James approached the room at Professor Meadows' beckoning. He knew he had to look. Had to see it with his own eyes, if only so he knew he could believe it. His leaden footsteps were at odds with the building anticipation he felt emanating from his wand. It practically vibrated in his hand. The eagerness, James realised with a start, was to fight.
When they arrived at the threshold, Professor Meadows threw an arm across James' chest. He hadn't realised he'd been about to take another step and actually enter the room. He blinked to clear his vision, and stowed his wand hastily in the waistband of his jeans. This, at least, gave him some modicum of relief.
'You don't want to set foot in there, Potter, trust me.' And Professor Meadows hiked up one side of her robe to show James the blackened, charred remains of her wooden leg, damaged beyond repair more than half-way up the calf.
James didn't need telling twice.
The room before him was still recognisable, but only just. It looked to James as if the entire thing were made of wax, and it had been held before a great heat. The walls, the ceiling, the floor itself seemed to be melting before his very eyes. And, in a mind-bending twist that he couldn't quite wrap his head around, it didn't seem to be pooling anywhere. The substance of the room itself instead seemed to constantly warping, folding, dripping down over itself like melting slag. Like something liquid that he could reach out and gather in cupped hands.
Although, if Professor Meadows' leg was anything to go by, that decision might well prove fatal.
'Making you nauseous yet?' Professor Meadows asked at his shoulder.
If only she knew the half of it.
'Who did this?' James croaked, allowing Professor Meadows to attribute his nervousness to the shocking nature of the room's revelation.
'Not a clue, but I daresay it's the same person who has done it a few times already this year. And whoever it is, when I find them, they're going to wish they'd never been born.'
That was exactly what James had been afraid of. He felt sick to his stomach. Rain couldn't have… She's changed.
The refrain was starting to sound hollow and forced even to James' own ears.
'And what would you suggest I do if I had any… suspicions as to what, or who, might be behind it?'
Zoe Meadows spun around to face James with the preternatural speed she had honed over years practising to become an Auror. She grabbed James roughly by the shoulder of his shirt and pulled him in close.
'I'd suggest you be very, very careful about just who you divulge that information to, Potter. And be absolutely, unequivocally certain that you had your facts right before you went to anyone. And, most of all, don't, whatever you do–'
'Professor Meadows, I should hope that the current headlock in which you hold young Master Potter is in no way indicative of his guilt in the travesty that stands before you.'
The commanding, domineering voice of Headmistress Galatea Renshaw cracked like a whip through the abandoned Entrance Hall. It echoed eerily through the oddly silent melting classroom, and James and the professor sprung apart as if electrocuted.
'Not at all, Headmistress,' Professor Meadows said hurriedly. 'He just happened to show up.'
'Doesn't he always.'
Renshaw's voice was dry, her gaze flat and emotionless. She hardly even spared a look for the horribly disfigured classroom behind them.
'Honestly, Headmistress. I was just down at Quidditch practice–'
'And yet the remainder of your team are safely ensconced in the Great Hall, and have been for the last fifteen minutes.'
'I, er… I ran into Odette, Headmistress. Odette Mansfield.'
'I see.'
Professor Meadows gave an awkward little cough at James' shoulder. Better they believe his meeting had been a dalliance, then, than try to explain it any further.
'Zoe, I'll ask you to seal this room, if you could. I trust you are familiar with the procedures and incantations, if, perhaps, a little out of practice. You have fifteen minutes until I have instructed Professor Longbottom to release his charges. Best that it's all tided up by then.'
'Fifteen minutes–!'
'Very good. Once you are finished, please come visit me in my office. Master Potter, in the meantime, you and I shall have a little chat.'
James swallowed, hard. He cast one final panicked look over his shoulder at Professor Meadows, who flashed him a wobbly smile and a shaky thumbs-up, before he was guided forcefully up the first steps of the Grand Staircase and his attention was stolen entirely by the Headmistress marching alongside him.
What, exactly, had Professor Meadows been about to tell him not to do?
'Rest easy, Master Potter. You're more wound up than a Niffler in a jewellery store, I can practically feel it radiating from you. You can be assured that I do not think for a moment that you are responsible for this. Recall, if you will, that it was your confidence I sought after the Sorting Hat met his untimely demise to begin the year.'
