Chapter 10: Folly, Fortitude, and Fortune
James could see the top of Gryffindor Tower from this window, if he looked into the distance and up slightly. On a broom, he tended not to look down often – but on solid ground, this height was almost mind-boggling. He squinted through the wealth of silvery light that the bloated moon was lavishing on the grounds. Its fullness was making the tower almost as bright as day, and the blue flame torches that flanked the window only added to the effect.
After a few moments, James pulled back and turned. Richard Murphy was pacing in front of him.
"Three minutes more," a girl said from her seat on the stone stairs, looking up from her wrist and peering at James through wire-rimmed spectacles. "We can't wait much longer, otherwise the Prefects will start complaining."
James didn't understand. He thought he'd given the message as clear as the moon was bright outside. It was difficult to miss Ravenclaw Tower, what with it being one of the three tallest towers in the castle.
Serra let out a loud sigh, standing. "Let's go."
"There's still two minutes left," James protested weakly.
"Exactly," Serra answered, "and if she's not here by now, she's not coming."
Almost as if on cue, someone came darting up the stairs. James's heart leapt when he saw the shock of bouncing red hair… then it dropped as the hair's owner did, as she caught an unshod foot on the last stair and teetered forward horribly…
"Brynne!" James exclaimed, jumping forward. He managed to get there in time; he staggered against her weight as she righted herself. She didn't move immediately. Something in the pit of James's stomach fluttered when –
"Alright, you two," Serra said. Brynne separated from James and glared at Serra. "We've got a little over a minute."
So they finished the last few stairs. They came to the entrance to the common room, which, to the shock of everyone but Serra, was still closed. Before them was a large door, and centered upon it was a knocker in the shape of an eagle, wrought from bronze. The mouth – or beak, rather – began to open, and a voice issued forth:
"What began at the beginning," asked an ethereal woman's voice that seemed to echo off the walls behind them, "and ends at the end, is nobody's enemy, yet nobody's friend?"
James's head was starting to hurt. He hated riddles. It was small wonder that he never tried visiting up here. But Serra seemed to know it was coming:
"Time," she answered simply. The eyes of the bronze eagle glowed with blue light and the door swung open very slowly. Serra led the others inside. A tired-looking girl in bluish robes that must have been one of the Ravenclaw prefects glanced at them and scribbled something with the quill in her hand. Brynne's blue eyes were darting every which way with interest as she took in her new surroundings. The Ravenclaw common room had an unusually high ceiling. You could almost test-fly a broom in a space this cavernous. With a smirk, James wondered if anyone had ever tried it.
"I was starting to think you wouldn't show up," Serra remarked, a wry smile crossing her lips.
"I completely forgot," Brynne said. "I signed to go to Gryffindor and then realized it at the last moment. When I went to go and get it changed, Bellamy started giving me grief, then the girls tried blocking the door…"
"Girls?" asked Serra.
"My roommates?" Brynne said with a questioning tone. "Thought a know-it-all like you would know that."
"Well, that's no way to treat your host," Serra said coolly. "I've got half a mind to have you thrown out now."
"Can both of you give it a rest already?" asked James, kneading the bridge of his nose. Just then, they walked by a sight James would think more appropriate to a Gryffindor common room. A brown-haired girl was giggling madly and halfheartedly pushing against a very handsy teenaged boy that was half the size of the couch.
"Not now, Donnie," her words said, but her facial expression indicated that she was liking the attention. The young man surfaced, looking up.
"Nothing to see here, kid. Move along," he said, looking down toward the girl and trying to plant another kiss on her. Then he did a double take…
His expression was so priceless, James had to hold in a laugh.
"Potter," he said, a bit dimly.
It wasn't James who responded, but Serra. "Isn't there somewhere else you two can canoodle? We need this couch."
Donaghan Craig stood, and James immediately thought that this confrontation may not have been the best idea. Craig was of age – a seventeen-year-old Beater whose well-muscled body was already close to reaching its peak. James had always known Craig was a well-built bloke, but seeing him in a simple shirt and jeans for the first time as opposed to school or Quidditch robes, he now started to wonder how the hell anybody survived taking a Bludger from him. Craig looked from left to right – from James to Serra, back to James…
A twisted smile broke over his face.
"Well, I hadn't heard anything about this little development," he said.
"They didn't…" the girl sat up. On the ground, Cordelia Byrne looked much less intimidating. She was smaller than James thought, and being next to Donaghan Craig only exaggerated it. Her brown hair, usually in a braid, was tousled today. James wondered if it always looked like that. "Not that you would pay attention to this sort of thing, but… it's those two that are dating." She indicated Murphy and Serra with the fingers on her right hand. "It's your lucky day… I was just leaving, actually."
"What?" Donaghan Craig suddenly sounded like a seven-year-old child that had just been informed he wouldn't be getting any dessert.
