his knapsack unceremoniously to the floor.
He unwrapped the package messily, tossing the thick, rough paper aside.
It was a small, compact bundle, held together with a loop of string. James saw immediately what it was, and his eyes bulged in mingled surprise and confusion. It was his father's invisibility cloak. Scarcely believing what he was seeing, James turned it over and found a small note tucked under the knotted string. He grabbed it and unfolded it atop the bundled cloak.
James,
This is not a gift. It is a tool, and I mean you to use it only as I instruct you to. Things are afoot this year, and I may, at some point, ask you to be my eyes and ears there at Hogwarts. If that happens, the cloak will prove useful, as you well know. Until then, keep it safe. Hide it well. I am telling you this not only as your father, but as an Auror.
And just to be sure, you will notice that I didn't include the Marauder's Map. I am keeping it handy, because as you may imagine, it works just as fine here on my desk as it does there at the school. With it, I will keep an eye on things as well as I can, not the least of which being you. Catch my meaning?
James did indeed catch his father's meaning. With the Marauder's Map, he could easily see where James was at any given time, thus, if James used the cloak for his own purposes, there was a good chance he'd get caught by his father, if no one else. But, James mused mischievously, dad can't be watching all the time…
There was more to the note:
I have an idea what it might be like for you this year, son. It's no fun being misunderstood and disbelieved. I know how it feels. Don't rail against it. Try to be patient with those who are truly seeking the truth. It will show itself in time. Trust me on that, James.
Have a good term,
Dad
James reread the last few lines, frowning as he thought of Rose and Scorpius and all the rest down in the common room. Even Lily, his little sister, hadn't wanted to be seen with him. Perhaps his dad, the famous Harry Potter, did know what it was like to be disbelieved and ridiculed, even by those closest to him. But somehow that didn't make James feel any better.
He began to fold the note, and then thought better of it. Instead, he placed the note on his bedside table and produced his wand.
"Incendio," he said quietly, keeping the spell as weak as possible. A spot of flame shot from his wand and consumed the parchment, reducing it to a crinkled film of ash. James blew on it, dispersing the ashes into a fine, black cloud. He nodded with satisfaction; if he was going to serve as his father's Auror spy, he mused, he might as well do it all the way.
James carefully hid the invisibility cloak in the bottom of his trunk and locked it tight. Then, he finished getting himself ready for bed, stripped back the covers of his four poster, flopped down full length on the mattress, and lay there, completely awake, staring at the dim ceiling.
He thought of the invisibility cloak.
Gradually, the echoing voices from the common room diminished. Joseph Torrance and Graham Warton ambled up to the dormitory, laughing and talking in low voices. James pretended to be asleep. Shortly thereafter, Scorpius clumped up the stairs. James watched with slitted eyes, his anger at the blond boy resurging. Somehow, Scorpius was still bunking with Gryffindors a year older than him, just as he had during his first year, when the other first years had frozen him out of their floor.
Scorpius glanced toward James and seemed to know that he was awake. James rolled over pointedly, turning his back on him.
Eventually, all the candles were put out. The excited beginning-of-term mutterings of James' fellow Gryffindors (not including Scorpius, who preferred to don his glasses and read rather than interact with his fellow dorm-mates) descended into silence.
Still James could not sleep. He flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling again.
He thought of the invisibility cloak.
Dad wouldn't possibly be watching tonight, he thought.
A moment later, he kicked off his covers and clambered quietly out of bed.
2. "BROTHERHOOD & TOLERANCE"
The common room was mostly deserted, the only light coming from the flickering remains of the fire. Devindar Das was seated on a loveseat near a window, his head close to fifth year Willow Wisteria, her long blonde hair burnished by the firelight. She giggled quietly and Devindar put his arm around her, drawing her close.
James tiptoed toward the portrait hole, hunkering low so that his feet would not be seen beneath the draping folds of the invisibility cloak. The portrait swung open with a small, prolonged creak, badly startling Devindar and Willow, who scrambled away from each other on the loveseat.
James peered back at them through the fabric of the cloak. They boggled toward him, unseeingly, watching the portrait hole to see who would emerge. Carefully, James crept through the entrance, feeling the strange prickle of their gaze as it passed through him.
"Maybe it's one of the ghosts," Willow whispered.
"If it's Diggory pulling his Spectre of Silence routine," Devindar grumbled, "I'll kill myself just so I can pop him one."
Willow giggled again as the portrait swung shut behind James. The Fat Lady was asleep in her frame, snoring her dainty little snore, her many chins on her breast.
