James Potter and the Crimson Thread

by G. Norman Lippert

  Lady Eunice ticked her gaze back toward him, narrowing her eyes. She waited, watching as the significance of this realization settled over him. James’ mind spun. Finally, he looked up at the older woman again, meeting her gaze.

  “You’re saying that Grimmauld Place isn’t just an old house,” he said in a hushed voice. “And Black… isn’t just a name. Is it?”

  Lady Eunice nodded once, slowly. “Black is the elemental colour of the force that is your family charge.”

  James blinked at her, his hair prickling. He furrowed his brow as he asked, “But, what kind of elemental force is black?”

  Lady Eunice settled against the back of her own tall chair, as if content that James had merely asked the question.

  “That, young Master Potter…” she answered, picking up her wine goblet again, “is your duty to discover. Once the day comes and the title passes onto you.”

  James’ shoulders slumped, but his mind still whirled, considering everything that the Countess had told him. What did it really mean?

  Should he tell his dad? Would Kreacher know anything about it? And what elemental force of human nature could possibly be signified by the colour black?

  Shaking him out of this reverie, an unexpected voice suddenly said, “And what plans do you have, James?” It was Mr. Vandergriff, asking on behalf of the entire table, who turned to listen.

  James blinked rapidly, glancing up at the man at the head of the table, who smiled at him expectantly.

  “Er… what? Sir?” James stammered.

  Millie’s older sister, Mathilda, offered him a chilly smile. “Upon graduation from your schooling, of course. Will you perhaps be following in the footsteps of your famous Auror father?”

  “Or perhaps those of your grandfather, James the first,” Benton suggested, grinning and elbowing Millie next to him. “If I recall, his biggest plan upon graduating Hogwarts was to marry his school sweetie and start a family.”

  “Now don’t be gouache,” Mrs. Vandergriff chided mildly. “I’m sure that young James has no interest in anyone’s romantic predictions.”

  “Entertaining though they may be,” Mathilda suggested, still eyeing James closely.

  Millie shook her head and turned pointedly to James. “Don’t listen to them. They’ve been scheming forever to get me married off to some ultra eligible, peered family.”

  “And apparently you qualify,” Susan, the young cousins’ mother, confirmed with a sympathetic nod.

  Benton agreed. “A member of the peerage, and not belonging to any pureblood family.”

  “Now, Benton,” Mr. Vandergriff reproached, his smile thinning slightly.

  James felt his cheeks redden as he glanced helplessly from face to face. Millie was still turned to him, but her eyes were on her mother.

  “Mummy becomes impatient with pureblood families. She’s very progressive that way.”

  “I’m not impatient with anyone, except perhaps the lot of you at the moment,” Mrs. Vandergriff commented primly. “I simply do not suffer the hang-ups of some other magical households regarding our heritage, and I harbor no shame about who knows it.”

  Lady Eunice sniffed, “Quite the reverse, one might think.”

  Mr. Vandergriff turned his attention to Millie. “And what of you, my dear? Still considering a year abroad? America, perhaps?” He dropped a quick wink to James.

  “Actually,” Millie said slowly, suddenly lowering her gaze. “I might consider going to America. But not for an extended holiday. I was thinking of continuing my schooling there. I’ve been looking into universities. Ilvermorny looks interesting, and Alma Aleron has a marvelous program that I’ve become rather interested in.”

  James, while glad that the attention was no longer on him, was surprised at the response Millie’s comment elicited. The smile fell away from Mr. Vandergriff’s face, while his wife looked both startled and puzzled. Mathilda’s gaze sparkled with mean interest as she watched, but Benton merely rolled his eyes and folded his napkin onto the table.

  Millie’s mother asked, “More schooling, dearest? Why, whatever for? Do you not feel your schooling at Hogwarts has been sufficient?”

  Mr. Vandergriff sighed tersely, “I told you she should have gone to Bragdon Wand.”

  “No, that’s not it at all,” Millie said, sitting up straight in her chair and looking at both of her parents. “I just… I want to do more than look pretty and say witty things at parties.”

  “Well,” Lady Eunice commented mildly, “one can’t know that until they’ve tried.”