"I'm dead tired, actually," Cordelia admitted. "Much less after practice today. But I'm sure it'll all pay off when we beat the pants off Gryffindor in the spring."
She and Craig both leered at James.
"You should get some sleep," James replied simply. "And while you're at it, you could dream about that."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," Cordelia was starting to simper a little bit. "We all know, that went so well for Gryffindor last year…"
And she strode away with Craig following.
"Someone's full of herself," Murphy commented observantly. "And has a gift for getting bollocks information."
"You look so offended," Brynne said. "Does the idea of you going out with Serra bother you that much?"
"Yeah," Serra echoed, putting her hands on her hips. "Does it?"
James made a mental note to take the mickey out of Murphy for the next several days. His flustered expression was absolutely priceless.
"Well… no," Murphy said unconvincingly. "I'm just wondering how she thought that, is all."
"Where everyone else got it," sighed Serra, sounding a bit exasperated as she shrugged her shoulders and flopped onto the sofa. "She and Donaghan must have seen us in Madam Puddifoot's last month."
"Just because we were in Madam Puddifoot's together doesn't mean—"
"To be fair, we were pretending to be on a date," Serra said. "Or, at least I was."
"And we remember how that ended," Murphy groaned. "My jaw still hurts," he added darkly, rubbing the place where Madison Peakes had slapped him almost a month ago.
"What?" Brynne was nonplussed.
"It's a long story," James said.
"Maybe you'd know it if you weren't just an ickle second year," Serra teased.
James grimaced as he glanced at Brynne. She just smiled.
"Serra," she said in a sickeningly sweet voice as she approached the couch, standing between Serra and the fire. "Have you ever heard of the Curse of the Bogies?"
"Can we not do this right now?" James asked.
"Geroff, James," Brynne semi-laughed, shrugging his hands away. James wasn't even sure when he had grabbed her shoulder, but now she was looking toward the fireplace and blushing furiously.
"Aren't you two adorable," Serra said flatly. "Now, can you lot please sit down? You're making everyone nervous."
James glanced around. Indeed, the Ravenclaws that were left in the common room were peeking up from their books and parchments – except for a small, mousy, dark-haired girl far away in the corner. She seemed enthralled with her work – whatever it was. She seemed to be scribbling. There was no way she was writing an essay. James had written enough essays to know that one's quill didn't fly all around the paper like that. At least, not when you were writing an essay a Professor would have to read and grade. Professor Wenster was as old as magic itself and could no longer see very well. Professor Gladstone would dock your marks out of annoyance. Professor Malcolm would make you do the essay over, if you caught him in a good mood that day… and James could count the times he had seen Malcolm in a good mood on one hand – and still have fingers left over.
Speaking of Malcolm…
"So… I'm going to be staying behind," Serra said after the four were all seated. "There are still school things happening, believe it or not, and I've fallen behind."
"Behind? You?" Murphy was either astonished or joking – James couldn't tell.
"Oh, shut up, Richard," Serra replied, slapping his shoulder. Twisting her face into a dewy smile, she added, "Don't miss me too much, hmm?"
Murphy ignored her and turned to look at James. "So it's just us two, then?"
"Looks like it," James answered simply.
Murphy paused. "I'm not going to Madam Puddifoot's with you. Let's just get that out of the way." Brynne giggled.
"I'm not going to Madam Puddifoot's, full stop," James scoffed, a smirk on his face. "I hate tea."
"Really?" asked Brynne genuinely. "You don't know what you're missing."
"Well, that's settled for next year," Serra muttered. When James, Brynne, and Murphy glanced at her, she added unconvincingly, "What? Did I say something?"
James frowned. "Of course, I'll be off with Lefty at first. I've read up on everything, so I'm hoping he doesn't keep me all bloody day like he did last month. Maybe we ought to meet up at the 'Sticks after?"
"Fat chance of that," Murphy replied. "Weather's supposed to be much better tomorrow than it was last month."
"They're calling for snow," Serra pointed out.
"Exactly," Murphy answered. "Snow – which is a lot better than cold rain, if you ask me."
"Malcolm and Ambrose are the chaperones tomorrow," Serra said. Traditionally, two heads of House went along on each trip, with the other two staying back at the castle. "And Hagrid. Hagrid always goes."
James hadn't seen much of Hagrid since he'd elected not to take Care of Magical Creatures. Simply put, it wasn't too useful for his Auror track. He went with Ancient Runes instead. After all, you never knew if the next Dark wizard you came across would have an unhealthy fascination with thousand-year-old magic. He also added Muggle Studies to prove that, yes, he did listen to his father's advice every once in a while. Truth be told, though, he'd always wanted to know more about the world where his father spent the early part of his childhood. Some of the things he had found out, though, made him very glad to have grown up a wizard. Like that part about Muggle children attending school for well over a decade. Too bloody long, James thought, and they probably spent most of it trying to learn things that they wouldn't have had to know if they were able to do magic. Although Muggle tools fascinated him… his mother told him he was much like his Grandad Weasley in that.