James exhaled a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He felt himself relax. But only very slightly. In the oddly silent castle, their footsteps step-clacked together, making a feeble effort to fill the cavernous stairwell above them with their paltry, intermittent sounds.
While James was hesitant, Renshaw strode confidently, making for her office. Her long, sweeping black robe shimmered in the sunlight streaming in through the high arched windows, whispering softly as it dragged along the stone in her wake. The high, stiff collar gave the impression that she was looking down at James whenever she turned to face him, half of her face obscured, only those dark, penetrating eyes offering any insight into the guarded thoughts of the enigmatic Headmistress.
'After you, James.'
She paused to gesture James ahead at the entrance to her office. James stepped first onto the revolving staircase. He felt an itch developing between his shoulder blades. As if he had exposed his back to a rabid dog. Or, a stalking wolf. He turned side-on and offered the Headmistress a tight smile. Stoic, frosty regard was all he received in return.
'Sit, please.'
The door to her office had barely opened before Galatea Renshaw swept past James and waved a hand dismissively at the single, hard-backed chair set facing her desk. Arranged almost as if she'd been expecting him.
James trudged slowly across the bare, stone floor towards the seat. The blank, stark walls offered little comfort and did nothing to quell the feeling that he was walking into an interrogation. Harry had often told James about the myriad portraits that used to hang upon the wall in Dumbledore's time, and the scores of little magical instruments and curios, that not even the Headmaster had been able to name the function of. Renshaw's favouring of this cold, militaristic minimalism made James feel as if he was walking to a trial every time he entered.
The silence stretched on as Renshaw turned to face him. Forgoing her large, uncomfortable and severely functional-looking chair to instead lean back against her desk, facing James. She crossed her arms and took a series of deep breaths. The time between each seemed interminable, and had James nearly physically squirming, feeling as if he were ready to admit to wrongdoings he hadn't even committed.
'What, er, what was this about, Headmistress?' he finally asked, cracking under the pressure.
Renshaw smiled a cool smile that didn't quite make it to eyes staring off into the distance over James' head.
'Four attacks, James. Did you know there have been four attacks since the start of the year?'
James didn't think before opening his mouth. 'Where was the fourth?'
'Ah. So you have been keeping up. I ought never to have doubted you. A small broom closet next to the Prefects' Bathroom. A tiny crack in the wall meant that anybody inside it could spy on anyone bathing next door. Ghastly little room, but, unfortunately it will never expose itself to faculty. Or it wouldn't, before it became a raging inferno of flames made of glass.'
'Bloody hell,' James aptly summarised.
'Indeed, Master Potter. So, four attacks. The precious Sorting Hat, a back-alley entrance, a peeper's hovel, and now a well-used classroom. I thought, perhaps, that you and I could have a little chat about what it all means. Perhaps bounce a few ideas off of one another. You have shown, in the past, that you and I are able to work together, am I not correct?'
'Yes Headmistress. But–'
'You are saying you do not wish to work together?' Her words took on a firm, icy edge that dropped the temperature in the room instantly.
'N-no Headmistress, I just don't think I'm the right one to be talking to.'
'Well then, direct me to whom I ought to be speaking?'
James' throat seized up. How had she manoeuvred him into this position so deftly? 'It's just – I don't really know much about it, Headmistress. I've been trying to focus on my studies this year.'
Renshaw stopped gazing off over James' head and gave a heavy sigh. She leaned forwards and laid a hand upon James' shoulder, studying him closely. In her eyes James saw, for once, past the cold aloofness. He saw a strain there. A struggle. There was a tightness that hadn't existed a couple of years ago. A weary, weathered cast that opened up before him, revealing a shockingly intimate glimpse of the hardships that Galatea Renshaw was juggling. That were slowly eating her away. Ever since she had been taken, James realised, she had never again felt truly safe.
A sort of fuzzy warmness crept over him, and his vision clouded momentarily. When Renshaw pulled back, he felt as if some sort of bond or link between them had snapped. The cold façade slammed down, and she was as unreadable as she had ever been. Perhaps, though, it seemed that she now studied him with amore appraising eye. Like a foe she had underestimated. Just before she struck for the heart.
