I started this 6 months ago, planning it to be for an individual assignment for UNI. I've since developed a nasty case of schizophrenia and have subsequently changed field of study, to psychology, rather than creative industries (creative writing and cultural studies,) meaning that the continuation of this was no longer necessary. I am however and always will be interested in writing, and this piece, 10 000 words in, remains the tastiest of all my exploits so I will continue and see how it turns out :D
Ps. I write this as if there will be six sequels, so the first book will not be an epic all out fantastical affair—it will deal mostly with James and his friends, the exploration of their new world, and a journey into the darker side of the wizarding culture. Hope you enjoy and stay with me as I churn out chapter after chapter, becoming a better writer all the way! I will be doing a lot of reading on the site too, so point me in the right direction! Let me know if you wanna be a beta reader!
Preamble
Pain, anguish, fear, sorrow, regret. There was nothing else. Searching, searching. Where was the cure? He searched for what seemed like eons. Slimed his way through the pain of the lowliest of lows, scraped his being upon the highest peaks of his jagged regrets. Suddenly he was gaining pace. He was becoming freer? Faster! Faster!
"Here it comes, Ginerva. Push! Push!"
'I CANT,' she screams.
'Just a little further, Ginny'
'Shut it, I CAAAAAAANT,' but she's only screaming for the sake of it now.
A pause. Harry feels a moment of intense vertigo. 'It's not crying, why isn't it crying?' He represses the urge to hyperventilate as some innate sense of decorum kicks in. His mind flickers for a moment, reviewing the notion with its lick of irony.
Silence. The doctor wipes his forehead. Takes a moment to check the pulse. 'I… it's a boy Harry. Congratulations!'
'A boy? A boy!' He forgets his fears as a rush of bittersweet love fills his eyes with tears.
'James,' Ginny says to the silent boy she's been handed and is now holding. James stares into Harry's' eyes, unsmiling, unblinking.
Ch 1
Witch Circles
It was soon discovered that James was a very different boy. Now it is important that you understand this. Not only after his birth was this discovered but as a natural progression this was usually discovered, and usually very quickly, because James was a very different boy.
Presently, he was drawing with chalk inside a tent that sat in the corner of his room. The tent, much like all bits and pieces of the wizarding world, was something remarkable to be noted about, for inside the tent was much more space than the outside of the tent appeared to suggest. The tent itself was one the family used for whenever they stayed at the hollow, where the Weasely's lived—which was so convoluted around times such as these, due to the forever growing family, that they no longer had the space for their daughter Ginny and her family. The tent thus, now tattered from the frequent use, had seen better days.
Inside this tent there were boards of melamine stacked against walls and patch-worked on the floors. The furniture had been magically shifted into the storage chest, which stood solid and wooden at the very back of the raised floor of the dining room. On the boards were circles of chalk, drawn painstakingly over a period of several months.
They were spells of many kinds these chalk circles, but they were of a particular nature. They were circles of power. Witch circles. An archaic brand of wizardry, one that James had dedicated most of the past three months to ever since the portrait of Dumbledore had taken it upon himself to suggest a new hobby for the boy to detract from the incidents that kept on arising from the Persian war staff James had received for his birthday.
James knelt on hand and knee, his long black hair with its flicker of crimson hung ratty and for a few days unwashed. Books from the Hogwarts library and from Dumbledore old private collection, retrieved from old colleagues, lay littered and mostly ill-kept around him.
It was a hard process, made even more difficult by the fact that he could not try out the spells due to the ministry of magic's 51st decree, which stated that no underage wizard or witch may perform spells without the supervision of a qualified professor, or at an appropriate time, which was namely at school. And James would be starting school this year. He was actually waiting to visit Diagon Alley that very day to purchase the books and equipment detailed on the letter that had come via owl, along with the daily prophet and the witches weekly all but a few days ago.
This had been his daily ritual for as long as he could remember: to get up in the morning, to read the daily prophet which lay on the table, rippled and creased from the usage of both Ginny and Harry previously, then to eat his breakfast. After this, these days, he would retreat into his room to continue with another circle, which would be finished within the day, archived and stacked along the wall with the others. Sometimes he'd take calls from his muggle school friends on the magically rigged telephone he had hooked up in his room alongside the muggle TV, stereo system and Sega master system (all magically powered by Hendrix's power profibulator). In this way, today was what was planned to be a usual day, however, today, the mail hadn't come.
There was a soft call from outside the tent. 'James?'
James didn't stir for a moment. He hung in the suspension of the fact that he didn't want to leave his work just yet but was also aware of the fact that he'd just been called. If he waited just a little while longer he was likely to be called again.