"That'll be a brilliant carriage ride, then," Murphy chuckled sarcastically. "They don't like each other much."
James, even in his terror at possibly being expelled at the end of last year, did note that Professor Ambrose had no problem disagreeing very publicly with Malcolm. At a glance, he guessed that they were (along with Professor Gladstone) around the same age and wondered if it was an old school grudge that was the source of the tension.
"Damn it," James muttered to himself in displeasure. "Would have been much easier if Neville was going…"
"Longbottom, you mean?" asked Serra. She shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't think Malcolm trusts him much."
"Because he's a Gryffindor, right?" James said. "I almost forgot, he doesn't like Gryffindors by default."
"That's part of it," Serra said. "Might be simply because of his reputation. If you were a wizard that wanted to start trouble in Hogwarts, which of the House heads would you least want to deal with? The one that helped bring down the last wizard that started trouble in Hogwarts, right?"
"That's a good point," noted James. "Of course, I get the feeling that Professor Ambrose wouldn't protect Malcolm, either. Just a hunch… I don't know why…"
"He fancies her," Brynne said.
James, Murphy, and Serra all swiveled their heads in her direction.
"Her?" James repeated. "Who?"
"Gladstone," Brynne said, displaying a smile as she glanced at Serra briefly. "You haven't picked up on that by now, Serra? I thought knowing the latest gossip was your hat."
"I don't waste my time on gossip," Serra said, calmly but still sounding like Brynne had touched a nerve. "I follow stories that are important, just like my parents do."
"Parents?" asked Brynne. "You think I'm supposed to know who your parents are?"
"If you were smart, you would," Serra said proudly.
"Never mind Serra's parents – I'm sure they're brilliant people," Murphy addressed Brynne and Serra in the same breath. "I'm interested to know how you came up with this when no one can get Ambrose to say two words outside of class."
Ithamar Ambrose was a brilliant Potions professor, but was notoriously bookish and borderline antisocial. One would normally assume a man like that would be a doormat to a bunch of rambunctious young wizards living out their rebellious adolescent years. But it was just that fear of the unknown (at least, James guessed) that kept order in his classroom most of the time.
"Ambrose used to talk to her whenever he got the chance last year," Brynne said. "And now he… doesn't. It's actually sort of sad…"
"Who cares?" asked Murphy. "It's not our business. At least that's not."
"Maybe Professor Gladstone will stop ignoring him if she ever figures out Malcolm's off his rocker," Brynne mentioned. "That would be nice…"
"You're playing matchmaker now?" chuckled Serra. "Maybe you should worry about your own house before deciding to be someone else's maid."
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Brynne hotly. Serra didn't answer; she just gazed smugly at the flames.
Albus
The Great Hall was not entirely devoid of students for Saturday's lunch, but the lack of most of the older half of Hogwarts was very noticeable, and it served to make the Great Hall look much, much larger by comparison. It was also possible to pick out faces of people he knew as he entered. There was the gossiping girl pair from his year, Nina Edgerton and Liz O'Connell. Nina waved furiously at him as he passed, beaming. Albus hardly noticed. Rowan Lester and his new friend (or 'old' friend, Albus didn't quite know how to call it) Melinda Barrett sat with Alphonse Gold, the only first year on Gryffindor's Quidditch team. At the far table sat James's strange redheaded friend from Slytherin, Brynne Walter. Bespectacled Tellius Nott pored over what looked like a copy of the Daily Prophet next to her, and across from her was…
Albus felt a hot surge inside him. His entire body clenched and he was assaulted, not for the first time, with a very strong urge to walk over to the boy and punch him in the face. But Neville and Professor Gladstone were standing (or sitting) vigil over the students at the staff table. Such a move would be ill-advised… and for what? Albus could hardly remember why the sight of Phillip Bletchley made him so angry.
Then he caught sight of them.
"Al—"
He whirled around very briefly. He could have sworn he'd heard his name called. But the only person who was anyone near him was quiet, mousy Iris Conrad, who, other than answering the occasional question in class, never talked much. She hadn't even shown up at Gryffindor Tower this weekend like she sometimes did when the Houses mixed. She wasn't looking at him; she had gone back to her lunch. No wonder she was so small, Albus thought. She wasn't eating much – either she didn't have an appetite or she just didn't eat very much as a rule. He stared at her for a moment. She never noticed, her eyes fixed on the plate in front of her – or maybe just the table.
"Al."
This time, someone certainly did call for him, tapping him on the shoulder to announce their presence. Albus whirled around and found himself looking right into the pale face and gray eyes of Scorpius Malfoy. He looked grim… well, more grim than usual.