'You have come so far, Master Potter, since I have known you. Let us not talk, then, of dark deeds and foul happenings. Let us talk, instead, of friends. Tell me, if you will, does young Master Wallace still struggle with his practical lessons?'
Taken aback, James stumbled and tripped over his words, lumbering into his response like a man freshly learning to talk. He told Renshaw of Clip's woes, and then of Fred's latest shipment of Weasley's products. Of Cat and her almost prescient Arithmantic abilities. Of Cassie and her fear of acknowledging her growing feelings for Clip. A sort of heady haze still hung over James, fogging his mind, so that it wasn't until much later that he realised the level of knowledge Renshaw already possessed on all of these topics was frightening indeed, and should have served as a warning then and there. But instead, lulled by her calm words and earnest questions, he confirmed much of what she already appeared to know.
'And have you spoken to Miss Brooks, recently? You two made quite the dynamic pair, if I remember rightly. And you both are gifted with such wonderful abilities.'
Something within James twigged. Something, buried deep underneath the fugue surrounding his mind alerted him to the question. The thinly-veiled intensity with which it had been asked.
'No,' he lied. 'Not at all.'
Renshaw leaned back, exhaling through her nose.
'I see. Let me tell you, Master Potter, of some adventures from my youth, then. And let us see if we cannot draw some parallels to our modern-day dilemmas from among them.'
James sat up straight of his own accord. He had a feeling that things were about to get interesting.
'It started, I suppose, when I was a little older than yourself. Barely out of Hogwarts at the time. Although, in reality, I was set on this course many years before, courtesy of a restless mind and a ruthless hunger for answers. The tale centres on three of us, in the beginning. More joined later, accreted by the sheer gravity of our cause, but only us three are important.
'Remember that, James. Here is your first lesson. Any group, no matter how big, no matter how strong their momentum seems to be, will have a heart. A core of only a handful who matter. All else are just useful idiots. Cut out that heart, and you will kill the whole movement. This is why you are so valuable. Remember that.'
James looked stunned. 'I am the heart–?'
But Renshaw waved his query aside. 'It became abundantly clear to us that Hogwarts' education had left us a long way from being ready to face the magical world. To really face it, and not just to meander aimlessly through it like so many do. We needed to know more. Needed to arm ourselves with knowledge sufficient to carry us through, to enable us to make change, to do something meaningful with our lives and break free from the seething mass of mediocrity that surrounded us.
'So, to do this, we sought knowledge. We sought it in the places that nobody wanted to look. Where people had forgotten to look. Places so old they no longer existed on maps. We spent years hunting it. Many boring years uncovering dusty scrolls and moth-eaten tomes. Of paging through parchment and papyrus and scratchings on stone tablets. Others came and went, drawn in by the romanticism of our cause, but soon dissuaded by the banality of the work that it demanded. We became hoarders of the most useless knowledge known to wizard-kind; recipes, studies of seed-dispersal patterns; maps of old towns; weather records; reports of crop plantings and harvests. The list drags on.
'Until one day, we found it. What we had been looking for – though none of us knew it at the time. The monotonous drudgery of our search over years and years had, instead of shattering our resolve, only hardened it into something more fierce. Some assurance, buried within each of us, though none of us spoke of it, that we no longer hunted for just anything. We hunted for something that would change the world. As if, by the pure, mind-crushing duration of our hunt, the prize that we sought grew larger. As if we'd earned the knowledge that we were about to uncover by our commitment to its unveiling.
'Now believe me wholly when I say this, James Potter. No matter how many sins I've committed, in this life or past lives. No matter how many atrocities I may visit upon mankind in the future, nothing I have done or will ever do is enough to deserve the knowledge that we uncovered. Nothing.'
James hadn't realised he was leaning forward in his seat. His breaths were coming short and ragged. His every nerve hung on edge; his body was tensed from his shoulders to his fingertips. He waited, sensing that it was too delicate a moment to even utter the question that Renshaw's monologue required.
'They will tell you that knowledge is power, James Potter. Somebody, some day will utter it with naïve certainty. You might even make an affirmatory little sound in response. But what nobody speaks of, is the chains that come with it. For nothing can be more sure than the fact that knowledge will bind you to action. That you must do something. For inaction will kill you. It will damn you worse than if you'd never had the knowledge at all.
