James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing

by G. Norman Lippert

  James closed the book slowly and gritted his teeth. Somehow, the moment he thought of it, it seemed completely true. That explained why a Slytherin would use a name that even his Head of House thought was a joke. The Slytherin knew it wasn’t, and would soon be victorious in a plot that would prove it. James’ heart pounded as he sat and thought furiously. Who could he tell? Zane and Ralph, of course. They might have already thought of it. His dad? James decided that he couldn’t. Not yet, at least. James was old enough to know that most adults wouldn’t believe such a story from a kid even if the kid could provide pictures that proved it.

  James didn’t know exactly what he could do to stop such a plot, but he knew what he had to do next. He had to find out which Slytherin it was that had taken Ralph’s GameDeck. He had to find the Slytherin that used the name Austramaddux.

  With that in mind, James bolted from the greenhouse as soon as class was over, forgetting entirely that tonight was the night his dad, Harry Potter, was arriving for his meeting with the Americans.

  As James ran across the grounds, he became aware of the noise of a crowd. He slowed, listening. Shouts and chants mingled with the babble of raucous, excited voices. As he turned the corner into the courtyard, the noise became much louder. A mob of students roiled around the courtyard, gathering from all directions even as James watched. Most were simply curious to see what the commotion was about, but there was a very active group in the center, marching, chanting slogans, some holding large, hand-painted signs and banners. James saw one of the banners as he approached crowd, and his heart sank. It read ‘End Ministry Auror Fascism’. Another sign waved and poked at the sky: ‘Tell the TRUTH, Harry Potter!’

  James circled around the group, trying to stay inconspicuous. Near the steps of the main hall, Tabitha Corsica was being interviewed by a woman with garish purple cat’s-eye glasses and an overly-attentive expression. With growing unease, James recognized her as Rita Skeeter, lead investigative reporter for the Daily Prophet, and one of his dad’s least favorite people.

  As he passed, Tabitha glanced sideways at him and made a slight shrug and smile, as if to say so sorry about this, but these are hard times and we all do what we must…

  Just as James was about to climb the steps into the main hall, the Headmistress appeared, striding purposefully into the sunlight with a very grim expression on her face. She placed her wand to her throat and spoke from the top step, her voice echoing all around the courtyard, cutting through the noise of the crowd.

  “I won’t ask what the meaning of this is, as I find it disappointingly obvious,” she said sternly, and James, who had known Minerva McGonagall in a peripheral way for most of his life, thought he had never seen her so enraged. Her face was deathly pale, with livid red high on her cheeks. Her voice, still ringing around the courtyard, was controlled but steely with conviction. “Far be it from me to disabuse you of the right to maintain whatever ill-founded and preposterous notions many of you might have picked up, but let me assure you, regardless of what you might choose to believe, it is not the policy of this school to allow students to insult esteemed guests.”

  The signs sagged, but did not lower completely. James saw that Rita Skeeter was staring up at the Headmistress with a look of hungry excitement on her face, her Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling wildly on a pad of parchment. McGonagall sighed, gathering her composure. “There are proper avenues for expression of disagreement, as you all know. This… display… is neither necessary nor appropriate. I expect you all, therefore, to disperse immediately with the knowledge that you have most certainly…,” she allowed her gaze to fall upon Rita Skeeter, “made your point.”

  “Madam Headmistress?” a voice called, and James didn’t need to turn to know that it was Tabitha Corsica. There was a pregnant silence as the entire courtyard held its breath. James could hear Rita Skeeter’s quill scratching avidly.

  McGonagall paused, studying Tabitha meaningfully. “Yes, Miss Corsica?”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, ma’am,” Corsica said smoothly, her beautiful voice echoing around the courtyard. “And for my own part, I hope that we can all choose to pursue these issues in a more reasonable and relevant manner, as you suggest. Might it be too soon to propose that we make this the subject of the first All-School Topical Debate? That would allow us to approach this sensitive issue respectfully and thoroughly, in the manner I’m sure you’d agree it deserves.”

