It wasn’t that he was worried about going to Hogwarts exactly. He’d been looking forward to this day for most of his life, ever since he was old enough to understand what it meant to be a wizard, ever since his mum had told him of the school he’d one day attend, the secret school that witches and wizards attended to learn magic. He was positively itching with anticipation of his first classes, of learning to use the brand new wand that he carried proudly in his backpack. More than anything, he was looking forward to Quidditch on the Hogwarts pitch, getting on his first real broom, trying out for the team, maybe, just maybe...
But that was where his excitement began to melt into cold anxiety. His dad had been the Gryffindor Seeker, the youngest one in Hogwarts history. The best he, James, could hope for was to match that record. That’s what everyone would expect of him, the first-born son of the famous hero. He remembered the story, told to him dozens of times (although never by his own dad) of how the young Harry Potter had won his first Golden Snitch by virtually jumping off his broom, catching the golden ball in his mouth and nearly swallowing it. The tellers of the tale would always laugh uproariously, delightedly, and if Dad was there, he’d smile sheepishly as they clapped him on the back. When James was four, he found that famed Snitch in a shoe box in the bottom of the dining room hutch. His mum told him it’d been a gift to Dad from the old school headmaster. The tiny wings no longer worked, and the golden ball had a thin coat of dust and tarnish on it, but James was mesmerized by it. It was the first Snitch he had ever seen close up. It seemed both smaller and larger than he’d imagined, and the weight of it in his small hand was surprising. This is the famous Snitch, James thought reverently, the one from the story, the one caught by my dad. He asked his dad if he could keep it, stored in the shoebox when he wasn’t playing with it, in his room. His dad agreed easily, happily, and James moved the shoebox from the bottom of the hutch to a spot under the head of his bed, next to his toy broom. He pretended the dark corner under his headboard was his Quidditch locker. He spent many an hour pretending to zoom and bank over the Quidditch green, chasing the fabled Snitch, in the end, always catching it in a fantastic diving crash, jumping up, producing his dad’s tarnished Snitch for the approval of roaring imaginary crowds.
But what if James couldn’t catch the Snitch, as his father had done? What if he wasn’t as good on the broom? Uncle Ron had said that riding a broom was in the Potter blood as sure as dragons breathed fire, but what if James proved him wrong? What if he was slow, or clumsy, or fell off? What if he didn’t even make the team? For the rest of the first years, that would only be a mild disappointment. Even though the rules had been changed to admit them, very few first years ever made the House teams. For James, however, that would mean he already hadn’t measured up to expectations. He would already have failed to be as great as the great Harry Potter. And if he couldn’t even measure up to his dad in terms of something as elemental as Quidditch, how could he ever hope to live up to the legend of the boy who defeated the Basilisk, won the Triwizard Cup, united the Deathly Hallows and, oh yeah, put old Moldy Voldy, the darkest and most dangerous wizard who ever lived, in the ground for good?
The train gave a protracted, noisy lurch. Outside, the conductor’s voice called for the doors to be shut. James stopped in the corridor, suddenly overcome by a cold certainty that the worst had already happened, he had already failed miserably even before he’d begun to try. He felt a deep, sudden stab of homesickness and blinked back tears, looking quickly into the next compartment. There were two boys inside, neither talking, both looking out the window as Platform Nine and Three Quarters began to slip slowly past. James opened the door and blundered in quickly, hoping to see his family outside the window, feeling an enormous need to make eye contact with them one last time before it was too late. His own reflection in the glass, lit by the hard morning sun, blotted the view of the crowd outside. There were so many people; he would never find them in that throng. He scanned the crowd desperately anyway. And then there they were. They were just where he’d left them, a tiny knot of people standing still in the milling faces, like rocks in a stream. They didn’t see him, didn’t know where he was in the train. Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur were waving to a point further back on the train, apparently mouthing goodbyes to Victoire. Dad and Mum stood smiling somewhat wistfully at the train, scanning the windows. Albus stood next to Dad, and Lily held Mum’s hand, transfixed by the gigantic crimson engine as it chuffed great bursts of steam and hissed and rang, picking up speed. And then Mum’s eye caught James and her face lit up. She said something and Dad turned, looked, and found him. They both waved, smiling proudly. Mum wiped her eye with one hand, held up Lily’s hand with the other, waving it to James. James didn’t smile back, but watched them and felt a bit better anyway. They receded backward as if they were on a conveyor belt, more faces, more waving hands and milling bodies coming between them. James watched until they all vanished behind a wall at the end of the platform, then he sighed, dropped his backpack onto the floor, and plopped into a seat.