'James?'
He lurched up, scarecrow like, stubborn and peeved, but shook himself of that and marched out of the tent to face whatever mystery awaited him. He walked to the door and opened it. The hallway was bare and as crooked and dusty as ever, not to mention cluttered with rugs and pot plants and magical and muggle artifacts alike that his father and grandfather vied for space for.
'James?' The voice was no more impatient than before. In fact, it was complacent and irritatingly passive. The kind of irritation that brings on laughter when one is trying not to laugh but cannot help it. The strangest thing about this voice was that it was coming, not from the kitchen, but further down the hall: from James's room itself.
'Dumbledore,' James awed to no one but himself. Professor Dumbledore, known as that by most with the ability to recall him, was dead. The ex Hogwarts headmaster had, upon his death, gifted a select few with his portrait. The potters owned one of the five. The most significant thing about this portrait, and indeed all such portraits of the wizarding world, was that it talked and moved and tended to do so quite frequently.
Dumbledore must have been a most peculiar fellow, thought James. James had never known the man but had grown to know the portrait quite well. The Dumbledore of the portrait had taken quite a liking to appearing in the poster of James favorite band, the pumpkin heads. Whenever this happened, James would be delighted, and delight was something that James could proudly say he hardly ever had the misfortune of experiencing.
James wondered back into the room like a puppy and sat on his four poster bed, sinking quite a way into the voluptuous blood red doona. What had taken Dumbledore over from Hogwarts into Harry's study, and through the paintings of the hallway of their crooked old house into James's poster? Hogwarts would be a busy and interesting place these days—what, with the start of the school year next week and all! No doubt Dumbledore would have a lot to busy himself with. The old professor stood unmoving by the lead singer of the pumpkin heads who had a giant pumpkin stuck on his head with mean looking eyes and a jagged mouth cut into it. His name was Henry. He regarded Dumbledore with suspicion.
"Hello, James," said Dumbledore
"Hi, Dumbledore."
"You are well?"
"Yes."
"Excited about the upcoming school year then?
"Yes."
'You are enjoying those books I acquired for you, I trust?'
James nodded. Dumbledore nodded, slightly recumbent as if pleased with a business deal.
'Oh… that's good then… Have you yet tried the sepentra circle of sleep? I hear that is a most powerful spell, needn't even be activated to gain use of its power to put one to sleep.'
'Oh… no. Not yet. I sleep fine enough as it is.'
Dumbledore sighed and stroked his Merlin beard as he looked down to his feet. He appeared to be searching for some way to better hold James'.... He of a sudden looked up with a sparkle in his eye. 'The death eaters mounted an attack on the central post office this morning.'
'Really?' James asked, taken. The death eaters, regardless of the fall of Voldemort, still maintained their activities till the present day, but were for more of a secret society of purebloods these days than an ugly monster. Only, from time to time, they played pranks on the ministry as a celebration of power.
'Yes,' he chuckled, 'I suspect it was a prank designed to christen the first years for the coming school year. No doubt they had a hand in it as well.'
James had always been interested in the activities of death eaters. He was frightened of them, but fatally attracted to the notion of them. Dumbledore was historically cautious of saying anything about the death eaters to James lest he get inspired, but had more recently failed to the charms of the young, eager boy.
'How did they do it?' he asked of Dumbledore.
'Quite an ingenious design—they sent cursed coins to the mailing office which then turned into little golden owls that raced around the office tearing at mail and pecking at the real owls. I was fortunate enough to hear word of it early on from Hageldus Quaterforth of the third portrait on the left in the entrance hall of the post office so I caught most of the spectacle myself. Word has it they shredded most of the daily prophet for today.'
'Oh?'
'Yes, and Mr. Malfoy is donating the cost of the losses to the daily prophet, which is no small feat. However, he still denies knowing anything about the death eaters, and denies he has anything to do with them, although we, of the Hogwarts principal portraits, think differently on that account.'
From through the open door there was a smell wafting in from down the hallway. And down at the end of said which hallway there was a smell wafting in from the kitchen. A rich, saucy smell. Pancakes, bacon rashes and eggs floated from the kitchen bench over to the table where Harry sat with his head flat on the thick wooden bulk of it and his hands pushed into the short, scruffy locks of his hair. He wasn't hungry.
Ginny sat and begun styling Harry's hair into spikes and ruffles with her wand. She knew what was the matter, but was tired of Harry's mood, and his insistence that the matter, which was the matter, was not the matter at all, and that nothing was the matter. It was impossible to convince Ginny of this. He knew this, she knew this. She knew she knew this more than he. She saw more of him in her stubborn and strange son than he cared to admit.
