James furrowed his brow. “I thought you said it’d gone missing a few days ago?”
Ralph became animated. “It did! That’s what I mean! I didn’t leave it in the common room! I’m about to chuck the stupid thing in the toilet! Somebody took it out of my bag and left it out there for Slughorn to find. I hate those guys!” Ralph’s voice had descended to a harsh whisper. He glanced around quickly, as if he expected his housemates to pop out from behind the nearest bookcase.
Zane looked thoughtful. “You don’t know who took it?”
“No,” Ralph said sarcastically. “I’m pretty sure that was the point.”
“You have it with you?”
“Yeah,” Ralph said, deflating a bit. “I’m not letting it out of my sight until I can get rid of it. It doesn’t work all that well around here anyway. Too much magic in the air or something.” He dug the game console out of his backpack and handed it under the table to Zane.
James watched as Zane worked the buttons swiftly and the screen came to life. “If anybody sees you with that thing,” Ralph muttered, “it’s yours. Happy Christmas.”
Zane pressed buttons fluidly, making the screen flash and cycle. “I’m just checking to see if the last person who played it made a profile.”
“What’s a profile?” James asked, leaning to look at the screen.
Zane waved him away without looking up. “Don’t look. Slughorn will see. Ralph, tell Mr. Wizard here what a game profile is.”
“It’s just a way to keep track of your game,” Ralph whispered. “Before you play, you create a profile, with a name and stuff, usually just something made up. Then anything you do in the game is recorded under that profile. When you come back later and log in to that profile, you can pick up wherever you left off.” “You ‘the Ralphinator’?” Zane asked, still working the GameDeck.
“I’m not even going to answer that,” Ralph said flatly.
“Here we are then,” Zane said, stubbing a finger at the screen. “Does the name ‘Austramaddux’ mean anything to you?”
“No,” Ralph said, raising his eyebrows. “There’s a profile with that name?”
“Right here. Created around midnight day before last. No other info and no game progress at all.”
James blinked. “No game progress?”
“Nope,” Zane said, shutting the device down and passing it back to Ralph under the table. “Plenty of login time, but no actual gaming. Probably couldn’t figure out that D-pad up and the left shoulder button worked the super attack. Newbies.”
James rolled his eyes. “So what’s it mean? Who is Austra-whatsisname?”
“It’s just a made up name, like I said,” Ralph said, stuffing the GameDeck into the bottom of his bag. “It doesn’t mean anything. Right?”
Ralph said the last to Zane, who was sitting across the table looking almost comically thoughtful. He had his head tilted, his brow furrowed, and one corner of his mouth cinched up, dimpling his cheek. After a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s familiar. Seems like somebody just mentioned that name, but I can’t place it.”
“Well, all I know,” Ralph said, propping his chin on his hands, “is I’m dumping this thing off with my dad at the break. I’m sorry I ever saw it.”
“Mr. Potter,” a voice suddenly boomed nearby. All three of them jumped. It was Professor Slughorn. He had approached the table and was suddenly standing behind James’ chair. “I had hoped to run into you. So good to see you, my boy. So good indeed.”
James forced a smile as Slughorn patted him on the back. “Thank you, sir.”
“You know, I know your father. Met him when he was a student here and not yet the famous Auror that he is now, of course.” Slughorn nodded knowingly, winking, as if Harry Potter had not, in fact, been enormously famous even before he’d become Head Auror. “He’s mentioned me, no doubt. Very close we were at the time. Of course, I’ve lost track of him in the years since, what with my teaching, pottering about, turning into an old man, and his getting married, developing his illustrious career, and making fine young men like yourself.” Slughorn punched James playfully on the shoulder. “I look forward to catching up with him a bit during his visit next week. Do tell him to look me up, won’t you?”
“I will, sir,” James said, rubbing his shoulder. “Good, good. Well, I’ll leave you boys to your studies, then. Carry on, er, lads,” Slughorn said, glancing at Ralph and Zane with no apparent recognition, despite the fact that he and Ralph had spoken that very morning.
“Oh. Uh, Professor Slughorn? Could I ask you a question?” It was Zane.