"We need to talk," Scorpius said simply.
"I don't want to talk about it," Albus said quickly, turning away from him. But Scorpius grabbed hold of his arm a second time and turned him. There was a hard look in his eyes.
"I wasn't asking."
Yet, when the two sat down at the table and Albus started to gather food for his plate, Scorpius said nothing for a very long time. And when Scorpius spoke, Albus found (somewhat amusingly) that he was very nearly as terse as his normal self. "This has to stop."
"You're ordering me around now?" asked Albus, his anger flaring again.
"I'm going easy on you," Scorpius said. "Rose wanted to lock you and Sylvia in an empty classroom until you figured out what the problem was."
"There's no 'problem'," Albus answered, squirming. Scorpius tilted his head, almost in disbelief.
"I'm not an expert at this sort of thing," he said, "but, usually, when a person stops talking to one of his best friends for no reason at all, there's some sort of problem. Even if you're trying to tell yourself different."
Scorpius looked far down the table. Albus already knew Rose and Sylvia were sitting there. He made a point of not looking. Scorpius leaned in toward him.
"Greta's saying if Sylvia doesn't shape up her flying soon, she's going to have her off the team."
Albus's mouth tightened. "This is about Quidditch? Isn't that kind of selfish?"
"You're joking, right?" Scorpius snapped. "I'm not the one that up and left my friends and didn't explain anything. I'm not selfish. You're not even this selfish. Do you really not care about what you're putting her through? I don't believe that."
"I'm not the one crying myself to sleep at night," Albus said. It was so awful, so mean, so out of character… and apparently it didn't surprise Scorpius one bit. He had a response ready, almost quicker than thought.
"But you're not really sleeping, either."
Albus stared blankly ahead for a moment.
"What am I supposed to do, then?" he asked. His voice broke (not like that was an unusual thing nowadays) and he felt his throat start to clench. "It's not that easy. Talking to her scares me. Ever since the fire, it's… different."
"Talking to everyone scared me when I got here last year," Scorpius said. "I hope you're not looking for sympathy. What's so scary about Sylvia that you haven't seen already?"
Once again, Albus tried to find words for it and failed.
"You're a brilliant Quidditch player," he finally said. "My dad told me you're already better than he ever was."
This actually caught Scorpius off guard. His face flushed. "You're… he said that? But what's that got to do with… well…"
"Rose is brilliant, Sylvia's a great Chaser…" Albus said. "What am I? Just a boring boy with a famous name that's not really good at anything…"
"Rubbish," said Scorpius. "Where would the three of us be without you? Rose is brilliant, yes, but she's also a little bit… well… don't make that face at me. You know what I'm talking about. And as good as you say I am…"
Scorpius swallowed hard.
"I wouldn't have made the walk all the way down to the pitch that morning," he said. "I would've changed my mind… just went back up to bed, went back to sleep… I was alone and scared half to death when I came to Hogwarts. Don't forget, I know all about having a famous name. But people loved your father – still do. My father, though? My grandfather?"
He shook his head, smiling ironically.
"'They're never gonna let a Malfoy onto Gryffindor's Quidditch team.' That's what I told myself. Especially when I saw James was trying out, too. That was before I knew he'd much rather be a Chaser," he went on.
"Cole would've been an idiot–" Albus stopped himself at the sight of a raised-eyebrow look from Scorpius. "Okay, Cole was an idiot, but he would've had to be a blind idiot to keep you off the team."
"Family grudges make people act stupid," said Scorpius. "Just look at how Vaisey treats me. And poor Lena's caught in the middle with a friend she's known for years and a cousin she just met…"
Scorpius grimaced sadly.
"That's great," said Albus. "But what am I good at?"
Scorpius looked down at the table and then looked straight into Albus's eyes.
"You're good at being good."
Albus's face couldn't help display just how ridiculous his mind thought this notion was.
"I'm serious," Scorpius said insistently. "I… don't know how to put it, really. I just know it's something I don't have. It's something Sylvia definitely doesn't have." He allowed himself a short laugh. "Maybe Rose is that way, too, a little bit. She's…"
He paused for a moment, glanced furtively in a few different directions, and failed to finish his thought. He then stared at Albus, raising his eyebrows in query. Albus gave a quick, but visible shake of the head, and Scorpius's face fell. His lips pursed for a moment, as if he was literally biting back something he wanted to say – which wasn't like Scorpius at all.
"I'm sorry, alright?" Albus sighed. "Tell her…"
"You tell her yourself," Scorpius cut him off.
"If I could do that, I wouldn't be telling you," Albus said. When he realized how irritable he'd sounded, he tried to soften the blow. "I… just can't. You wouldn't understand. I don't even understand."
Scorpius pushed himself to his feet from the table. "You'd be dead if not for her. You do remember that, right?"