  “Mother,” Mr. Vandergriff said, cocking his head slightly.

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Or,” Millie said, warming to the topic and aiming a pointed glance at her grandmother, “sitting around having fancy dinners while real people are serving us and then leaving here to go out and live real lives.”

  “Oh, now this is interesting,” Mathilda said, her eyes avid as she leaned slightly over the table. “What sort of ‘real’ lives are they leading, Millicent?”

  Benton shook his head at Mathilda. “Don’t pretend that you didn’t go through a phase exactly like this.”

  “It’s not a phase,” Millie said, firming her jaw, her own cheeks reddening now. “And I’ll tell you what they do. They write plays, and make music. They go on daring adventures. And they… well they build things.”

  “Build things?” Mathilda repeated, barely concealing the mocking glee in her voice.

  Lady Eunice recoiled in mild alarm. “Perhaps I am mistaken, but that sounds an awful lot like manual labour.”

  “I don’t mean building things with my hands,” Millie said, exasperated, “Although I’m not above that. I mean… designing things.

  Planning, and plotting, and drafting buildings. Things like museums and cathedrals, hotels and terminals. All on paper, where there are no limitations. And then watching it all come to life before your eyes!”

  Mathilda blinked owlishly at her sister across the table, a mixture of teasing amazement etched onto her narrow face. “Do you mean architecture? Is that what you’re on about?”

  Their mother sighed. “I seem to recall that it was ‘veterinary medicine’ in your case, Mathilda,” she said, laying a weary hand over her eyes.

  “But,” Lady Eunice interjected, perplexed, “Architecture is dwarf work. I may not know much about common workaday life, but I do know that.”

  “Not in the Muggle world,” Millie said, steeling herself.

  “Oh, bloody Nora,” her father groaned under his breath.

  “More claret, M’Lord,” Blake suggested deftly, pouring wine into the man’s nearly empty goblet.

  Mrs. Vandergriff rallied herself. “Now, Millicent, we like to be as open-minded as any modern wizarding family…”

  “A human can be an architect in the Muggle world,” Millie insisted stubbornly. “A woman can work, just like a man. Ask our new ‘servants’!” She nodded toward Blake and Topham. Blake merely stood at attention, but Topham’s gaze fluttered at the suddenly watchful faces.

  Millie went on, “In their world, anyone can be anything they want.”

  “And yet, somehow, they choose to be servants,” Lady Eunice observed archly, apparently to the candelabra.

  “I don’t care what any of you say,” Millie proclaimed, calling on every ounce of her lofty upbringing and melodramatic dignity. “I shall go to America, attend Alma Aleron University, and I shall be an architect if I wish. Even if it means working in the Muggle world.”

  This statement was met with a sharp gasp from Mrs. Vandergriff and awkward, stunned silence around the table. James could hear the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen far below. Finally, young cousin Edmund spoke up for the first time, taking advantage of the break in conversation.

  “Millie, after we do the Triumvirate, will you do a Hufflepuppet pals show for us tonight?” he asked eagerly, leaning over the table.

  No one answered. Mr. Vandergriff coughed lightly and pushed
away from the table. Lady Vandergriff dabbed her napkin at the corner of her mouth and glanced around brightly, diplomatically ignoring the awkward silence.

  Edmund looked at James and frowned quizzically. “What? Did she leave the Voldy puppet back at school or something?”

  14. – The Elven Uprising

  An hour later, still reeling from the dinner conversation, James was surprised to see just what a production the miniature presentation of “The Triumvirate” had turned out to be. The children, with Millie’s help, had raided the attic wardrobes and returned with armloads of colourful old robes, feathered hats, boots, belts, swords and scabbards, ribbons and medals, and various other costuming. A small, makeshift stage had been erected in front of the fire, bordered by actual red velvet curtains hung from an enchanted, floating rod.