'And that is where we lost our way. There were, at this point, maybe a dozen of us. Though, still only we three truly mattered. But a dozen headstrong witches and wizards set to solve the same problem invariably come up with two dozen differing solutions. My greatest regret is that I was not the one who acted first. A few of us started disappearing. Then a few more. It soon became apparent that they were ones who all voiced a similar opinion in how to act upon this new knowledge. That somebody was intent upon getting their way – and having no voices left to oppose them.
'I thought that I knew what was happening. I thought I knew who was behind it. I had suspicions that I held close. By I was paralysed. Afraid that it was one whom I trusted, one whom I loved dearly, who was behind it. And so I hesitated, James Potter. My inaction cost the lives of several whom I called friend, and it could have cost a whole lot more had I not managed to finally snap myself out of it and take that first, terrifying step forwards. To overcome the inertia within me. To speak up, and act.
'Now tell me, James Potter. Is there anything you think we ought to discuss, in light of recent events around Hogwarts?'
James sat in his chair, stunned. He felt as if Renshaw's story had taken a physical toll on him. His chest was tight, his breathing ragged, and his shoulders tensed from leaning forward eagerly to listen. She had dragged him so close to the revelation he had desperately been seeking for the past two years now, only to flip at the last second and lay such a heavy burden at his feet.
James didn't know whether he was ready to take it on just yet.
'I feel… concerned, Headmistress. That some of us. Some, more than others, might be at risk from what is happening.'
Renshaw leaned forward slightly, studying James with an unflinching stare. 'And do you think it may be because some of you are actively putting yourselves at greater risk?'
'I worry that some of us may not have a choice, and it is possible that we are being targeted.'
'Recall my tale just now, Master Potter, and 'ware that your judgement is not clouded by friendship.'
'I hold my own counsel in this, Headmistress, and I do not want to jump to conclusions too quickly.'
'A great deal of damage can be done by seeking to avoid personal harm, James. Remember; knowledge needs action.'
'I understand, Headmistress,' James' tone was firmer now, suddenly adamant that he would not back down. 'But as long as there's any shred of doubt in my mind, I refuse to cast judgement.'
The Headmistress leaned back slightly, exhaling and folding her arms across her chest. She gazed down at James for a long, silent moment before finally speaking once more.
'Very well, I see that your mind is made up in this. But let me offer you this advice, if I may. Do not let uncertainty rule overlong in your heart, James Potter. Do what you must to be decisive, and then act. Use what means you have at your disposal to uncover the truth, and do so swiftly, I beg of you. Terrifying though it may be, it is also a painful necessity. Be brave, James Potter. Face this fear head on.'
James found himself nodding in agreement. 'Yes, Headmistress.'
'And report back to me once you have.'
James nodded again, before turning to leave, the dismissal was clear in Renshaw's voice.
He had some serious thinking ahead of him. And – more importantly – some serious acting. Renshaw had been right about one thing, the prospect of it terrified him. Rain and the Desecrator and the Unmakings all swirled around in his head together for the remainder of that day, along with the mystery of the secret Renshaw had uncovered and come so close to revealing to him.
It was all too much to process alone. He needed to speak to Holly once more.
But any chance to do so was swiftly interrupted the next day by one of James' most welcome distractions – Quidditch. Gryffindor's first match of the year, and nearly the entire school was slated to turn out to watch them take on an underdog Ravenclaw side.
Hufflepuff had beaten Slytherin a fortnight prior and were – predictably – the favourites to once again take out the title. With most people discounting both James as a young captain and the selection of his team, it was considered to be a race between the greens and the golds this season for the cup, with Gryffindor little more than an afterthought, and Ravenclaw even lesser still.
But all the talk did was strengthen James' resolve to prove them wrong. He alone knew the skills of his team. He knew how hard they had been practising, how many extra hours they had been putting in both on and off the pitch. He knew for a fact that Carissa Li – his new Chaser whom everybody seemed to discredit – had been studying the Gryffindor team's playbook so intently that her dorm-mate had to Charm the hangings around her bed at night because she kept talking about it in her sleep.
James knew that they were ready, and so it was with no small amount of confidence that he strode down towards the pitch on a calm, cool Sunday morning, his broomstick slung over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the sky above for any sign of blue amongst the thick overcast layer.