  McGonagall’s jaw was like iron as she stared down at Corsica. The pause was so long that Tabitha actually looked away. She glanced around the courtyard, her composure faltering slightly. The QuickQuotes Quill had caught up to the proceedings. It hovered over the parchment, waiting.

  “I appreciate your suggestion, Miss Corsica,” McGonagall said flatly, “but this is neither the time nor the place for discussion of the debate team calendar, as you can surely imagine. And now,” she let her gaze sweep over the courtyard critically, “I consider the matter closed. Anyone who wishes to continue this discussion may do so much more comfortably in the privacy of their rooms. I’d advise you to be off now, before I send Mr. Filch out to take a census.”

  The crowd began to break up. McGonagall saw James, and her expression changed. “Come along, Potter,” she said, beckoning impatiently. James climbed the steps and followed her back into the shadow of the Hall. McGonagall was muttering angrily, her tartan robes swishing as she stalked into a side corridor. She seemed to expect James to follow, so he did.

  “Ridiculous rabble-rousing propagandists,” she fumed, still leading James into what he recognized as the staff offices. “James, I’m sorry you had to witness that. But I’m even sorrier that such an ugly bit of rumor-mongering has found a foothold within these walls.”

  McGonagall turned and opened a door without breaking stride. James found himself entering a large room full of couches and chairs, small tables and bookshelves, all arranged haphazardly around an enormous marble fireplace. And there, standing to greet him with a crooked smile was his dad. James grinned and ran past McGonagall.

  “James,” Harry Potter said delightedly, pulling the boy into a rough hug and ruffling his hair. “My boy. I’m so glad to see you, son. How’s school?”

  James shrugged, smiling happily but feeling suddenly shy. There were several other people present he didn’t recognize, all of them looking at him as he stood with his father.

  “You all know my boy, James,” Harry said, squeezing James’ shoulder. “James, these are some representatives from the Ministry who’ve come along with me. You remember Titus Hardcastle, don’t you? And this is Mr. Recreant and Miss Sacarhina. They both work for the Department of Ambassadorial Relations.”

  James shook hands dutifully. He did remember Titus Hardcastle when he looked at him, although he hadn’t seen him for a long time. Hardcastle, one of his dad’s head Aurors, was squat and thick, with a square head and very tough, weathered features. Mr. Recreant was tall and thin, dressed rather fussily in pinstriped robes and a black derby. His handshake was quick and loose, rather like holding a dead starfish. Miss Sacarhina, however, didn’t shake hands. She smiled hugely at James and squatted down to his level, examining him up and down.

  “I see so much of your parents in you, young man,” she said, tilting her head and affecting a conspiratorial manner. “Such promise and potential. I do hope you’ll be joining us for the evening.”

  In answer, James looked up at his dad. Harry smiled and put both hands on James’ shoulders. “We’re having dinner tonight with the Alma Alerons. Do you want to come along? Apparently, we’re having true American food, which could mean anything from hamburgers to, well, cheeseburgers, as far as I can guess.”

  “Sure!” James said, smiling. Harry Potter smiled back and winked.

  “But first,” he said, addressing the rest of the group, “we’ll be joining our friends from Alma Aleron for a look at some of their proprietary magic. We’re due to meet them in the next ten minutes, and I’ve asked a few others to join
us as well. Shall we?”

  “I’ll not be joining you, I’m afraid,” McGonagall said briskly. “It appears that I will need to be keeping a close tab on certain elements of the student populace during your tour, Mr. Potter. I apologize.”

  “Understood, Minerva,” Harry said. It always sounded strange to James that his dad called the Headmistress by her first name, but she seemed to expect it from him. “Do what you have must, but don’t worry about squashing every little outburst. It’s hardly worth the effort.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with you about that, Harry, but I expect I’d not be able to maintain perfect order regardless. I shall see you this evening, then.” With that, the Headmistress turned and left the room brusquely, still fuming.

  “Shall we, then?” Miss Sacarhina inquired. The group began to move toward a door on the opposite side of the room. As they walked, Harry bent toward his son and whispered. “I’m glad you’ll be coming along tonight. Sacarhina and Recreant aren’t exactly the most pleasant travelling companions, but Percy insisted I bring them. I’m afraid this whole affair’s gone all political.”