Slughorn glanced back, eyebrows raised. “Why, certainly, er, Mr.?”
“Walker, sir. It was your Potions One class, I believe. You mentioned someone named Austramaddux?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Walker. Wednesday afternoon, was it? Now I recall.” Slughorn glanced distractedly toward the front desk. “Yes, not really potions-related, but his name did come up. Austramaddux was a historian and Seer from the distant past. His writings are considered, well, apocryphal at best. I believe I was making a little joke, Mr. Walker.”
“Oh. Well, thank you, sir,” Zane replied.
“Never a problem, my boy,” Slughorn assured him, glancing around the library. “And now, I must return to my duties. I’ll not distract you further.”
“That was quite a coincidence,” Ralph whispered, leaning over the desk as Slughorn drifted away.
“Not really,” Zane reasoned. “He mentioned Austramaddux in class as a joke. I remember now. It seemed to be a reference to a source that isn’t all that trustworthy or is a little loopy. The way we’d refer to a tabloid or a conspiracy theory or something. Slughorn’s head of Slytherin House, so he probably uses that same reference among your guys. They’d know it. That’s why the one that made off with your GameDeck knew the name.”
“I suppose,” Ralph said doubtfully.
“But why?” James asked. “Why use a name that means ‘don’t trust me, I’m a loon’?”
“Who knows what dopiness lurks in the hearts of Slytherins?” Zane said dismissively.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” James insisted. “Slytherins are usually all about image. They love all that cloak and dagger stuff, with the dragons’ heads and secret passwords. I just don’t get why one of them would use a name that their own Head of House treats like a joke.”
“Whatever,” Ralph said. “I have actual homework to do, so if you two don’t mind…”
They all spent the next half hour working on their homework. When it was time to pack up, Zane turned to James. “Quidditch tryouts tonight, right?”
“Mine, yeah. Yours, too?” Zane nodded. “Looks like we’ll be sharing the field. Good luck, mate.” Zane shook James’ hand.
James felt surprisingly touched. “Thanks! You too.”
“Of course, you’ll rip it up out there,” Zane pronounced airily. “I’ll be lucky to stay on top of a broom. How long have you been flying, anyway?”
“I only ever flew a toy broom around the house when I was little,” said James. “The laws used to be pretty loose about brooms. There were underage height and distance restrictions, but pretty much anyone of any age could take one up as long as they were careful not to be seen by any Muggles. Then, back around the time Dad got his honorary diploma from Hogwarts, some teenagers got drunk on Firewhisky and tried to play Quidditch in Trafalgar Square. Since then, the laws have been tightened up. Now it’s almost like getting a Muggle driver’s license. We have to take flight lessons and get certified before we can fly legally. Some wizarding families will still let their kids go up on a broom in the backyard and stuff, just to practice. But my dad being an Auror…”
“Both your dad and your mom were big-time Quidditch players, though, right?” Zane asked, nudging James with an elbow and grinning. “Even if you don’t even know which end of a broom is up, you’ll still be killer on it when you hit the field. Metaphorically, of course.”
James smi
led uncomfortably.
They headed to their classes. James couldn’t help feeling nervous. He’d nearly forgotten all about Quidditch tryouts. The knowledge that he’d be out there in a few hours, getting on one of the team brooms for the first time and trying to be one of the few first years to make the Gryffindor team left him feeling vaguely sick. He thought of the Snitch he’d grown up playing with, his famous Dad’s famous first Snitch. Back then, he’d never doubted his future. The way Uncle Ron talked about it, it was almost James’ birthright to be on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team his first year, and James had never questioned it. But now that it was imminent, he was afraid. The fears he had felt during the Sorting ceremony all came back. But that had turned out all right, he reminded himself. He’d been so worried about it, he’d almost talked the Sorting Hat into sending him to Slytherin House with Ralph, and he knew now what a mistake that would’ve been. The key was to relax. Quidditch, like being a Gryffindor, was in his blood. He had to just let it happen and not worry.
By dinner, he had to admit his plan wasn’t working. He could barely eat.