'Oi, Gnargle-brain!'
'Gah! Blimey, Lily. Don't sneak up on a man like that.'
Lily rolled her eyes dramatically. 'I've been walking right next to you for the last five minutes, Banshee-breath. You've been staring at the sky the entire time.'
'I was checking out the weather,' James replied shortly.
Lily gave an overly-dramatic gaze up towards the sky, then stroked her chin as if deep in thought. 'Hmm, I think it's cloudy.'
'You're an arse, Lily.'
'You're a tit, James.'
'Hey, watch your language!'
'Ugh, you're such a hypocrite!'
Lily gave him a shove in the shoulder, which hardly made him budge. In spite of himself, James smiled a little. There was something immensely satisfying in winding up his little sister. He reached out and threw his free arm around her shoulders, and laughed openly as she tried to squirm and weasel out of his grip.
'Is there a reason that you're bugging me this morning, Lily?' James asked. 'I'm about to have a–'
'Yeah, yeah, Quidditch. I know. All hail Lord James. I've already sacrificed a goat to the idiot Quidditch Gods so that you'll be the one to fall off your broom first.'
'Would it kill you to, just maybe, support Al and I for once?'
Lily doubled over and fake-gagged. The action caused her to worm free of James' grip. 'Gross, James. The only reason I used to watch your games was to see if you and Odette would have a gigantic temper tantrum at one another. And now you've ruined even that, I hear.'
'How do you know about that?' James shot. 'That only happened yesterday.'
Lily tapped her nose and smiled a knowing smile. This time, it was her turn to laugh and James' turn to yell in frustration.
They had arrived at the entrance to the Quidditch pitch. This early before the match only a few of the most eager supporters dotted the tall stands, waving banners of red-gold or silver and blue. James took note of a gentle easterly breeze toying with the ends of streamers and flags high up.
'Spectators over that way,' James said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. 'The big kids have got work to do now Lily.'
'Put a sock in it, James,' Lily hissed, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him into a shadowy recess beneath a nearby stairwell. Out of sight of anybody entering the grounds. James' attention immediately sharpened.
'What is it, Lily?' James asked, leaning close, suddenly uncertain.
Lily gave a final, furtive glance at their surroundings and leaned right in to whisper in James' ear. She spoke so softly that she had to break off when a group of students mounted the steps above their heads, and the trampling feet thundered over the hushed conversation. James didn't say a word the entire time that she spoke, but when she finished, she gave a big sigh and looked up – for once, earnestly – at James. A defiant glimmer shone behind her bright green eyes.
'Are you sure, Lils?' James asked gravely.
She nodded, biting her lower lip.
'These are serious people you are dealing with. I don't want you getting hurt.'
'I can look after myself, James.' Sudden, fiery resolve set her standing straight with her chin thrust out.
'I know, Lily. Just be careful. I'll take it from here.'
Lily smiled, squeezed James' arm swiftly and then was gone, shooting off into the shadows and down a service corridor that led back out towards the castle grounds. James took a little longer to emerge from the shadowed hideout, spending a good few moments thinking over the information she had just imparted to him, and how best to put it to use.
But invariably, the information was best put to use – for the moment, at least – by putting it out of James' mind. He had a Quidditch match to win. He could worry about the other stuff once he had secured a win for Gryffindor.
The rest of James' pre-match preparation went more or less as planned. The team arrived on time, they warmed up together and talked through the game plan. Fred once again expressed confidence in James' tactics for the match, and the others nodded in assent. A few nerves began to creep in, finding their way into the muscles of his legs and giving him a lethargic, enervated feeling. But a look around the locker room at the six other fresh faces, eager and ready and peering back earnestly went some way to quelling them. The trust they put in James was heartening. He remained confident that he wouldn't let them down.
Suddenly, the doors to the pitch flung open, signalling the match was about to begin. The wall of noise cascaded into James, ripping away any chance of a last-minute word, or any final plans to put into action. James gestured his teammates out first, clasping the hands of each of them, and meeting their eyes with a firm nod. Al was the last to leave. James pulled him close, leaning in to shout in his ear over the noise of the crowds.