  Somewhat more disconcerting were the number of people in attendance. Besides the entirety of the family, including many relatives who had arrived only that night, all of the servants were also invited to watch the performance. Balor the Cyclops was there, towering over everyone else in his intimidating slate grey uniform, his chauffer’s hat still pressed down low onto his huge cranium. James once again wondered how the skinny giant could be a Cyclops. The whole point of being such a creature, he thought, was that Cyclopi had a single giant eye that could see everything, including secrets and trickery. This is why, in ancient history, they had often been employed as bodyguards by wizarding royalty, since no plot or subterfuge escaped their monocular notice. Balor, however, appeared to have two perfectly normal-sized eyes, if solemnly cold and stoic, beneath the black brim of his ever-present cap. He did not sit, but stood stiffly behind the family, his back to a window.

  Across from the chauffer, the Muggle servants lined up behind a buffet table covered with platters of cucumber sandwiches, desserts, cupcakes, a crystal punch bowl, and a very large Christmas pudding, so sticky and redolent with sherry that James could smell it from the stage.

  Blake sat behind the table in one of the chairs provided, along with several other servants, cooks, and maids. He caught James’ eye and cocked a subtly sardonic eyebrow at him, seeming to refer to the entire room, the stage, the enormous pudding, and the immensely well-dressed finery of the witches and wizards as they settled into their seats. James remembered the smell of cigarettes and beer from the pub that Blake had taken them to the previous night. Millie calls this ‘slumming’, the young man had said. Clearly, this was the opposite for him, and the irony was palpable. Dismissing James, Blake leaned back and threw his arms around the maids on either side, crossing one polished black shoe over his knee. The older maid elbowed his arm away from her. Topham, who refused to sit, cleared his throat meaningful in Blake’s direction.

  Blake nodded obediently and sat up straight again, as if at attention.

  Topham accepted this with a satisfied nod, turning his attention back to the room at large.

  As the children, along with James and Millie, took the stage, the lights of the room dimmed to shadows and the assembly applauded dutifully. Magical spotlights lit the stage from concealed wands. Most of the family and guests smiled with indulgent good cheer, the mens’ cheeks flushed with brandy, the women sitting ramrod straight in their fine dresses, their gloved hands folded atop their knees. As the play began, the servants watched intently, many with brows knitted, themselves unfamiliar with the story, of course, and somewhat befuddled by the children’s condensed, meandering version of it.

  James and Millie both managed several different roles, as well as performed clumsy but necessary scene and costume changes while an antique, charmed Victrola played accompanying musical overtures.

  They were just nearing Treus’ famous rallying speech, with Edmund standing in his tri-corner feathered cap on the “ship’s bow” of the upholstered ottoman, when James, standing at attention behind the ottoman as one of Treus’ sailors, saw movement out of the corner of his eye, in the dimness just off-stage.

  Beneath the buffet table, half hidden by its draped bunting, a house elf hunkered. James recognized her as the very one that he had seen that morning, outside the dining room door, watching Blake with undisguised contempt. Now, her bulbous eyes were turned up, as if she could see through the bottom of the table to the goods arrayed on its surface.

  As James watched, the elf snapped her fingers.

  On the table, the enormous Christmas pudding rocked on its platter. Slowly, subtly, the pudding rose an inch off the table, resting on a cushion of magic.

  James blinked at the elf, alarm rising in his chest. Her eyes squinted with grim malice as she glanced out over the darkened room, toward the seated guests and family members. The pudding edged across the lip of the table, then floated into the shadows. None of the servants noticed, being too intent on Edmund’s rousing speech.

  Amazingly, inexplicably, the elf seemed prepared to dump the pudding onto the floor, or worse, onto the very head of someone in the audience. Blake, being seated nearest the pudding, would get the blame.

  With a start, James understood: the elf intended to sabotage Blake, and all of the Muggle servants by association.

  James lifted his wand, drew a breath to call a warning, but the elf saw him. Her gaze sharpened, and she snapped her fingers again. James’ wand hand twisted away, pointing toward the opposite wall. He gasped in surprise.

  “Sailors and men!” Edmund cried, jabbing his own toy wand toward the ceiling, “forth draw ye wands and wits to fight the violent seas this night!” The family members and guests joined in, jubilantly reciting the famous lines with him: “That by the morn we’ll hold our win, or lie in beds of ocean sand: our beaten glory’s shrine!”

  A cheer went up throughout the room. Even the Muggle servants grinned and applauded, if a bit bemusedly. James tried to call out a warning as the pudding lofted through the darkness over Mrs.