“That’s right, Potter,” Noah nodded, seeing James’ untouched plate. “The less you eat, the less you’ll have to throw up when you’re in the air. Of course, some of us see a little well-aimed sick as a great defensive technique. You’ve had your first broom lesson with Professor Ridcully, right?”
James drooped and rolled his eyes, “No. I haven’t. First class is on Monday.”
Noah looked serious for a moment, and then shrugged. “Eh, you’ll do fine. Brooms are easy. Lean forward to go, pull back to stop. Lean and roll into turns. Piece of cake.”
“Yeah,” Ted agreed. “And all the rain and wind out there will only make it easier. You probably won’t even be able to see the ground, what with the fog. Easier to trust your guts.”
“Just as long as you keep them on the inside,” somebody called from further down the table. There was a chorus of laughter. James dropped his head onto his folded arms.
The Quidditch pitch was sodden and muddy. Rain fell in great sheets, beating the ground and creating a dense mist that drenched James to the skin within the first minute. Justin Kennely, the Gryffindor Captain, led his group out onto the field, yelling over the steady roar of the rain.
“Quidditch isn’t called on account of rain,” he bellowed. “Some of the best Quidditch matches have taken place in weather like this, and much worse. The nineteen eighty-four Quidditch World Cup was held with a typhoon off the coast of Japan, you know. The Seekers both flew over sixty miles chasing the Snitch in gale-force winds. This is a trickle by comparison. Perfect weather for tryouts.”
Kennely stopped and turned in the center of the pitch, rain running from the tips of his nose and chin. There was a large Quidditch trunk at his feet, as well as a line of broomsticks neatly laid out on the wet grass. James saw that most of the house brooms were Nimbus Two Thousands, serviceable but rather obsolete models. He was a little relieved. If he’d been asked to fly a new Thunderstreak, he was pretty sure he’d have ended up in a tree a hundred miles away. At the opposite end of the pitch, James saw the Ravenclaw team assembling. He couldn’t recognize any of them through the spattering rain and mist.
“All right, then,” Kennely called out. “First years, you’re up first. I’m told that some of you haven’t yet had your first broom lessons, but thanks to new regulations and the disclaimers you all signed before school, there’s no reason you can’t climb on up and give it a go. Let’s see what you can do before we try anything with the rest of the team. No worries about formations or stunts, let’s just see you get in the air and navigate the field without knocking each other to your dooms.”
James felt his stomach plummet. He had hoped to spend some time watching the older students practice. Now that he was about to climb onto his first broom, he wished he had paid more attention to how the players handled them during the matches he’d been t, rather than looking for the spectacular stunts and messiest Bludger hits. The other first years were already moving forward, picking brooms and holding out their hands to summon them. James forced himself to join them.
He stopped next to a broom and stared down at it. For the first time, the thing looked like nothing more than a chunk of wood with a brush on the end instead of a sleek flying apparatus. Rain dripped from the sodden bristles. James held his hand over it.
“Up!” he said. His voice seemed tiny and silly to him. Nothing happened. He swallowed past something that felt like a steel marble in his throat. “Up!” he called again. The broom bobbed, and then dropped back to the grass with a dull smack. He glanced around at the other first years. None of them seemed to be having much more luck. Only one of them had succeeded in raising his broom. The older players were gathered around watching with amusement, nudging each other. Noah caught James’ eye and hoisted his thumb into the air, nodding encouragingly.
“Up!” James called again, mustering as much authority as he could. The broom bobbed again and James caught it before it could drop back. Close enough, he thought. He gave a huge sigh, then slung a leg over the broom. It floated uncertainly beneath him, barely supporting its own weight.
Something swooped past him. “Way to go!” Ted cried over the rain as a first-year girl named Baptiste swept upward, wobbling slightly. Two more first years kicked off. One of them slipped sideways and swung, dangling from the bottom of his broom. He hung on for a second or two, then his fingers slipped from the wet broomstick and he tumbled to the ground. There was a roar of amiable laughter. “At least you got into the air, Klein!” somebody called.