  James nodded wisely, not knowing what that meant, but happy to be invited into his dad’s confidence, as always. “So how’d you travel?”

  “Floo Network,” Harry answered. “Didn’t want to make any more visible entry than necessary. Minerva warned us about the demonstration the P.E. types were planning.”

  It took James a moment to realize his dad was talking about the Progressive Element. “She knows about those guys?” he asked, surprised.

  His dad put a finger to his lips, nodding slightly toward Sacarhina and Recreant, who were ahead of them, talking in low voices as they walked. “Later,” Harry mouthed.

  After a few turns, Mr. Recreant opened a large door and stepped out into sunlight, the rest following. They descended a broad stone stairway which led down to a grassy area bordered by the Forbidden Forest on one side and a low stone wall on the other. Neville Longbottom and Professor Slughorn were standing near the wall, talking. They both looked up as the group approached.

  “Hi, Harry!” Neville said, grinning and coming forward to meet him. “Thanks for inviting me and Horace along for this. I’ve been curious about it ever since the Americans got here.”

  “Harry Potter, as I live and breathe,” Slughorn said warmly, taking Harry’s hand in both of his. “Very good of you indeed to ask us to come. You know I’m always interested in new developments in the international magical community.”

  Harry led the group to a gate in the stone wall. It opened onto a neat flagstone path that meandered toward the lake. “Don’t thank me, either of you. I only brought the both of you along so that you could ask all the smart questions and make sense of what they show us.”

  Slughorn laughed indulgently, but Neville only smiled. James figured that his dad was probably telling at least part of the truth, and only Neville knew it.

  The group approached a large canvas tent that was pitched on a low rise overlooking the water. An American flag hung limp on one of the tent’s poles, over a flag emblazoned with the Alma Aleron crest. A pair of American students stood talking nearby. One of the students saw the group and acknowledged them with a slight nod. He called toward the tent. “Professor Franklyn?”

  After a moment, Franklyn emerged from the side of the tent, wiping his hands on a large cloth. “Ah! Greetings, visitors,” he said graciously. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  Harry shook Franklyn’s outstretched hand. It was apparent that they had already met earlier and arranged this gathering. Harry turned and made introductions all around, finishing with James.

  “Of course, of course,” Franklyn said, beaming at James. “Young Mr. Potter is in my class. How are you today, James?”

  “Good, sir,” James answered, smiling.

  “As you should be, on such a fine day,” Franklyn said seriously, nodding approvingly. “And now that the pleasantries have been seen to, do follow me, my friends. Harry, you were interested in seeing the means by which we care for our vehicles, is that right?”

  “Very much so,” Harry said. “I wasn’t here to see your arrival, of course, but I heard all about your interesting flying vehicles. I am very eager to see them, as well as your storage facility. I have heard quite a lot of speculation about it, although I admit I understand very little of it.”

  “Our Trans-Dimensional Garage, yes. Virtually none of us understands very much about it, I am afraid,” Franklyn said dubiously. “In fact, if it were not for our technomancy expert, Theodore Jackson, none of us would have the slightest idea how to maintain it. Speaking of whom, he sends his apologies for not being able to be here for the tour. He will be joining us this evening and will be happy to discuss it with you then, should you have any questions for him.”

  “As I’m sure we will,” Titus Hardcastle said in his low, gravelly voice.

  James followed his dad around to the open side of the tent and nearly tripped over his own feet when he looked inside. The tent was quite large, with complicated wooden struts and frameworks supporting it. All three of the Alma Aleron flying vehicles were parked inside it, leaving enough room for neat arrangements of tool chests, maintenance equipment, extra parts, and several men in work clothes who moved among the vehicles busily. The strangest thing about the tent, however, was that the back was missing. Where James was sure he should have seen the hanging canvas wall he had seen from the outside, there was simply open air, looking out onto a view that was definitely not any view of the Hogwarts grounds. Neat, red brick buildings and huge, horny trees could be seen in the distance beyond the tent’s missing back wall. Even stranger, the lighting of the scene was completely different than the bright noon sunlight of the Hogwarts grounds. On the other side of the tent, the scene was lit with a pale pink light, the huge, fluffy clouds in the distance tinged with gold. The trees and grass seemed to sparkle, as if covered in morning dew. One of the workmen nodded at Franklyn, then turned and walked out into the strange scene, brushing his hands on his overalls.