  Vandergriff’s shoulder, but his own voice was lost in the happy commotion. He struggled to aim his wand, but his arm was wrested firmly away, captured in an invisible vice, pointing in the opposite direction at a high window.

  Pointing, in fact, toward Balor, who stood against the glass like a lanky statue.

  And suddenly, with perfect clarity, James thought he understood the Cyclops’ strange secret.

  He stopped resisting the elf’s magical influence and pointed his wand at the tall man-shape instead. With a flick of his wrist, he muttered the first incantation he had ever learned: “Wingardium leviosa!”

  Balor’s chauffer hat popped off his head, freeing the man’s whispy white hair in a dandelion-like fluff. More importantly, however, it revealed the huge, closed eye in the centre of the Cyclops’ high forehead. Balor’s two human eyes snapped shut as the giant Cyclops eye opened, revealing an inky black orb the size of a lemon. The eye swiveled immediately toward the buffet table, homing in on the elf’s secret subterfuge.

  “STOP!” Balor called, his voice a deep bellow that overrode the happy cheers, cutting through them like a knife. His arm pistoned up, pointing one long, bony finger at the elf beneath the table. Her own eyes bulged even more prominently in shock as the entire assembly turned to look, to spy her in her hiding place.

  But it was too late.

  Mrs. Vandergriff’s sudden scream of surprise was partially muffled by the splat of the pudding as it dropped onto her, breaking over her head and squelching down her front, onto her lap, and all around the sofa on which she sat.

  Mr. Vandergriff leapt to his feet, clapping his hands once so that the overhead chandelier flared instantly aglow, bathing the room with light. Every eye except Balor’s swept toward Mrs. Vandergriff as she arose with a choked gasp, flinging gobbets of pudding in all directions.

  The people seated nearest her gasped and recoiled, eyes wide.

  On the makeshift stage, Millie clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes boggling at her mother’s predicament. James at first thought that she was horrified at the sight, but then he saw her shoulders convulse and realized that she
was, just barely, restraining a bray of shocked laughter.

  Mrs. Vandergriff shook her head, her own eyes blazing. Then, with a decisive jerk, she turned toward the buffet table. The elf had not moved. Her knobby shoulders slumped and her gaze dropped to the floor, but the set of her scowl, defiant and hopeless, did not change.

  “Heddlebun,” Mrs. Vandergriff called hoarsely, her voice only faintly trembling. “Would you please step out so I can address you properly?”

  The elf complied with no hesitation. She seemed to know what was coming. Eyes still on the floor, she sidled from beneath the table and silently approached her mistress.

  Mrs. Vandergriff raised her hands and, with as much dignity as she could muster, daintily tugged at the fingertips of her left ivory glove, which was now smeared with chocolate, studded with wet crumbs. She withdrew it, allowed it to dangle in her right hand, and then dropped it into the waiting hands of the elf.

  It was Millie’s father who spoke next, his voice low.

  “Heddlebun, I don’t know why you’ve done this. And, quite honestly, I don’t believe I care. You’ve served this family for as long as I can remember. But you are a free elf now. It breaks my heart to say it, but please be off the premises by midnight tonight. Am I understood?”

  Heddlebun’s voice was small and calm. “Yes, Master.”

  “I’m not your master anymore,” Mr. Vandergriff said. The words seemed to pain him. “Please, take your glove and go.”

  “Yes, M’lord.”

  James thought that Heddlebun might offer some explanation for her action, but she did not. Holding the glove draped across her hands as if it were a dead frog, the elf turned and threaded for the door, her large feet making no noise on the carpet. Topham looked down at her, and then away, averting his eyes as if from a rude gesture. Mr.

  Vandergriff tilted an eye at Balor, who nodded gravely. Without a word, the tall Cyclops retrieved his cap from a nearby chair and moved to follow the elf, apparently to assure that she vacated as ordered.

  Heddlebun sensed this and paused at the door, waiting for Balor to escort her. She glanced back only once, but not at the Cyclops. Instead, her gaze landed on James, briefly but unmistakably. There was blame in her glare, but it was cold, strangely emotionless.