James had no plan. He merely meant to wander the halls and perhaps clear his mind. He was still feeling disgruntled about Rose and Scorpius. Beneath his anger, however, what he felt most was hurt. He had expected them to believe him. It was one thing for the uppity-ups at the Ministry to doubt his explanation of the Lady of the Lake. Peopl
e like them were famously sceptical of such things. But Rose was his cousin. She'd joined him and Ralph during their second year, when they had confronted the danger of the entity known as the Gatekeeper. How could she question his story now? How, even more, could she side with that obnoxious little squid Scorpius?
"She's fancies him," he spat under his breath as he descended a narrow, curving stair and entered a dark hall. "That's all. Girls always lose their grip when they fancy a bloke."
"Potter," a quiet voice muttered on James' right. "I should have known…"
James wheeled around under the cloak, scanning the hall, eyes wide. There was no one there.
"I can only assume by the halted footsteps," the voice said tiredly, "that you are casting about stupidly, shocked to see no one nearby. How quickly you forget, although I cannot say that I am surprised. Take off that damned cloak, Potter."
James frowned in consternation, turning this way and that. The corridor appeared utterly empty but for a crackling torch at the near intersection and an ancient statue of a hunchbacked wizard with a remarkably tall, complicated staff. James approached the statue tentatively, pushing the cloak back from his head but leaving it draped around his shoulders. He squinted at it, turning his head sideways. The statue's eyes were so narrowed and puffy that they appeared to be swollen shut. James waved a hand in front of its stony face.
"Did you just…" he whispered doubtfully, "Did you just say something?"
"Over here, Potter," the voice said with exaggerated annoyance.
James flinched again and followed the sound of the voice. To the left of the statue hung an enormous painting, principally showing a gaggle of wizards gathered around what appeared to be a clockwork dragon, half disassembled on a raised pedestal. Most of the wizards had abandoned the device for the night, snoozing against the walls and propped in high-backed chairs with their peaked hats pulled down to their noses. Leaning against an enormous cog in the background was a sharp-nosed character in a black robe, hidden mostly in shadow. The figure regarded James from beneath a lowered brow.
"Oh," James said, stepping toward the portrait. "It's you."
"You will address me as Professor, Potter," the disguised portrait of Severus Snape instructed coolly, "Or Headmaster. And you will return to your dormitory immediately or I will alert Mr. Filch to your typical inane mischief."
James stepped a bit closer to the portrait. "I don't think you'll do that at all, Professor," he whispered. "After all, I bet you want to keep all of your sneaky little portraits a secret, yes?"
"Threats, Mr. Potter?" Snape said. He sounded slightly more amused than angry. "Who would believe you? Surely not the new headmaster. Mr. Grudje, as you may already have ascertained, is not what anyone would call… particularly imaginative."
"He's a plank of wood, if you ask me," James grumbled, shaking his head. "Why in the world would they put a dried up old mummy like him in charge of a school?"
"To keep petty miscreants like you in your place, I would think," Snape sniffed approvingly. "I have high hopes for Mr. Grudje. I am, in fact, quite encouraged by your dislike of him. It is high time the office of headmaster was once again feared as well as respected."
"Yeah, well, you would think that," James replied pointedly. "From what I've heard you were about as loveable as a pile of doxie poo."
Snape lowered his voice. "Popularity is almost as blinding as love, Mr. Potter. As you should know better than anyone."
James bristled and pressed his lips together. Snape was referring to Petra, of course, trying to goad him. James opened his mouth to retort, but a sudden, jarring noise interrupted him. It was like a heavy sigh, or a loud, rattling breath, coming from just around the corner of the nearby intersection. James spun toward the intersection, eyes widening, but saw nothing.
"Go to bed, Potter," Snape ordered dismissively, as if he had not heard the noise. "And if you must sneak about at night, do us all the service of wearing quieter footwear."
James ignored him. A distinct chill crept involuntarily up his spine, wringing a hard shiver from his shoulders. He moved slowly toward the intersection, eyes wide, searching the shadows. There was only silence now. Nothing moved.
James stopped at the corner and peered around it slowly, tentatively. It was the first floor corridor that led toward the entrance hall. The main staircase could just be seen in the distance, across from the Great Hall.
"Jaaaammmeeessss….." a voice hissed directly into his ear. He could feel the breath of it, harsh and cold and strangely wet. He scrambled away from it, away from its delighted laughter, and tripped over the invisibility cloak. It jerked from his shoulders and tangled around his feet, pulling him to the hard stone floor in a clumsy heap. Still the voice laughed, unseen, echoing aimlessly around the corridor. It was a feminine sound, but mad and chaotic. James' blood chilled at the sound of it. He clambered away, crabwise, slipping and sliding on the cold floor. He realized dimly that it was wet. The invisibility cloak soaked up the dampness and slapped at him as he struggled to his feet. He began to run. His shoes smacked wetly on the floor.