  “Welcome to one of the worlds few trans-dimensional structures,” Franklyn said, gesturing proudly. “Our Garage, which simultaneously stands both here, in temporary residence on the grounds of Hogwarts castle, and in its permanent location in the east quadrangle of Alma Aleron University, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, United States.”

  “Great Ghost of Golgamethe,” Slughorn said, stepping forward slowly. “I’ve read of such things, but never thought I’d live to see one. Is this a naturally occurring temporal anomaly? Or is this orchestrated via Quantum Transference Charms?”

  “That’s why I invited you, Professor,” Harry said, smiling and examining the interior of the tent.

  “The former,” Franklyn said, stepping between the Dodge Hornet and the Volkswagen Beetle to make room for the group. “This is one of only three known dimensional plurality bubbles. What that means, I am told, is that this tent exists within a dimensional bridge, allowing it to span two places simultaneously. Thus, we can see on one side the noontime grounds of Hogwarts,” he gestured out the open side of the tent through which they had entered, “what you might think of as our side of the transdimensional bubble. And on the other side,” he spread a hand toward the dim landscape seen magically through the rear of the tent, “the dawn-time quadrangle of Alma Aleron University, the other side of the bubble. Meet Mr. Peter Graham, our head mechanic.”

  A man straightened up from the open hood of the Stutz Dragonfly. He smiled and waved. “Good to meet you lady and gentlemen. So to speak.”

  “Likewise,” Neville, who was closest, said a bit faintly.

  “Mr. Graham and his men are all in the American half of the bubble,” Franklyn explained. “Seeing as they are specifically trained to work on our fleet, we find it best to let them handle the care and maintenance even while we travel. As you may guess, however, they are not, technically, here.” To illustrate, Franklyn reached toward one of the workmen who was squatted nea
r the Hornet. Franklyn’s hand swept through the man as if he were smoke. The man seemed not to have noticed.

  “So,” Harry said, frowning slightly, “they can hear us, and see us, and we can see and hear them as well, but they are still there, in America, and we are still here, at Hogwarts. Therefore, we cannot touch them?”

  “Precisely,” Franklyn said.

  James spoke up. “Then how is it we can touch the cars and so can your mechanics in the States?”

  “Excellent question, my boy,” Slughorn said, patting James on the back.

  “It is indeed,” Franklyn agreed. “And that is where things get a bit, er, quantum. The simple answer is that these cars, unlike us, are multi-dimensional. You’ve all heard, I expect, the theory that there are more dimensions beyond the four we are familiar with, yes?”

  There were nods. James hadn’t heard of any such theory, but he thought he understood the idea nonetheless.

  Franklyn went on. “The theory states that there are extra dimensions, unknowable by any of our senses, but just as real. Effectively, Professor Jackson has created a spell that enables these vehicles to tap into those dimensions, allowing them to exist simultaneously in two places anytime they are inside the walls of this Garage. While they are parked here, they cross the dimensional bubble and exist in both places at once.”

  “Remarkable,” Slughorn said, running his hand along the fender of the Hornet. “So, effectively, your crew can service the vehicles regardless of where they travel, and you are afforded a view of home, even if you cannot access it.”

  “Very true,” agreed Franklyn. “It is indeed both a great convenience and a touch of comfort.”

  Neville was interested in the cars themselves. “Are they actual mechanized creatures or are they charmed machines?”

  James lost interest as Franklyn launched into a detailed explanation of the winged cars. Walking over to the other side of the tent, he looked out into the grounds of the American school. The sun had just peeked over the roof of the red brick building nearby, casting its rose-colored light onto a clock tower. It was just after six in the morning there. How utterly strange and wonderful, James thought. Tentatively, he reached out his hand, curious to see if he could feel the coolness of the morning air in that other place. He felt a strange, numbing feeling in his fingertips, and then they brushed unseen canvas. Sure enough, he couldn’t pass through or even feel the air of the place.