James pressed his lips together. Gripping the broomstick so tightly his knuckles turned white, he kicked off. The broom bobbed up and James saw the grass glide beneath him, then he began to descend again. His feet skidded and he wobbled, trying to kick up again. The broomstick arced upward and picked up speed, but James couldn’t seem to make it maintain any height. He was skidding along the grass again, sending up rooster tails of muddy water. Hollers of encouragement erupted behind him. He concentrated furiously, holding his breath and kicking along as the broom weaved toward the Ravenclaws, who turned to watch. Up, he thought desperately, up, up, up! He remembered Noah’s advice at dinner: lean forward to go, pull back to stop. He realized he was pulling on the broomstick, trying to make it rise, but that wasn’t right, was it? He had to lean forward to go. But if he leaned forward, common sense told him he’d simply plow into the ground. Ravenclaws began to sidle away as he approached, trying to get out of his path. They were all calling advice and warnings. None of it made any sense to James. Finally, desperately, James abandoned his own logic, lifted his feet and leaned forward as far as he could.
The sense of speed was shocking as the broom rocketed forward. Mist and rain stung James’ face and the grass beneath him became a blur of muddy green. But he wasn’t going up, he was merely streaking along the ground. He heard shouts and exclamations as he plowed through the Ravenclaws. They scrambled and leaped to get out of the way. He was still picking up speed as he leaned forward. Ahead of him, the ramparts of the grandstand filled his vision, getting alarmingly close. James tried to lean, to steer aside. He felt himself banking, but not enough. Up, he thought furiously, he needed to go up! Finally, for lack of a better idea, he leaned back, pulling the broomstick as hard as he could. The broom responded instantly and with sickening force, angling into a steep climb. The grandstands fell away. Rows of seats and banners flickered past, and then gave way to an enormous, grey sky.
Motion seemed to stop, despite the air and rain that barreled past him. James risked a glance behind him. The Quidditch pitch looked like a postage stamp, shrinking and growing hazy behind a raft of clouds and mist. James gasped, inhaling wind and rain, panic gripping him like giant claws. He was still climbing. Great grey slabs of cloud barreled past, buffeting him with shocking darkness and cold. James shoved down on the broom again, gritting his teeth and stifling a cry of terror.
He felt the
broomstick dip sickeningly, almost hurling him off. He couldn’t seem to make it do anything other than drastic altitude changes. James had lost all sense of direction. He was surrounded by rain and dense clouds. For the first time, getting on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team seemed much less important than simply getting both feet back on the ground, wherever it was. He couldn’t gauge how fast he was going or in what direction. Wind and mist tore at his face, making his eyes water.
Suddenly, there were other shapes nearby. They swooped around him out of the clouds. He heard distant yelling, calls, his name. One of the shapes angled toward him and James was shocked to see Zane on a broomstick, his face chalk white, his blonde hair whipping wildly around his head. He motioned at James as he banked, but James couldn’t make sense of his gestures.
“Follow me!” Zane shouted over the wind as he swooped by.
The other figures resolved as they centered on James. He saw Ted and Gennifer, the Ravenclaw. They moved into formation around him. Ted was calling directions to James, but he couldn’t make them out. He concentrated on angling the broom in the direction that Zane was flying. The clouds barreled past again like freight trains, and James lost sight of the other flyers. There was a buffeting shock of cold air, and then the ground opened up beneath James, swaying with enormous finality. The Quidditch pitch was rising to meet him, its matted grass looking very hard and unforgiving. Zane was still ahead of James, but he was pulling back, slowing, gesturing wildly with one hand. James pulled back on his own broomstick, trying to emulate Zane, but the force of the wind roaring past fought him. He battled it, turning, wrestling the broomstick up so that he feared it might snap beneath him. And then his rain-slicked hands slipped, fumbled and he fell backwards, gripping the broom desperately with only his legs. He was spinning wildly, end over end. James felt the force of Zane whipping past, Zane’s shouts diminishing behind him with horrible speed. The ground swooped around his head, reaching up to embrace him, and James heard the sound of it, a huge, low roar, getting louder and louder until…
James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing Page 12