Every day. Every time I look at her. "Of course I do," Albus said.
There was something in Scorpius's gray eyes that was even worse than anger; it was disappointment.
"I didn't think you could be so… cold. Maybe I was wrong," he muttered, walking away.
Albus wanted to rage and swear at him now. Or at least to yell, "It's not my fault!" But he didn't even know if that was true anymore. His intentions were good; he didn't want Sylvia to cry herself to sleep at night. He had no idea why she did. He had no idea why she had gone out of her way to save his life, knowing that it could have cost her own.
He was just a boring boy with a famous bunch of names… and not worth all of that trouble.
James
James peered over Murphy's head at the pendulum clock hanging on the wall, trying to remember if it had been there last month – if it had always been there, and James had never paid attention. Murphy was laying into what the patrons at the Three Broomsticks had always been told was fish and chips. The only thing was, they were nowhere near a coast, and the ground in and around Hogsmeade was frozen about seven months of the year, which made it near impossible to grow anything, even for wizards. James continued watching the clock.
November meant that Hogsmeade was all white outside. The truly brutal conditions hadn't started yet, so the village was pleasantly wintry, if there was such a thing. What snow had fallen had done so early in the morning before the students arrived, leaving a sunny, although crisp, day to be enjoyed. Some of the more adventurous of the villagers had even celebrated winter's coming in earnest by debuting their Christmas decorations early. December was starting in a few days, which made it seem a bit more reasonable. It made the atmosphere even somewhat cheerier along High Street, and the Three Broomsticks was no exception.
Richard Murphy seemed to have missed all of these messages. He hadn't been terrible company, sharing a laugh with James when they encountered an older Gryffindor that looked suspiciously like Isaac Pike daring a fourth year boy to lick a lamppost for a Galleon. The results were predictable. All the same, Murphy had been much more subdued than his normal self.
"Ten-thirty," James remarked, noticing the time. He looked over his shoulder. "He's not here yet…"
A week ago, James had received an owl from Dawlish; his lesson was to take place today, at eleven, in the Hog's Head. Dawlish hadn't said so, but James had assumed Dawlish was to pick him up from the Three Broomsticks around now, and escort him across town.
"Maybe I should just go myself," James thought aloud. "I think I know how to get there now…"
"Huh?" Murphy looked up. "Sorry?"
James angled his head in bewilderment. "What's going on with you today, Murph?"
Murphy grimaced and bit into one of his chips halfheartedly. "It's not the same, is it? Without the girls…"
It was somewhat true. Nowadays, they spent most of their weekends with Serra and Brynne. They had managed to raise the ire of the Ravenclaw junior Prefects last night in the tower with a very memorable game of Exploding Snap. Ravenclaws weren't used to having many Gryffindors in their common room for Unity Weekend; their personalities weren't compatible for the most part.
"Ravenclaws make great study mates, but we're dead dull sometimes," Serra Paxton had commented, whilst beating James spectacularly at wizard's chess last night. James didn't care much. He was always pants at wizard's chess anyway.
"Would you rather be back at Hogwarts, going over Herbology notes with Serra?" asked James sarcastically.
Murphy frowned. "Now that you mention it, Longbottom did say something about an exam before the holidays…"
"Hmm…" James said, returning his attention to the clock for a brief moment. "…Hold on…"
He set his eyes back on Murphy, who suddenly looked guilty.
"You…" James let a snigger escape, and it took everything in him not to laugh out loud. "You've got it for Serra, don't you?"
"Oh, we're going to have this conversation now?" Murphy asked, suddenly alert. "You know, I heard a rumor that, despite the Professors' best efforts, mistletoe still grows in some spots in the castle. Which I thought raised the question: what would you do with Brynne if you two got caught under some?"
"We're not going to have this conversation right now," James said, standing up and grabbing hold of his Defence text. "I'm going to go find Dawlish."
"What?" asked Murphy. "In the snow? Alone?"
"Unless you've got a better idea," said James.
"Of course I've got a better idea," Murphy said stubbornly. "That part of the village is dodgy on a good day. I'm coming with you."
"No, you're not," said James flatly.
"Wh—" Murphy spluttered.
"You're the only one left," James explained. "If Malcolm or his people prance through here and you go with me, we'll have no eyes on them."
Murphy seemed to realize this. His face fell and then he lowered his eyes, thinking. "I'm going to try and find Professor Ambrose."
"Ambrose?" asked James. "Why?"
"He must have known Malcolm when they were in school together, right?" asked Murphy. "Maybe we get something on what Hogwarts was like back then – what Malcolm was like back then. I think, if…"
"…if Serra were here, that's what she would be doing?" asked James, a knowing smirk on his face.
"I think Brynne would, too," Murphy said in all seriousness. "And from what I can tell, Ambrose seems to like her."