Several minutes of silence went by as James watched London scroll past the windows. The city thinned into crowded suburbs and industrial areas, all looking busy and purposeful in the bright morning sunlight. He wondered, as he sometimes did, what life was like as a non-magical person, and for once he envied them, going to their non-magical, less intimidating (or so he thought) schools and jobs. Finally he turned his attention to the two other boys sharing his compartment. One was seated on the same side as him, closer to the door. He was big, with a squarish head and short dark hair. He was flipping avidly through an illustrated booklet called Elemental Magic: What to Know for the New Witch and Wizard. James had seen copies of these being sold from a small stall on the platform. On the cover, a good-looking teenaged wizard in school robes was winking as he conjured a series of objects from a trunk. He had just produced a full-sized tree with cheeseburgers for fruit when the boy flipped the cover backwards and settled in to read one of the articles. James turned his attention to the boy across from him, who was looking at him openly, smiling.
“I’ve got a cat,” said the boy, unexpectedly. James blinked at him, and then noticed the box sitting on the seat next to the boy. It had a hinged grate for a door and a small black and white cat could be seen inside, lounging and licking its forepaw. “You aren’t allergic to cats, are you?” the boy asked James earnestly.
“Oh. No,” James replied, “I don’t think so. My family has a dog, but my Aunt Hermione has a big old carpet of a cat. I’ve never had a problem with it.”
“That’s good,” the boy answered matter-of-factly. He had an American accent that James found a little amusing. “My mom and dad are both allergic to cats so we could never have one, but I like them. When I saw that I could bring a cat, I knew that was what I wanted. This is Thumbs. He has extra toes, see? One on each paw. It’s not particularly magical, I suppose, but it makes him interesting. What’d you bring?”
“I’ve got an owl. He’s been in the family for a few years. A big, old barn owl with plenty of miles on him. I wanted a frog, but my dad says a boy should start school with an owl. He says there’s no more useful animal for a first year, but I think he just wanted me to have one because he had one.”
The boy grinned happily. “So your dad is a wizard, too? Mine isn’t. Neither is my mom. I’m the first in my family. We just found out about the magical world last year. I could hardly believe it! I always thought magic was the sort of thing that happened at little kids’ birthday parties. Guys in tall black hats pulling silver dollars out of your ear. Stuff like that. Wow! Have you known you were a wizard all your life?”
“Pretty much. It’s hard to miss when your first memories are of your grandparents arriving for Christmas morning via the fireplace,” James answered, watching the boy’s eyes widen. “Of course, it never seemed strange to me at all, you know. It was just life.”
The boy whistled appreciatively. “That’s wild and crazy! Lucky you! Any
way, my name’s Zane Walker. I’m from the States, if you haven’t guessed. My dad is working in England for the year, though. He works on movies, which isn’t as exciting as it sounds. I’ll probably be going to the wizarding school in America next year, but it looks like it’s Hogwarts for me this year, which is fine by me, although if they try to give me any more kidneys or fish for breakfast, I think I’ll blow a gasket. Good to meet you.” He finished in a rush, and reached across the compartment to shake James’ hand in a gesture that was so guileless and automatic that James almost laughed. He shook Zane’s hand happily, relieved to have so quickly made an acquaintance. “I’m happy to meet you, too, Zane. My name’s Potter. James Potter.”
Zane sat back and looked at James, tilting his head curiously. “Potter. James Potter?” he repeated. James felt a small, familiar surge of pride and satisfaction. He was used to being recognized, even if he pretended to not always like it. Zane made a sort of quizzical half-frown, half-grin. “Where’s Q, double-ohseven?”