'Eat your bacon.'
'Call James!'
'Eat your bacon.'
'I'm not hungry.'
'Is it even that bad Harry?'
He scowled up at her. 'It's not bad, I never said it was bad.'
'But you're disappointed…'
'We don't even know yet!'
'So you admit that you will be disappointed.'
'Are you implying that there's not even a chance?'
'You can't let him know you're not proud of him.'
He growled. 'He'll have the choice. I know it. He'll have the choice like I did. The hat will sing its song, his name will be called, and he'll get the choice.'
'But it's the choice you're worried about.' It was a guess. A question. She was trying to understand him. If she could understand him then she could get under his skin, and if she could get under his skin then she could fix him.
'YES.'
She blew out impatiently. 'Eat your bacon.'
'I don't want bacon. I want pancakes. Bring me the maple syrup.'
'Smells great in here!' James had walked in.
'Oh, James! Want some bacon?'
'Bacon? M'mm. oil. Sounds good, Mum. What are you two arguing about? I heard it from down the hall." Harry and Ginny looked about themselves, abashed, but didn't say anything. 'Dumbledore's just called,' James continued. 'Says that the death eaters attacked the post office.' He snickered and looked from one parent to the other but neither saw the humour in it. He sat down and begun with his breakfast.
They always had bacon and pancakes on Sundays. It was part of the weekly routine. Hermione was always talking about routine and the necessity of cleanliness. Ginny dearly needed it, because, in all honesty, she was a complete grot, caring only for cooking and cross-stitch. Everything else was paltry at best to Ginny, The family had decided on this one innovation, this one Sunday a week, as a mainstay and a must for the potters. Harry, too, was untidy at the best of times, but his shed was as scatty as hell! Jumbles upon jumbles of assorted crap was crammed into it: machinery parts for Sirius's bike, which he was forever trying to put back together; Bottles of pickled olives from the tree in the orchard; old school books and broken brooms, and a many manner of things like decanting sets and leaky cauldrons and a long shelf full of drawers and compartments completely jam packed with magical ingredients, all of which he absolutely refused to throw out or sell.
Sunday was the day when the family would come over to visit. They would have either a late lunch or dinner, and then they would stick around for re-runs of Sabrina the teenage witch. James would admit he rather fancied her from time to time, sitting square in front of the box in the jarrah and rammed earth lounge room on the bean bag which had been absolutely adored into ruins.
Every Sunday without fail, they'd come. Sometimes early enough to hear the hymns from the little church that stood across the way serenade their little countryside neighbourhood, sometimes not. But not this Sunday. This Sunday was special. They were all to head to Diagon alley, the busy magical markets which lay hidden in the middle of London. Which was, of course, invisible to anyone but the magical folk themselves. The Sabbath was its busiest day. And this one especially so.
Lily emerged from her haven of pink and blue cushions and doonas and fluffy bunnies and fairy mobiles and posters of proud unicorns and pretty princesses. She scowled at James, then sat down delectably. This made James snicker through his nose and into his meal.
'Mum, can you tell James to stop eating so loudly?'
'I'm not though, Lily!' he whined sorrowfully.
'Mum, can you ask Lily to be quiet,' Albus asked matter-of-factly as he wondered wearily into the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a fat little curled fist. 'Her voice is so… so abrasive.
'Nice one, Sev,' James laughed in disbelief, his sides feeling like splitting with the effort from this early morning affront on his tightly packed stomach. It was advisable, he now claimed to himself in his head, that one should not laugh with a full stomach for they were likely to drown in tears and have their sides split and their guts spilled out onto the floor.
James would often devise these words of wisdom to himself and commit them to memory. His parents were quite sick of them, but Albus, his youngest sibling, was absolutely fond of them.
Albus was a genius, but rather peculiar at the best of times, and geniusly funny, but not for the reasons that he thought. As soon as he had first discovered how funny he was he'd taken to learning jokes so he could perform them, but these jokes were so poorly chosen and terribly played out that they were perhaps more hilarious for the inherent ridiculousness of this irony. He had not quite grasped his fatal flaw, but was in the stages of it, James assumed. This was, however, no issue for him, and wouldn't be when he finally discovered the apparent soberness of his wit, for Albus was far more interested in his studies and was in the top of all his classes at muggle school, and was making his way through a good lot of those books that James kept on borrowing from Dumbledore.