"Good luck finding him, then," James said. "I'll bet he's tucked away somewhere quiet, reading a book or something. Hell, he might be at the Hog's Head."
Murphy grimaced. "I still don't like you going there alone," he said.
"You sound like my mum," James laughed. "I'm not a little kid anymore."
"It's got nothing to do with that," Murphy explained. "It's because… well… because you're a Potter."
James tilted his head.
"Think about it," Murphy reasoned. "If you were a crook trying to rub two Knuts together and you saw the son of one of Britain's most famous wizard families prancing around Hogsmeade by himself, what would you do?"
"Depends," James said. "If it were some rich Ministry official's kid... But don't forget, my dad is the head of the Auror Office – not to mention my aunt works for Magical Law Enforcement." He gave what he thought was a reassuring smile. "If I were smart, I'd pick someone different."
"Crooks aren't usually smart," said Murphy. "That's why they're crooks. All I'm saying is… just watch your arse."
"I'll do that," James said. Looking up and around his shoulder, he turned back to Murphy. "Madison and Gemma just walked in. You might want to keep your head down."
Murphy made a sound, like a mouse being trodden on, and then muttered a swear as he tried to keep his eyes low. James gave him a smile and jumped from his chair. No sooner than he had rounded the corner, he almost walked directly into a very distracted-looking Gemma Bridge.
"Huh? Oh," she uttered blankly. "…Hi."
"Hi," replied James, just as awkwardly, picking up on Gemma's nervousness in an instant. "Uh… how are you?"
It was nothing like talking with Brynne. He felt much more comfortable around her than he did any other girl. After the disaster of her first match at Keeper, Gemma had cut her dark brown hair very short. James thought she had a nice face for short hair… for what that was worth.
"Great," James said. He didn't want to be rude, but he had somewhere to be.
"Murphy's not with you?" asked Gemma.
"Nope," James lied very quickly. "No, he, uh… cold. He's sick, I mean. He's been laid up in bed all day. The weather, you know…"
"Oh," Gemma either looked genuinely sad or was doing a very good job of faking it. "He did look pale in Charms yesterday, come to think of it… so you're here by yourself?"
"Yeah," James said.
"Oh, um…" Gemma looked away. She was acting nothing like her Quidditch self, where she was much more confident and outspoken. "Well, if you've got no company… say, have you ever had apple-flavored butterbeer?"
"What?" James asked blankly. "Uh, no. I was… actually… just leaving. Meeting somebody. Somewhere else. Not here."
Gemma visibly deflated. "Oh… okay. Well, have fun…"
"You… too?" James murmured. Gemma whisked away so quickly she didn't give him a chance to respond. That was awkward…
James strode out onto High Street and his body folded in on itself almost instantly as an especially sharp gust of cold wind assaulted him. Muttering a curse to himself, he started down the road, trying to retrace his steps in his mind. He spent most of the walk unsure about where he was going until he started noticing boarded-up houses and realized he was on the street that led right to the Hog's Head Inn. His eyes caught sight of a bundle of clothes slumped up supine against the front wall of a row house that, judging by the black around its windows, looked like it may have been gutted by fire. James kept his eyes on the bundle intently and, with a jolt of horror, realized that there was indeed a person underneath that bundle of clothes. Except that he wasn't moving. For one wild, horrifying moment, James thought he might have been looking at a corpse…
Then the man raised his head, which was even more frightening. James, still trying to look as casual as possible, quickened his pace. It was one thing to pass through a place like this; anyone that milled around couldn't possibly be up to any good. Once he was clear of this area –
His next thought never finished itself. He felt his right foot slide backward. His entire body lurched forward horribly, and he had just enough time to throw his hands forward to brace his fall. Luckily, snow made for a soft landing and he bounced to his feet as quickly as he could, brushing himself off. It was then that he heard two or three furtive, halting footsteps…
James broke into a run – or as fast a walk as the dicey, frozen-over ground would allow him. He looked over his shoulder, and indeed, the slouching bundle of ragged winter clothes from before was now a fully-grown man in full pursuit. He looked even clumsier than James in this weather, though. And judging by the grey stubble he glimpsed on the man's face, he was probably old; James could outrun him easily, even in this weather, as long as he kept his feet—
He didn't.
This time, an obstacle appeared seemingly out of nothingness, and James hit it face-first. He fell backward to his hands and rump, his ears ringing. A coppery flavor like a Knut (James liked taste-testing things as a young boy… who didn't?) filled his mouth as a burst of pain exploded from his face. He'd bitten his own lip…
"Where ya off ter in such a hurry, eh, boy?" The obstacle was another man. He had an accent that sounded a bit like Hagrid (and from James's back seemed almost as big)… but decidedly less friendly. James scrabbled backward on his hands, his feet slipping helplessly under him on snow-crusted cobblestones. James felt the wetness seeping into his gloves. He cursed himself mentally; these weren't his good gloves… but to be fair, he hadn't expected to be on his hands and knees in the snow, either…
After far too much effort, James found his feet again. He could feel the warm stickiness of blood dribbling off his lip and down onto his chin, but he couldn't be bothered with it. Least of all when he heard a set of footsteps coming fast and hard behind him. James whirled around and drew his wand in one motion.