James faltered. “Excuse me?”
“What? Oh, sorry,” Zane said, his expression changing to one of bemusement. “Thought you were making a James Bond joke. Hard to tell with that accent.”
“James who?” James said, feeling that the conversation was slipping away from him. “And what accent? You’re the one with the accent!”
“Your last name’s Potter?” This came from the third boy in the compartment. He’d lowered his booklet a little.
“Yes. James Potter.”
“Potter!” Zane said in a fairly ridiculous attempt at an English accent. “James Potter!” He raised his fist next to his face, index finger pointed toward the ceiling like a pistol.
“Are you related to this Harry Potter kid?” said the bigger boy, ignoring Zane. “Only I’m reading about him right here in this ‘Brief History of the Magical World’ article. Seems like he was a pretty big deal.”
“He’s not a kid anymore,” James laughed. “He’s my dad. He’s less of a big deal when you see him eating Wheatabix in his boxers each morning.” This wasn’t technically true, but it always put people at ease to think they’d gotten a mental glimpse of the great Harry Potter in a candid moment. The large boy raised his eyebrows, frowning slightly. “Wow! Cool. Says here he defeated the most dangerous evil wizard ever. Some guy named, umm…” He glanced down at the booklet, scanning it. “It’s right here somewhere. Volda-whatsit or something.”
“Yeah, it’s true,” James said. “But really, now he’s just my dad. That was a long time ago.” But the other boy had turned his attention to Zane.
“You’re Muggle-born, too?” he asked. Zane looked baffled for a moment. “What? I’m what-born?”
“Non-magical parents. Like me,” said the bigger boy seriously. “I’m trying to learn the language. My dad says it’s important to get a handle on the basics straight off. He’s a Muggle, but he’s already read Hogwarts: A History cover to cover. He quizzed me on it the whole ride in. Ask me a question. Anything.” He glanced back and forth between Zane and James.
James raised his eyebrows at Zane, who frowned and shook his head. “Um. What’s seven times forty-three?”
The bigger boy rolled his eyes and slumped in his seat. “I meant about Hogwarts and the wizarding world.”
“I’ve got a new wand,” Zane said, abandoning the bigger boy and turning to dig in his pack. “It’s made of birch, with a unicorn tail in it or something. Can’t get it to do squat, yet. Not for lack of effort, though, I’ll tell you that.” He turned, flourishing the wand, which was wrapped in yellow cloth.
“I’m Ralph, by the way,” said the bigger boy, putting aside his booklet. “Ralph Deedle. I just got my wand yesterday. It’s made of willow, with a Himalayan yeti whisker core.”
James glanced at him. “A what?” “A Himalayan yeti whisker. Very rare, according to the man we bought it from. Cost my dad twenty Galleons. Which translates to a good bit, I think.” He studied Zane’s and James’ faces in turn. “Er, why?”
James raised his eyebrows. “It’s just that I’ve never heard of a Himalayan yeti.”
Ralph sat up and leaned forward earnestly. “Sure! You know what those are. Some people call them abominable snowmen. I always thought they were imaginary, you know. But then on my birthday, my dad and me found out I was a wizard, and I’d always thought wizards were imaginary, too! Well, now I’m learning about all kinds of crazy things that I thought were imaginary that are turning out to be true.” He picked up his booklet again and fanned the pages with one hand, gesturing vaguely with the other.
“Just out of curiosity,” James said carefully, “where did you buy your wand?”
Ralph grinned. “Oh, well we thought that was going to be the hard part, didn’t we? I mean, there don’t seem to be wand merchants on every corner where we come from, which is Surrey. So we got down here to the city early and followed the directions to that Diagon Alley place. No problem! There was a man right there on the street corner with a little booth.”
Zane was watching Ralph with interest.
“A little booth,” James prodded.