'Be perfect today, Al. If I mess up this thing with Carissa, nobody will remember anyway if you catch the Snitch. I'm counting on you.'
'Al grinned confidently back. But no pressure, right?'
'Right.'
The two brothers mounted up together and took to the skies side-by-side, while chants of 'Potter! Potter! Potter!' thundered through the stadium around them.
James moved in to shake hands with the Ravenclaw captain. He heard out Professor Hawksby's rendition of the rules, the shouted words little more than a buzz in James' ear. He checked and re-checked all of his players' positions. All were perfect. They hovered in place, ready, eager. Waiting. James clasped the handle of his broom tight to stop his hands from shaking. He took a steadying breath, closing out the noise, the whistles and jeers and screams. The colours and banners. Focusing down to the small trunk fifty feet below him.
Suddenly, it bucked wildly. James shot forwards to claim the Quaffle, but no balls were forthcoming. A false alarm. He froze, hovering alone in the centre of the pitch. A quiet had fallen over the crowd, but now he could make out laughter coming from the stands. Mostly from those in blue, as well as green. He looked up dumbly at Professor Hawksby, who blew a short blast on his whistle and signalled a penalty shot for Ravenclaw.
'Starting before the whistle, that's a foul!'
A cheer went up from the Ravenclaw end, and the laughter redoubled. James felt his ears burning, and refused to meet the eyes of any of his team members as he wheeled back into position for the penalty shot.
'Thanks, Potter!' called one of the Ravenclaw Chasers mockingly.
'Put a sock in it!' Fred called back. 'It's the only time you'll be leading today!'
But lead they did, as the Ravenclaw Chaser who flew up to take the shot – a burly, seventh-year lad with arms thicker than James' thighs – zipped the Quaffle into the left-hand goal hoop before Gemma Lewis could react.
James slapped the handle of his broom in anger and swore under his breath. He caught Gemma's pass off the restart and – so angry was he – that he tore straight off up the pitch alone, completely forgetting his game-plan and the rest of his teammates. He met a swift and predictable demise as – three against one – the Ravenclaw Chasers bunched up, and the burly bloke drove a shoulder into James' ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs and the Quaffle from his hand. Another of his cohort caught it and raced off to score again, doubling their lead.
This time, James swore audibly enough that he earned himself a mention from the match commentator.
Carissa flew over to him before the restart and squeezed his arm. 'You've got this James!' she called over the crowd. A few of the jeers were coming from the red-and-golds, now. 'I believe in you. Your plan was brilliant, now let's do it!'
James smiled back at her. He steadied himself on his broom, physically shook his head to try and clear it of the building frustration. He flew into position and signalled to Gemma that he was ready for the restart.
He eyed the field before he made any moves this time around. Ravenclaw were obviously aware of the perceived fault that was Carissa's weak throwing arm. They played soft coverage on her, allowing her plenty of room to manoeuvre, and instead double-teamed Lynch. They were obviously not worried about Carissa being able to take the Quaffle and pass it on, or even make her way up the pitch and score past their Keeper. James smiled. He flashed a signal to his Chasers, and they adjusted position.
James moved up the pitch slowly. The third Ravenclaw Chaser – the one not marking Lynch, drifted towards him, leaving Carissa wide open. Seeing the window, James tossed her the Quaffle for an easy pass. But it had been no accident that the Ravenclaws had left her unmarked. She was in a poor position, forced into the corner of the pitch, with Lynch miles away on the far wing. An impossible throw for her.
But instead of making a run up the pitch, James veered hard to his left. Carissa shot to her right, and two of the three Ravenclaw Chasers converged on her.
But instead of trying to make a desperate throw up-field, Carissa merely let the Quaffle fall from her fingers as James zipped past directly underneath her. There was a curse and a grunt as Carissa body-checked another of the Ravenclaws, and James used his far superior arm strength to hurl the Quaffle up the pitch to a streaking Preston Lynch, who had a good yard or two of separation over his counterpart. He caught the pass easily and scored with a beautiful shot into the left-hand goal hoop. The lead was cut in half.
Fred quickly secured the Quaffle for Gryffindor off the restart, with a beautifully timed Bludger that collected the beefy Ravenclaw Chaser right in the solar plexus, and left him gasping for breath as James zipped up the pitch and scored again. Twice in quick succession, and just like that, they were level.