"Don't come any closer," he said, more bravely than he felt. But the man, who had long, haggard, salt-and-pepper hair and a gaunt, underfed-looking face and form, pulled up short.
"Why the hell're yeh chasin' a kid, Benson?" The brick wall James had run into earlier spoke from behind him.
"Merlin's bollocks, you're right," the older, gaunt man named Benson grunted. " 'e's jus' a boy… not a very smart boy, neither. Wanderin' 'round these parts all by 'imself…"
"Got ter be one o' those Hogwarts kids, righ'?" the large brick wall man drawled.
"Never much liked 'Ogwarts, t'be honest… ruined my bleedin' life with those bleedin' O.W.L. tests. Didn' manage to pass a single bleedin' one of 'em. I'd put the bleedin' place t'the torch 'f I had the chance…" Benson ranted – and the word he used instead of "bleedin'" was considerably ruder. "Wonder'f they'd pony up Galleons t'get one o' their young'uns back? I could use a coupla Galleons…"
Benson leered at James.
"We'd be gettin' wands, more'n likely," the large man with the Hagrid accent replied darkly. "And I mean ter say 'wands pointed at us.' Unfrien'ly hexes and such."
"Exactly," James used this opportunity to speak up. "Hufflepuff's Head came with us. Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Not the nicest bloke, either. I wouldn't want any part of him if I were you."
Of course, James wouldn't have put it past Malcolm to walk right by this scene if given the chance… but these two shady vagrants weren't to know that. But for what it was worth, the rest of what he said was completely true. Malcolm wasn't the nicest bloke (James of all people would know)… and he wasn't the type of wizard a couple of talentless berks like these two could overcome easily.
"That's a nice cloak, boy," Benson said, taking a step toward him. James took one step backward and felt the shadow of the larger man encroaching on him. "Your parents got money, eh? Must be, to give a kid like you clothes like this."
James wasn't sure if mentioning his father would send these two running in fear or would just get him called a liar. So he said nothing. At least, until Benson physically reached for the cloak. James rapped Benson's hand with the end of his wand. The wand shone, and Benson staggered backward, flailing his hand as if burned.
"I said, 'stay back'," James warned him again.
"You can go," Benson said. "If you give us the cloak."
Better sense was telling James to drop the cloak – it wasn't worth as much as they seemed to think – and run like hell. That was before he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and better sense started telling James they weren't going to let him leave either way.
"Get off!" he shouted, flailing his shoulder. This was a mistake. He lost his balance again and fell, and in a moment, the large man was over him, pinning him to the ground.
"Yeh're bein'… difficult," he growled as James tried to struggle against him. James wheezed fruitlessly; the large man had a knee in James's ribs. He was surprised they weren't already broken.
"We oughta just do 'im, Em," grunted Benson.
"And hide 'is body where?" 'Em' inquired, and James's heart jumped into his throat.
"Don't!" he shouted in a panic. "Stop! I-I-I'll give you my wand!"
'Em' took his hand off James's wand arm.
"Yer wand? Can't use that bloody thing," Em said quizzically, showing more reason and sense than James thought him capable. But James had played his part well enough.
"I know that." He said. He raised it now that his hand was free – right toward Em's face. He shut his eyes tight. "Lumos Maxima!"
He shut his eyes, heard the loud yelp, scrambled out from under the large man, and rolled. He opened his eyes just in time to see red sparks coming at him. He swiped his wand, knocking them away. His right arm tingled as he staggered backward. Benson was coming at him, snarling and shooting red sparks from his wand. James deflected another and then tried to scramble away.
"Get back here!" Benson shouted. "Incarcerous!"
A serpent of twine uncoiled from Benson's wand and lashed out at James—
"Diffindo!" James shouted immediately, slashing his own wand. The serpent lost its head and fell harmlessly into the snow. James kept backpedaling and, slipping a bit on the ice, slashed again. The second spell laid a swath of Benson's ragged robes open to the skin, and he fell backward with a squeal of pain. Meanwhile, Em was still rolling and screaming. It was unsporting, James thought, but he couldn't risk the large wizard finding his feet again and having to fight two-on-one.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Em's limbs sprang together and he went stiff as a board. It was a good thing, James thought, that these two Hogwarts washouts had neither the instincts nor the adequate spellwork for dueling. Just as he thought this, though, Benson, who was clutching a reddening chest, growled as he staggered to his feet, and started muttering an unfriendly-sounding incantation.