“Yeah! Of course, he didn’t have the wands right there in the open. He was selling maps. Dad bought one and asked directions to the best wandmaker in town. My dad develops security software. For computers. Did I mention that? Anyway, he asked for the best, most state of the art wandmaker. Turned out the man was an expert wandmaker himself. Only makes a few a year, but keeps them special for people who really know what they are looking for. So Dad bought the best one he had.”
James was trying to keep his face straight. “The best one he had,” he repeated.
“Yeah,” Ralph confirmed. He dug in his own backpack and pulled out something about the size of a rolling pin, wrapped in brown paper.
“The one with the yeti core,” James confirmed.
Ralph suddenly glanced at him, halfway through unwrapping the package he’d removed from his backpack. “You know, it starts sounding a little silly when you say it, doesn’t it?” he asked a bit morosely. “Ah, bugger.”
He pulled the brown paper off. It was about eighteen inches long and as thick as a broomstick. The end had been whittled to a dull point and painted lime green. They all stared at it. After a moment, Ralph looked a bit desperately at James. “It’s not really good for anything magical, is it?”
James tilted his head. “Well, it’d be a treat for killing vampires with, I’d think.” “Yeah?” Ralph brightened.
Zane straightened and pointed to the door of the compartment. “Woo! Food! Hey, James, you got any of that wacky wizard money? I’m starved.”
The old witch that operated the food cart peered into the open door of their compartment. “Anything you’d fancy, dears?”
Zane had jumped up and was looking eagerly over her wares, examining them with a serious, critical eye. He glanced back at James expectantly. “Come on, Potter, now’s your chance to welcome us Muggleborns to the table with a little wizard generosity. All I have is an American ten dollar bill.” He turned back to the witch. “You don’t take American greenbacks, do you?”
She blinked and looked slightly aghast. “American green… excuse me?”
“Drat. I thought not,” Zane said, wiggling his upturned palm towards James.
James dug in the pocket of his jeans, bemused and amazed at the boy’s temerity. “Wizard money isn’t like play money, you know,” he said reproachfully, but there was a smile in his voice.
Ralph looked up from his booklet again, blinking. “Did he just say ‘drat’?”
“Oooh! Look at this!” Zane cried happily. “Cauldron Cakes! And Licorice Wands! You wizards really know how to carry a metaphor. Us wizards, I mean. Heh!”
James paid the witch and Zane flopped back into his seat, opening a box of Licorice Wands. Assorted colors of wands were laid out in neat compartments. Zane produced a red one, brandished it, and then flicked it toward Ralph. There was a pop and a shower of tiny, purple flowers pe
ppered the front of Ralph’s tee shirt. Ralph glanced down at them.
“Better than I’ve gotten out of my own wand, yet,” Zane said, biting off the end of the wand with gusto.
James was surprised and pleased to find that he wasn’t nervous anymore, or at least not much. He opened the box containing his own Chocolate Frog, caught the frog in the air as it leaped out, and bit its head off. He looked down into the bottom of the box and saw the face of his dad peering up at him. ‘Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived’, ran the caption at the bottom of the card. He took the card out of the box and handed it to Ralph.
“Here. A little something for my new Muggle-born friend,” he said as Ralph took it. Ralph hardly noticed. He was chewing, holding up one of the tiny, purple flowers. “I don’t know for sure,” he said, looking at it, “but I think these are made out of meringue.”
After the initial rush of excitement and worry, then the whirlwind of making new acquaintances, the rest of the train ride seemed remarkably mundane. James found himself in turns either acting as a tour guide for his two new friends or having their conversation explained to him wherever they centered on Muggle life and concepts. He found it incredible that they had apparently spent a great chunk of their lives watching television. Whenever they weren’t watching it, it seemed that they and their friends were playing games on it, pretending to drive racing cars or go on adventures or play sports. James had, of course, heard of television and video games, but having had mostly wizard friends, he’d assumed Muggle children only engaged in those activities when there was absolutely nothing better to do. When he asked Ralph why he’d spent so much time playing sports on the television instead of playing them in real life, Ralph merely rolled his eyes, made an exasperated noise, and then looked helplessly at Zane. Zane had clapped James on the back and said, “James, buddy, it’s a Muggle thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing Page 2