From there the game became one of back and forth. A slow, methodical arm-wrestle in which Gryffindor managed to eke out a tentative lead. Every time Ravenclaw played soft on Carissa, James punished them. They used the vertical passing game as well as the lateral. Carissa's weak arm didn't matter if James was ten feet below her. Ravenclaw, unaccustomed to defending against the added complexity, soon began to fall behind, and as the game wore on were unable to combat James' increasingly convoluted play calls.
Finally, Al put the nail in the coffin when he dove in and plucked the Snitch out of the air no more than an inch above the roof of the Hufflepuff stand. The crowd were up on their feet, and Gryffindor had won by two hundred and ninety points to sixty. A commanding victory.
And James had his first win as captain.
He joined his teammates in a celebratory hug at midfield, slowly sinking down towards the pitch as one. He laughed and joked with them in the locker room afterwards, and toasted their efforts with the Butterbeer that Fred had smuggled down. He even joined in the laughter at his own expense when he found his bottle to have been Jinxed, causing him to hiccup little pink bubbles non-stop for the next fifteen minutes.
He promised the others he would join them to continue the celebrations up in the Gryffindor common room, as they all filed out, laughing and joking and giddy with the ecstasy of winning. James stayed a little to tidy up the locker room, getting in some practise at his cleaning charms which were some of his worst. When he decided that most of the mud was either gone or smeared in so much that it was hardly visible, he gave a shrug and headed up towards the castle. By now, most of the students had left, and the only sounds of merriment were distant and fitful. A sudden rain of golden sparks shot from a window high on the Gryffindor tower.
James was making his way through the gloomy tunnel that ran underneath the stands, headed towards the stadium exit when he heard a second set of footsteps approaching from behind. He paused, his hand drifting surreptitiously to his wand. He didn't expect trouble, but these days, he never could seem to be sure…
'James, congratulations!' It was Ava Adams, grinning from ear to ear as she strode into view. She bounded over and without warning wrapped James up in a congratulatory hug. 'I remember my first time,' Ava laughed.
James smiled, but his reply froze as he caught a glimpse of green and silver over Ava's shoulder. A flash of blonde hair, and the figure was gone. James' mouth twisted in a wry grimace.
'Thanks, Ava,' he eventually said, stepping back and returning her smile. 'It's pretty satisfying.'
'You bet! And you were great, today. You were all great. I can't wait until we face off in a few weeks' time.'
'Should be a close match.'
Not for the first time, James wondered at just where Ava found her boundless wellspring of enthusiasm and positivity.
'Well, I'd best be off! Got some first years to tutor this afternoon, and then I'm helping Professor Hagrid bandage up an injured school owl. And then I'm helping Professor Longbottom weed Greenhouse Four.'
If she had been anybody else, James would think that Ava was bragging, but the earnest excitement in her voice could not be mistaken for anything other than genuine joy.
'Has anybody ever told you how perfect you are, Ava?' James asked, without really thinking through how it sounded.
Ava blushed, breaking their eye contact for a moment. She hid her gaze behind a lock of curly red hair. 'I, well… That is to say I'm–'
'Sorry. Forget I said anything. Before you go…' James turned and looked over his shoulder. He looked up the tunnel the way that Ava had come. Then he pulled her aside into a shadowy recess adorned with a portrait of an ancient Hogwarts Quidditch team celebrating some landmark victory or other.
'J-James,' Ava stammered. 'What are you–'
'Shh, there isn't much time. I need you to meet me one week from now on the staircase in the West Wing, third floor. The one that nobody ever uses because it's supposed to be haunted. Can you do that?'
'Didn't somebody die there, once?'
'A first year fell off the edge. But that was years ago now. It's fine. Can you do it?'
'What's all this about, James?'
James hesitated, then leaned in close and whispered in Ava's ear. He saw her eyes bulge, and watched as she clapped a hand to her mouth.
'Are- are you sure?' she finally asked, whispering almost reverently.
James nodded. 'I think I can help us get Tristan back on the team, but I need you with me, Ava. Can you do it for me, Ava?'
'I can. For Tristan.'
James smiled, anticipating his revenge already.
'For Tristan.'