James himself, having no such aptitude, honed his talents instead through his copious amounts of practice; and this, was perhaps James's biggest talent. His endurance was of legendary scope and measure. Much like his aunt Hermione's. He was most proficient at scheduling too. A clear timetable would always be balancing and shuffling in his mind, and his punctuality was nothing short of magical. The TV would be turned on at exactly the right moment, his bread would pop out of the toaster just as his eggs were boiled. On those weekends when Harry would work late, James would be at the foot of the fireplace with a mug of coco just as Harry flooed in, tired from a day office in the underground ministry of magic building, aurors department.
'So James,' Lily began, rolling her pancake in what little maple syrup there was, after likely about a minute of conversation planning. 'Are you excited about your trip to Diagon alley for today?'
'Yes, most,' James returned pompously.
Ginny sniggered from across the table and almost knocked over the syrup she was reaching for. Albus looked up in confusion.
Lily cleared her throat. 'Oh. I expect you'll see cousin Victoire there, too.' Lily did this from time to time. She appeared to think she was a lady from the 18th century the way she pranced about sometimes. Maybe it was her complex about not being as beautiful as Victoire their cousin, Bill and Fleurs second and youngest child, or maybe she was just daft. Either way it amused the hell out of James. However, he didn't like to rile his sister up too much, she was after-all quite sensitive, so instead of another nasty reply, he dealt out a casual conversation starter.
'We'll see most of the family there. We've planned to have some ice-cream. And then some lunch, isn't that right, Scarface.' James called his father that sometimes, after the Brian De Palma film starring Al Pacino. This tragedy for Harry was born out of James's incessant love for muggle films, and he was perhaps one of the only wizards able to make the connection, but never the less it had caught on like a wild fire at the office ever since father-son day six years prior. James hadn't watched it at this time, of course, but he'd read about it in one of the film magazines that his grandfather Arthur kept stashed away in the attic at the Hollow. James had loved to nose around in the attic when he'd been younger and not so interested in adult conversation.
Harry looked up mournfully. He was already drained from the long shift he'd had to work the night before, and as a prank James had put coffee in his coco when he'd returned home, so unfortunately he'd had a total of one hours sleep, and scattered at that. Ginny was in no mind to let him sleep in either, for the chickens needed feeding, and the ripe fruit picking, and she didn't have the mind to do these things alone.
'Yes, we're going to Amber's Ambrosia once all the shoppings done.' He looked at James, that kind of Harry smile on his face. 'It's a new place. It has just opened. Kursk's father Theodore told me about it. He say's it's absolutely fantastic. The chef there's French, fresh in from France. Has to have one of those Translator charms cast on him every day. He was quite paranoid when he first arrived and apparently put up a grand fight of counter curses when he thought he was being attacked and about to be kidnapped for his recipes'
'Well, no arguments here. It'll be nice to break it in.' It wasn't totally clear what Albus meant by this.
'I was thinking perhaps we could go visit Treasure before we get to Diagon alley,' Lily suggested. Treasure was a Unicorn, and Lily was part of a young witch trotting club. All the lucky girls were. It wasn't house particular, as many of the social clubs used to be in the old days, but it was specific about the fact that no muggles were allowed to join or even know of the existence of the Withers Valley Trotting Club. It was quite a time consuming affair. Since the unicorn was only young, they kept it at the club, but in only one years time she would be able to take it home to pasture out back with the horses, and stable alongside Buckbeak's son Killfeather, the hippogriff.
'No, I think you've had enough of Treasure for one week.' Albus, perhaps because he was the youngest and doted upon by Ginny much too much, rather thought he was in control of the family and right to offer suggestion whenever he had a sentence at the ready, and was deliberately contrary to Lily most the time and for no reason that either of Harry and Ginny could see. Lily minded little. It was her older brother that could get to her with ease. James was usually careful about her feelings, but every so often he'd zing her good, falling into the loving arms of his own hysterical comic genius after he did so, the sweet sound of Lily's maniacal yelling and blame throwing and cursing, music to his ears.
'I think that'd be fine, love. What do you think, dear.' Harry was on auto pilot, staring at the crumbs of pancake remaining on his plate, dipping his pinky into the pool of maple syrup on the plate every so often. He didn't know why he was using his pinky. It wasn't like it was a ritual or anything. Usually he didn't play with his food.
Why was he so insistent on acting strangely this morning. She didn't want him to confuse the boy. 'Sure, I think that's a great idea. Clean up, Lily!' She called as if she was a drill sergeant and her daughter a soldier. Lily moaned and collected the dished with her bare hands, because of course Lily wasn't old enough to use magic yet. Not even in her own house.