He reached the entrance hall, still looking wildly back over his shoulder, and collided headlong with what felt like a football squad. There was a rasped "Oof!" and a flail of arms and legs, and suddenly James was on the ground again, toppling over a large, bulky figure.
There was a flurry of knees, elbows and cursing voices, and James suddenly found himself staring up at his brother, Albus.
"You great git!" Albus exclaimed suddenly, pointing down at him. "You stole it again!"
James gaped up at his brother. Dimly, he realized that he was lying partially atop someone else. The other person sat up with a moan, throwing James off.
"Ow," Ralph said, gingerly pressing his palm to the corner of his jaw. "I think you dislocated something with that rock-hard head of yours, James. What in the world were you doing?"
"He was test driving the invisibility cloak, the thieving git!" Albus answered stridently, reaching down and grabbing at the cloak. "Got it all wet, too. Boy, is dad going to murder you." Albus whistled appreciatively, obviously delighted.
"Did you--" James gasped, extricating himself from Ralph and clambering upright. "Did you hear the…" He realized he was panting. His heart was hammering a wild staccato in his chest, making him feel light-headed.
Albus ignored him. "I wouldn't have expected it from you, James, but I've got to admit, I am impressed. You're either braver than I thought or as stupid as I expected, because when mum and dad find out about this…"
"Dad gave it to me," James hissed, yanking the cloak out of Albus' hands. "He sent it to school with me. I didn't steal it."
"Right," Albus nodded, "and I'm Myron Madrigal from Wizarding Wireless News. Care to give me an interview, Mister Worst-Liar-in-the-World?"
James rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I don't care if you believe me or not. Ask dad if you want! Just tell me, did either of you hear a… er…" he glanced back the way he had come and gestured vaguely. "Er… anything… strange?"
"We heard somebody running along the corridor," Ralph said, still poking and prodding at his jaw. "And then you came pelting out of nowhere like a cannonball with hair."
"Knocked Ralph clean off his feet," Albus grinned. "And that takes some doing. I'm glad I got to witness it. So what's the deal, James? You got a teacher on your tail? One of the ghosts? Peeves?"
James shook his head, still staring back at the empty corridor. The floor was indeed shiny with water, but that was no longer a mystery. A large bucket and tiny mop stood next to the staircase, obviously left by one of the night-shift house elves. Was it possible that the voice had been one of the ghosts? Or even Peeves, playing an uncharacteristically vicious prank?
"It was… nothing. I guess." James muttered. He turned back to his brother and Ralph. "What are you two doing out of the dungeon, anyway?"
"We've got permission," Albus said importantly, holding up a large golden skeleton key with the Slyth
erin crest emblazoned on it. "Professor Heretofore sent us for more snacks from the kitchens. Official house business."
"First night," Ralph nodded with a smile. "Like I said, it's kind of a big deal for us Slytherins."
"Let me guess," Albus said, pocketing the golden key and stepping past James with a grin. "All the Gryffindors are snug in their little beds now, hmm? Sleeping the sleep of the just, poor saps. Ah, well."
"Sod off," James said tiredly. "I'm going back upstairs."
Ralph turned as he began to follow Albus. "You want to come down with us for a bit?" he asked. "It's just getting started. There's going to be a spell-casting contest in the range. Winner gets to be head-of-house for a day."
James shook his head. Suddenly he felt weary to the bone. "I better not. I'd hate to embarrass Albus. Besides, what would a Gryffindor do as head of Slytherin for a day?"
"Dream on, big brother," Albus proclaimed loftily. "I could out-spell you with my wand-arm transfigured into a--"
He stopped as one of the doors of the Great Hall creaked slowly open, revealing the relative darkness inside. A figure stepped casually into view-- a girl about James' age, with short purple hair, a round, impish face, and a diamond stud glittering on her nose. Her dark eyes fixed on James, Ralph and Albus for a moment, and then glanced away, ticking around the entrance hall.
"Ugh," she said to herself, stepping out into the light. "It's like an overgrown mausoleum."
"Is she a student here?" Ralph asked tentatively, looking over her ratty jeans and black tank top.
"She has to be," James replied. "Right?"
"You two are idiots," Albus commented mildly, taking a step closer to the girl as she ambled across the entryway. "Hey you. Nose ring. If you don't mind me asking, just who the bloody hell are you?"
The girl glanced back at Albus over her shoulder, an appraising look on her face. "What's it to you?"
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