Then a jet of red light sailed past James's ear, caught Benson square in the face, and knocked him onto his back.
"Bloody – buggering – hell!" someone swore profusely from behind James. Old John Dawlish was limping toward him, gnarled face twisted in fury. "Are you barking mad, boy? What possessed you to come prancing down the Scar on your own like that?"
He shoved James out of the way and lumbered forward. "Incarcerous." He pointed his wand at each of the two men in turn, binding them head to toe in strong ropes of twine. But he didn't stop there: "Duro." With a hard crunch, the bindings of rope turned into cocoons of solid stone. The two vagrants weren't going to be moving anywhere anytime soon.
James followed Dawlish wordlessly, and it was clear the latter was annoyed.
"Young boys are all the same," he muttered, more to himself than to James. "All bollocks and no brains. For God's sake… I don't even walk the Scar alone if I can help it. Much rather take the long way around…"
"…The Scar?" asked James, looking around. "Why's it called the Scar?"
"Murders," said Dawlish tersely. "A fair few murders. All by Death Eaters, some twenty years ago. They tore through this area after your father foolishly came to Hogsmeade looking for help. Well, you know, this village doesn't get many outsiders, up here in the middle of nowhere. And this wasn't the good part of town to begin with. Now it's just a bunch of ruined, abandoned houses. The villagers haven't bothered with it. They say, 'Potter has his scar. Hogsmeade has hers.' 'Snot a place a thirteen-year-old boy should be walking alone, I know that much. If I'm running late, wait for me in the Three Broomsticks. I thought I made that clear."
"I thought I'd save you the trouble of walking," James muttered under his breath.
At this, Dawlish whirled around. "Walking? What the ruddy hell do you think I am, boy – an invalid? If you're ever to become an Auror, you need to know how to follow orders."
"What if I become Head Auror?" asked James, a bit fed up with Dawlish's lecturing.
"Then you report to the Minister of Magic directly," Dawlish said. "So you'd need to know how to follow very important orders from very important people."
"You follow your orders blindly, then?" James asked.
"Follow orders? Yes," Dawlish said fiercely. "Blindly? Never. I said you need to know how to follow orders. If you fail to follow orders as an Auror, people around you will die. And if you follow your orders to the letter without question…"
Dawlish's eyes glinted.
"…People around you will die," Dawlish growled. "If you're going to bring other lives into danger with you, you have to know when to follow 'orders' and when you stand a better chance of surviving now by asking for forgiveness later."
Dawlish turned his back on James again.
"But then… it's not my job to train you to be an Auror," Dawlish said. "Your father hired me to help make you a responsible, competent member of wizarding society as far as Defence Against the Dark Arts was concerned, but if I were training you to be an Auror… that is exactly what I would tell you. Now, let's get going before some other fool here in the Scar decides they're hard enough for a fight."
They started walking... but James had one last thing to mention…
"They've started – I mean, Malcolm's started – doing practicals with second years," he commented.
"Is he, now?" Dawlish growled, seemingly interested for a moment. "Williamson will be glad to hear that."
"He's approving practice duels between twelve-year-old wizards," uttered James. "I can only think of about a hundred things that could possibly go wrong with that."
"And you're that much more mature, are you?" asked Dawlish.
James wasn't sure how to get his point across, so he stayed silent for the rest of the walk. Williamson was indisposed when they arrived at the Hog's Head. They were greeted instead by a copper-haired young bartender that looked barely old enough to drink himself. James recognized his face vaguely – the youth was a Hogwarts graduate, and had been a seventh year when James had started Hogwarts the year before last. At least, that's what James guessed, as he hadn't seen him since. He must have been twenty or so now, and in mentally comparing his face to that of the usual bartender, he realized that this must have been Williamson's son. He did give a bewildered look when Dawlish asked for "the Riddle Room," but nonetheless did as asked and came back a few minutes later to tell them that it was unlocked for their use.
They went upstairs and, when they entered, Dawlish quipped about not needing as powerful a spell for only a month's worth of dust before charming the entire room spotless again. Dawlish sat on the bed, while James walked to the desk and set down his book. He finally knew how to frame his question.
"Sir, if you don't mind me asking, what House were you Sorted into?"
"Ravenclaw, once the Hat got around to making up its bloody mind," Dawlish said. "'Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, or Slytherin'… went on near eight minutes, from what they told me later, but it felt like I was on that stool for days…"
James hated to admit it, but he was a bit surprised. "I thought you'd have been a Gryffindor, honestly… fighting on the frontline of the war like you did…"
"Most people think that," Dawlish admitted. "As if no one but a Gryffindor can be brave. It's one of the Sorting tradition's many flaws."
James would not have thought it possible, but his respect for the grizzled ex-Auror grew that day.